How doth the little crocodileImprove his shining tail,And pour the waters of the NileOn every golden scale!How cheerfully he seems to grin,How neatly spreads his claws,And welcomes little fishes in,With gently smiling jaws!
How doth the little crocodileImprove his shining tail,And pour the waters of the NileOn every golden scale!How cheerfully he seems to grin,How neatly spreads his claws,And welcomes little fishes in,With gently smiling jaws!
How doth the little crocodileImprove his shining tail,And pour the waters of the NileOn every golden scale!
How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!
How cheerfully he seems to grin,How neatly spreads his claws,And welcomes little fishes in,With gently smiling jaws!
How cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in,
With gently smiling jaws!
'Tis the voice of the Lobster; I heard him declare,'You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.'As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his noseTrims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.
'Tis the voice of the Lobster; I heard him declare,'You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.'As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his noseTrims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.
'Tis the voice of the Lobster; I heard him declare,'You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.'As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his noseTrims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.
'Tis the voice of the Lobster; I heard him declare,
'You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.'
As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose
Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.
Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!How I wonder what you're at!Up above the world you fly,Like a tea-tray in the sky.
Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!How I wonder what you're at!Up above the world you fly,Like a tea-tray in the sky.
Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!How I wonder what you're at!Up above the world you fly,Like a tea-tray in the sky.
Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!
How I wonder what you're at!
Up above the world you fly,
Like a tea-tray in the sky.
'You are old, Father William,' the young man said,'And your hair has become very white;And yet you incessantly stand on your head—Do you think, at your age, it is right?''In my youth,' Father William replied to his son,'I feared it might injure the brain;But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,Why, I do it again and again.''You are old,' said the youth, 'as I mentioned before,And have grown most uncommonly fat;Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door—Pray, what is the reason of that?''In my youth,' said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,'I kept all my limbs very suppleBy the use of this ointment—one shilling the box—Allow me to sell you a couple.''You are old,' said the youth, 'and your jaws are too weakFor anything tougher than suet;Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak—Pray how did you manage to do it?''In my youth,' said his father, 'I took to the law,And argued each case with my wife;And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,Has lasted the rest of my life.''You are old,' said the youth, 'one would hardly supposeThat your eye was as steady as ever;Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose—What made you so awfully clever?''I have answered three questions, and that is enough,'Said his father; 'don't give yourself airs!Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!'
'You are old, Father William,' the young man said,'And your hair has become very white;And yet you incessantly stand on your head—Do you think, at your age, it is right?''In my youth,' Father William replied to his son,'I feared it might injure the brain;But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,Why, I do it again and again.''You are old,' said the youth, 'as I mentioned before,And have grown most uncommonly fat;Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door—Pray, what is the reason of that?''In my youth,' said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,'I kept all my limbs very suppleBy the use of this ointment—one shilling the box—Allow me to sell you a couple.''You are old,' said the youth, 'and your jaws are too weakFor anything tougher than suet;Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak—Pray how did you manage to do it?''In my youth,' said his father, 'I took to the law,And argued each case with my wife;And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,Has lasted the rest of my life.''You are old,' said the youth, 'one would hardly supposeThat your eye was as steady as ever;Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose—What made you so awfully clever?''I have answered three questions, and that is enough,'Said his father; 'don't give yourself airs!Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!'
'You are old, Father William,' the young man said,'And your hair has become very white;And yet you incessantly stand on your head—Do you think, at your age, it is right?'
'You are old, Father William,' the young man said,
'And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head—
Do you think, at your age, it is right?'
'In my youth,' Father William replied to his son,'I feared it might injure the brain;But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,Why, I do it again and again.'
'In my youth,' Father William replied to his son,
'I feared it might injure the brain;
But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again.'
'You are old,' said the youth, 'as I mentioned before,And have grown most uncommonly fat;Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door—Pray, what is the reason of that?'
'You are old,' said the youth, 'as I mentioned before,
And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door—
Pray, what is the reason of that?'
'In my youth,' said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,'I kept all my limbs very suppleBy the use of this ointment—one shilling the box—Allow me to sell you a couple.'
'In my youth,' said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
'I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment—one shilling the box—
Allow me to sell you a couple.'
'You are old,' said the youth, 'and your jaws are too weakFor anything tougher than suet;Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak—Pray how did you manage to do it?'
'You are old,' said the youth, 'and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak—
Pray how did you manage to do it?'
'In my youth,' said his father, 'I took to the law,And argued each case with my wife;And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,Has lasted the rest of my life.'
'In my youth,' said his father, 'I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life.'
'You are old,' said the youth, 'one would hardly supposeThat your eye was as steady as ever;Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose—What made you so awfully clever?'
'You are old,' said the youth, 'one would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as ever;
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose—
What made you so awfully clever?'
'I have answered three questions, and that is enough,'Said his father; 'don't give yourself airs!Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!'
'I have answered three questions, and that is enough,'
Said his father; 'don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!'
In an age of imitation, I can claim no sort of merit for this slight attempt at doing what is known to be so easy. Anyone who knows what verse is, with the slightest ear for rhythm, can throw off a composition in the easy running metre of 'The Song of Hiawatha.' Having, then, distinctly stated that I challenge no attention, in the following little poem, to its merely verbal jingle, I must beg the candid reader, to confine his criticism to its treatment of the subject.
In an age of imitation, I can claim no sort of merit for this slight attempt at doing what is known to be so easy. Anyone who knows what verse is, with the slightest ear for rhythm, can throw off a composition in the easy running metre of 'The Song of Hiawatha.' Having, then, distinctly stated that I challenge no attention, in the following little poem, to its merely verbal jingle, I must beg the candid reader, to confine his criticism to its treatment of the subject.
From his shoulder HiawathaTook the camera of rosewood,Made of sliding, folding rosewood;Neatly put it all together.In its case it lay compactly,Folded into nearly nothing;But he opened out the hinges,Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges,Till it looked all squares and oblongs,Like a complicated figureIn the second book of Euclid.This he perched upon a tripod,And the family in orderSat before him for their pictures.Mystic, awful was the process.First a piece of glass he coatedWith Collodion, and plunged itIn a bath of Lunar CausticCarefully dissolved in water:There he left it certain minutes.Secondly, my HiawathaMade with cunning hand a mixtureOf the acid Pyro-gallic,And of Glacial Acetic,And of Alcohol and water:This developed all the picture.Finally, he fixed each pictureWith a saturate solutionOf a certain salt of Soda—Chemists call it Hyposulphite.(Very difficult the name isFor a metre like the present,But periphrasis has done it.)All the family in orderSat before him for their pictures.Each in turn, as he was taken,Volunteered his own suggestions,His invaluable suggestions.First the Governor, the Father:He suggested velvet curtainsLooped about a massy pillar;And the corner of a table,Of a rosewood dining-table.He would hold a scroll of something,Hold it firmly in his left-hand;He would keep his right-hand buried(Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat;He would contemplate the distanceWith a look of pensive meaning,As of ducks that die in tempests.Grand, heroic was the notion:Yet the picture failed entirely:Failed, because he moved a little,Moved, because he couldn't help it.Next, his better half took courage;Shewould have her picture taken:She came dressed beyond description,Dressed in jewels and in satinFar too gorgeous for an empress.Gracefully she sat down sideways,With a simper scarcely human,Holding in her hand a nosegayRather larger than a cabbage.All the while that she was taking,Still the lady chattered, chattered,Like a monkey in the forest.'Am I sitting still?' she asked him.'Is my face enough in profile?Shall I hold the nosegay higher?Will it come into the picture?'And the picture failed completely.Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab:He suggested curves of beauty,Curves pervading all his figure,Which the eye might follow onward,Till they centred in the breast-pin,Centred in the golden breast-pin.He had learnt it all from Ruskin(Author of 'The Stones of Venice,''Seven Lamps of Architecture,''Modern Painters,' and some others);And perhaps he had not fullyUnderstood his author's meaning;But, whatever was the reason,All was fruitless, as the pictureEnded in an utter failure.Next to him the eldest daughter:She suggested very little;Only asked if he would take herWith her look of 'passive beauty.'Her idea of passive beautyWas a squinting of the left-eye,Was a drooping of the right-eye,Was a smile that went up sidewaysTo the corner of the nostrils.Hiawatha, when she asked him,Took no notice of the question,Looked as if he hadn't heard it;But, when pointedly appealed to,Smiled in his peculiar manner,Coughed and said it 'didn't matter,'Bit his lip and changed the subject.Nor in this was he mistaken,As the picture failed completely.So in turn the other sisters.Last, the youngest son was taken:Very rough and thick his hair was,Very round and red his face was,Very dusty was his jacket,Very fidgetty his manner.And his overbearing sistersCalled him names he disapproved of:Called him Johnny, 'Daddy's Darling,'Called him Jacky, 'Scrubby School-boy,'And, so awful was the picture,In comparison the othersMight be thought to have succeeded,To have partially succeeded.Finally my HiawathaTumbled all the tribe together,'Grouped' is not the right expression,)And, as happy chance would have it,Did at last obtain a pictureWhere the faces all succeeded:Each came out a perfect likeness.Then they joined and all abused it,Unrestrainedly abused it,As 'the worst and ugliest pictureThey could possibly have dreamed of.Giving one such strange expressions!Sulkiness, conceit, and meanness!Really any one would take us(Any one that did not know us)For the most unpleasant people!'(Hiawatha seemed to think so,Seemed to think it not unlikely.)All together rang their voices,Angry, loud, discordant voices,As of dogs that howl in concert,As of cats that wail in chorus.But my Hiawatha's patience,His politeness and his patience,Unaccountably had vanished,And he left that happy party.Neither did he leave them slowly,With that calm deliberation,That intense deliberationWhich photographers aspire to:But he left them in a hurry,Left them in a mighty hurry,Vowing that he would not stand it.Hurriedly he packed his boxes,Hurriedly the porter trundledOn a barrow all his boxes;Hurriedly he took his ticket,Hurriedly the train received him:Thus departed Hiawatha.
From his shoulder HiawathaTook the camera of rosewood,Made of sliding, folding rosewood;Neatly put it all together.In its case it lay compactly,Folded into nearly nothing;But he opened out the hinges,Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges,Till it looked all squares and oblongs,Like a complicated figureIn the second book of Euclid.This he perched upon a tripod,And the family in orderSat before him for their pictures.Mystic, awful was the process.First a piece of glass he coatedWith Collodion, and plunged itIn a bath of Lunar CausticCarefully dissolved in water:There he left it certain minutes.Secondly, my HiawathaMade with cunning hand a mixtureOf the acid Pyro-gallic,And of Glacial Acetic,And of Alcohol and water:This developed all the picture.Finally, he fixed each pictureWith a saturate solutionOf a certain salt of Soda—Chemists call it Hyposulphite.(Very difficult the name isFor a metre like the present,But periphrasis has done it.)All the family in orderSat before him for their pictures.Each in turn, as he was taken,Volunteered his own suggestions,His invaluable suggestions.First the Governor, the Father:He suggested velvet curtainsLooped about a massy pillar;And the corner of a table,Of a rosewood dining-table.He would hold a scroll of something,Hold it firmly in his left-hand;He would keep his right-hand buried(Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat;He would contemplate the distanceWith a look of pensive meaning,As of ducks that die in tempests.Grand, heroic was the notion:Yet the picture failed entirely:Failed, because he moved a little,Moved, because he couldn't help it.Next, his better half took courage;Shewould have her picture taken:She came dressed beyond description,Dressed in jewels and in satinFar too gorgeous for an empress.Gracefully she sat down sideways,With a simper scarcely human,Holding in her hand a nosegayRather larger than a cabbage.All the while that she was taking,Still the lady chattered, chattered,Like a monkey in the forest.'Am I sitting still?' she asked him.'Is my face enough in profile?Shall I hold the nosegay higher?Will it come into the picture?'And the picture failed completely.Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab:He suggested curves of beauty,Curves pervading all his figure,Which the eye might follow onward,Till they centred in the breast-pin,Centred in the golden breast-pin.He had learnt it all from Ruskin(Author of 'The Stones of Venice,''Seven Lamps of Architecture,''Modern Painters,' and some others);And perhaps he had not fullyUnderstood his author's meaning;But, whatever was the reason,All was fruitless, as the pictureEnded in an utter failure.Next to him the eldest daughter:She suggested very little;Only asked if he would take herWith her look of 'passive beauty.'Her idea of passive beautyWas a squinting of the left-eye,Was a drooping of the right-eye,Was a smile that went up sidewaysTo the corner of the nostrils.Hiawatha, when she asked him,Took no notice of the question,Looked as if he hadn't heard it;But, when pointedly appealed to,Smiled in his peculiar manner,Coughed and said it 'didn't matter,'Bit his lip and changed the subject.Nor in this was he mistaken,As the picture failed completely.So in turn the other sisters.Last, the youngest son was taken:Very rough and thick his hair was,Very round and red his face was,Very dusty was his jacket,Very fidgetty his manner.And his overbearing sistersCalled him names he disapproved of:Called him Johnny, 'Daddy's Darling,'Called him Jacky, 'Scrubby School-boy,'And, so awful was the picture,In comparison the othersMight be thought to have succeeded,To have partially succeeded.Finally my HiawathaTumbled all the tribe together,'Grouped' is not the right expression,)And, as happy chance would have it,Did at last obtain a pictureWhere the faces all succeeded:Each came out a perfect likeness.Then they joined and all abused it,Unrestrainedly abused it,As 'the worst and ugliest pictureThey could possibly have dreamed of.Giving one such strange expressions!Sulkiness, conceit, and meanness!Really any one would take us(Any one that did not know us)For the most unpleasant people!'(Hiawatha seemed to think so,Seemed to think it not unlikely.)All together rang their voices,Angry, loud, discordant voices,As of dogs that howl in concert,As of cats that wail in chorus.But my Hiawatha's patience,His politeness and his patience,Unaccountably had vanished,And he left that happy party.Neither did he leave them slowly,With that calm deliberation,That intense deliberationWhich photographers aspire to:But he left them in a hurry,Left them in a mighty hurry,Vowing that he would not stand it.Hurriedly he packed his boxes,Hurriedly the porter trundledOn a barrow all his boxes;Hurriedly he took his ticket,Hurriedly the train received him:Thus departed Hiawatha.
From his shoulder HiawathaTook the camera of rosewood,Made of sliding, folding rosewood;Neatly put it all together.In its case it lay compactly,Folded into nearly nothing;But he opened out the hinges,Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges,Till it looked all squares and oblongs,Like a complicated figureIn the second book of Euclid.This he perched upon a tripod,And the family in orderSat before him for their pictures.Mystic, awful was the process.First a piece of glass he coatedWith Collodion, and plunged itIn a bath of Lunar CausticCarefully dissolved in water:There he left it certain minutes.Secondly, my HiawathaMade with cunning hand a mixtureOf the acid Pyro-gallic,And of Glacial Acetic,And of Alcohol and water:This developed all the picture.Finally, he fixed each pictureWith a saturate solutionOf a certain salt of Soda—Chemists call it Hyposulphite.(Very difficult the name isFor a metre like the present,But periphrasis has done it.)All the family in orderSat before him for their pictures.Each in turn, as he was taken,Volunteered his own suggestions,His invaluable suggestions.First the Governor, the Father:He suggested velvet curtainsLooped about a massy pillar;And the corner of a table,Of a rosewood dining-table.He would hold a scroll of something,Hold it firmly in his left-hand;He would keep his right-hand buried(Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat;He would contemplate the distanceWith a look of pensive meaning,As of ducks that die in tempests.Grand, heroic was the notion:Yet the picture failed entirely:Failed, because he moved a little,Moved, because he couldn't help it.Next, his better half took courage;Shewould have her picture taken:She came dressed beyond description,Dressed in jewels and in satinFar too gorgeous for an empress.Gracefully she sat down sideways,With a simper scarcely human,Holding in her hand a nosegayRather larger than a cabbage.All the while that she was taking,Still the lady chattered, chattered,Like a monkey in the forest.'Am I sitting still?' she asked him.'Is my face enough in profile?Shall I hold the nosegay higher?Will it come into the picture?'And the picture failed completely.Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab:He suggested curves of beauty,Curves pervading all his figure,Which the eye might follow onward,Till they centred in the breast-pin,Centred in the golden breast-pin.He had learnt it all from Ruskin(Author of 'The Stones of Venice,''Seven Lamps of Architecture,''Modern Painters,' and some others);And perhaps he had not fullyUnderstood his author's meaning;But, whatever was the reason,All was fruitless, as the pictureEnded in an utter failure.Next to him the eldest daughter:She suggested very little;Only asked if he would take herWith her look of 'passive beauty.'Her idea of passive beautyWas a squinting of the left-eye,Was a drooping of the right-eye,Was a smile that went up sidewaysTo the corner of the nostrils.Hiawatha, when she asked him,Took no notice of the question,Looked as if he hadn't heard it;But, when pointedly appealed to,Smiled in his peculiar manner,Coughed and said it 'didn't matter,'Bit his lip and changed the subject.Nor in this was he mistaken,As the picture failed completely.So in turn the other sisters.Last, the youngest son was taken:Very rough and thick his hair was,Very round and red his face was,Very dusty was his jacket,Very fidgetty his manner.And his overbearing sistersCalled him names he disapproved of:Called him Johnny, 'Daddy's Darling,'Called him Jacky, 'Scrubby School-boy,'And, so awful was the picture,In comparison the othersMight be thought to have succeeded,To have partially succeeded.Finally my HiawathaTumbled all the tribe together,'Grouped' is not the right expression,)And, as happy chance would have it,Did at last obtain a pictureWhere the faces all succeeded:Each came out a perfect likeness.Then they joined and all abused it,Unrestrainedly abused it,As 'the worst and ugliest pictureThey could possibly have dreamed of.Giving one such strange expressions!Sulkiness, conceit, and meanness!Really any one would take us(Any one that did not know us)For the most unpleasant people!'(Hiawatha seemed to think so,Seemed to think it not unlikely.)All together rang their voices,Angry, loud, discordant voices,As of dogs that howl in concert,As of cats that wail in chorus.But my Hiawatha's patience,His politeness and his patience,Unaccountably had vanished,And he left that happy party.Neither did he leave them slowly,With that calm deliberation,That intense deliberationWhich photographers aspire to:But he left them in a hurry,Left them in a mighty hurry,Vowing that he would not stand it.Hurriedly he packed his boxes,Hurriedly the porter trundledOn a barrow all his boxes;Hurriedly he took his ticket,Hurriedly the train received him:Thus departed Hiawatha.
From his shoulder Hiawatha
Took the camera of rosewood,
Made of sliding, folding rosewood;
Neatly put it all together.
In its case it lay compactly,
Folded into nearly nothing;
But he opened out the hinges,
Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges,
Till it looked all squares and oblongs,
Like a complicated figure
In the second book of Euclid.
This he perched upon a tripod,
And the family in order
Sat before him for their pictures.
Mystic, awful was the process.
First a piece of glass he coated
With Collodion, and plunged it
In a bath of Lunar Caustic
Carefully dissolved in water:
There he left it certain minutes.
Secondly, my Hiawatha
Made with cunning hand a mixture
Of the acid Pyro-gallic,
And of Glacial Acetic,
And of Alcohol and water:
This developed all the picture.
Finally, he fixed each picture
With a saturate solution
Of a certain salt of Soda—
Chemists call it Hyposulphite.
(Very difficult the name is
For a metre like the present,
But periphrasis has done it.)
All the family in order
Sat before him for their pictures.
Each in turn, as he was taken,
Volunteered his own suggestions,
His invaluable suggestions.
First the Governor, the Father:
He suggested velvet curtains
Looped about a massy pillar;
And the corner of a table,
Of a rosewood dining-table.
He would hold a scroll of something,
Hold it firmly in his left-hand;
He would keep his right-hand buried
(Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat;
He would contemplate the distance
With a look of pensive meaning,
As of ducks that die in tempests.
Grand, heroic was the notion:
Yet the picture failed entirely:
Failed, because he moved a little,
Moved, because he couldn't help it.
Next, his better half took courage;
Shewould have her picture taken:
She came dressed beyond description,
Dressed in jewels and in satin
Far too gorgeous for an empress.
Gracefully she sat down sideways,
With a simper scarcely human,
Holding in her hand a nosegay
Rather larger than a cabbage.
All the while that she was taking,
Still the lady chattered, chattered,
Like a monkey in the forest.
'Am I sitting still?' she asked him.
'Is my face enough in profile?
Shall I hold the nosegay higher?
Will it come into the picture?'
And the picture failed completely.
Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab:
He suggested curves of beauty,
Curves pervading all his figure,
Which the eye might follow onward,
Till they centred in the breast-pin,
Centred in the golden breast-pin.
He had learnt it all from Ruskin
(Author of 'The Stones of Venice,'
'Seven Lamps of Architecture,'
'Modern Painters,' and some others);
And perhaps he had not fully
Understood his author's meaning;
But, whatever was the reason,
All was fruitless, as the picture
Ended in an utter failure.
Next to him the eldest daughter:
She suggested very little;
Only asked if he would take her
With her look of 'passive beauty.'
Her idea of passive beauty
Was a squinting of the left-eye,
Was a drooping of the right-eye,
Was a smile that went up sideways
To the corner of the nostrils.
Hiawatha, when she asked him,
Took no notice of the question,
Looked as if he hadn't heard it;
But, when pointedly appealed to,
Smiled in his peculiar manner,
Coughed and said it 'didn't matter,'
Bit his lip and changed the subject.
Nor in this was he mistaken,
As the picture failed completely.
So in turn the other sisters.
Last, the youngest son was taken:
Very rough and thick his hair was,
Very round and red his face was,
Very dusty was his jacket,
Very fidgetty his manner.
And his overbearing sisters
Called him names he disapproved of:
Called him Johnny, 'Daddy's Darling,'
Called him Jacky, 'Scrubby School-boy,'
And, so awful was the picture,
In comparison the others
Might be thought to have succeeded,
To have partially succeeded.
Finally my Hiawatha
Tumbled all the tribe together,
'Grouped' is not the right expression,)
And, as happy chance would have it,
Did at last obtain a picture
Where the faces all succeeded:
Each came out a perfect likeness.
Then they joined and all abused it,
Unrestrainedly abused it,
As 'the worst and ugliest picture
They could possibly have dreamed of.
Giving one such strange expressions!
Sulkiness, conceit, and meanness!
Really any one would take us
(Any one that did not know us)
For the most unpleasant people!'
(Hiawatha seemed to think so,
Seemed to think it not unlikely.)
All together rang their voices,
Angry, loud, discordant voices,
As of dogs that howl in concert,
As of cats that wail in chorus.
But my Hiawatha's patience,
His politeness and his patience,
Unaccountably had vanished,
And he left that happy party.
Neither did he leave them slowly,
With that calm deliberation,
That intense deliberation
Which photographers aspire to:
But he left them in a hurry,
Left them in a mighty hurry,
Vowing that he would not stand it.
Hurriedly he packed his boxes,
Hurriedly the porter trundled
On a barrow all his boxes;
Hurriedly he took his ticket,
Hurriedly the train received him:
Thus departed Hiawatha.
The First Voice.With hands tight clenched through matted hair,He crouched in trance of dumb despair:There came a breeze from out the air.It passed athwart the glooming flat—It fanned his forehead as he sat—It lightly bore away his hat,All to the feet of one who stoodLike maid enchanted in a wood,Frowning as darkly as she could.With huge umbrella, lank and brown,Unerringly she pinned it down,Right through the centre of the crown.Then, with an aspect cold and grim,Regardless of its battered rim,She took it up and gave it him.Awhile like one in dreams he stood,Then faltered forth his gratitude,In words just short of being rude:For it had lost its shape and shine,And it had cost him four-and-nine,And he was going out to dine.With grave indifference to his speech,Fixing her eyes upon the beach,She said 'Each gives to more than each.'He could not answer yea or nay:He faltered 'Gifts may pass away.'Yet knew not what he meant to say.'If that be so,' she straight replied,'Each heart with each doth coincide.What boots it? For the world is wide.'And he, not wishing to appearLess wise, said 'This Material SphereIs but Attributive Idea.'But when she asked him 'Wherefore so?'He felt his very whiskers glow,And frankly owned 'I do not know.'While, like broad waves of golden grain.Or sunlit hues on cloistered pane,His colour came and went again.Pitying his obvious distress,Yet with a tinge of bitterness,She said 'The More exceeds the Less.''A truth of such undoubted weight,He urged, 'and so extreme in date,It were superfluous to state.'Roused into sudden passion, sheIn tone of cold malignity:'To others, yes: but not to thee.'But when she saw him quail and quake,And when he urged 'For pity's sake!'Once more in gentle tone she spake.'Thought in the mind doth still abide;That is by Intellect supplied,And within that Idea doth hide.'And he, that yearns the truth to know,Still further inwardly may go,And find Idea from Notion flow.'And thus the chain, that sages sought,Is to a glorious circle wrought,For Notion hath its source in Thought.'When he, with racked and whirling brain,Feebly implored her to explain,She simply said it all again.Wrenched with an agony intense,He spake, neglecting Sound and Sense,And careless of all consequence:'Mind—I believe—is Essence—Ent—Abstract—that is—an Accident—Which we—that is to say—I meant—'When, with quick breath and cheeks all flushed,At length his speech was somewhat hushed,She looked at him, and he was crushed.It needed not her calm reply:She fixed him with a stony eye,And he could neither fight nor fly,While she dissected, word by word,His speech, half guessed at and half heard,As might a cat a little bird.Then, having wholly overthrownHis views, and stripped them to the bone,Proceeded to unfold her own.So passed they on with even pace,Yet gradually one might traceA shadow growing on his face.The Second Voice.They walked beside the wave-worn beach,Her tongue was very apt to teach,And now and then he did beseechShe would abate her dulcet tone,Because the talk was all her own,And he was dull as any drone.She urged 'No cheese is made of chalk':And ceaseless flowed her dreary talk,Tuned to the footfall of a walk.Her voice was very full and rich,And, when at length she asked him 'Which?'It mounted to its highest pitch.He a bewildered answer gave,Drowned in the sullen moaning wave,Lost in the echoes of the cave.He answered her he knew not what:Like shaft from bow at random shot:He spoke, but she regarded not.She waited not for his reply,But with a downward leaden eyeWent on as if he were not by.Sound argument and grave defence,Strange questions raised on 'Why?' and 'Whence?'And weighted down with common sense.'Shall Man be Man? And shall he missOf other thoughts no thought but this,Harmonious dews of sober bliss?'What boots it? Shall his fevered eyeThrough towering nothingness descryThe grisly phantom hurry by?'And hear dumb shrieks that fill the air;See mouths that gape, and eyes that stareAnd redden in the dusky glare?'The meadows breathing amber light,The darkness toppling from the height,The feathery train of granite Night?'Shall he, grown gray among his peers,Through the thick curtain of his tearsCatch glimpses of his earlier years,'And hear the sounds he knew of yore,Old shufflings on the sanded floor,Old knuckles tapping at the door?'Yet still before him as he fliesOne pallid form shall ever rise,And, bodying forth in glassy eyes'The vision of a vanished good,Low peering through the tangled wood,Shall freeze the current of his blood.'Still from each fact, with skill uncouthAnd savage rapture, like a toothShe wrenched a slow reluctant truth.Till, like some silent water-mill,When summer suns have dried the rill,She reached a full stop, and was still.Dead calm succeeded to the fuss,As when the loaded omnibusHas reached the railway terminus:When, for the tumult of the street,Is heard the engine's stifled beat,The velvet tread of porters' feet.With glance that ever sought the ground,She moved her lips without a sound,And every now and then she frowned.He gazed upon the sleeping sea,And joyed in its tranquillity,And in that silence dead, but sheTo muse a little space did seem,Then, like the echo of a dream,Harped back upon her threadbare theme.Still an attentive ear he lent,But could not fathom what she meant:She was not deep, nor eloquent.He marked the ripple on the sand:The even swaying of her handWas all that he could understand.He left her, and he turned aside:He sat and watched the coming tideAcross the shores so newly dried.He wondered at the waters clear,The breeze that whispered in his ear,The billows heaving far and near;And why he had so long preferredTo hang upon her every word;'In truth,' he said, 'it was absurd.'The Third Voice.Not long this transport held its place:Within a little moment's spaceQuick tears were raining down his face.His heart stood still, aghast with fear;A wordless voice, nor far nor near,He seemed to hear and not to hear.'Tears kindle not the doubtful spark:If so, why not? Of this remarkThe bearings are profoundly dark.''Her speech,' he said, 'hath caused this pain;Easier I count it to explainThe jargon of the howling main,'Or, stretched beside some sedgy brook,To con, with inexpressive look,An unintelligible book.'Low spake the voice within his head,In words imagined more than said,Soundless as ghost's intended tread:'If thou art duller than before,Why quittedst thou the voice of lore?Why not endure, expecting more?''Rather than that,' he groaned aghast,'I'd writhe in depths of cavern vast,Some loathly vampire's rich repast.'''Twere hard,' it answered, 'themes immenseTo coop within the narrow fenceThat ringsthyscant intelligence.''Not so,' he urged, 'nor once alone:But there was that within her toneWhich chilled me to the very bone.'Her style was anything but clear,And most unpleasantly severe;Her epithets were very queer.'And yet, so grand were her replies,I could not choose but deem her wise;I did not dare to criticise;'Nor did I leave her, till she wentSo deep in tangled argumentThat all my powers of thought were spent,'A little whisper inly slid;'Yet truth is truth: you know you did—'A little wink beneath the lid.And, sickened with excess of dread,Prone to the dust he bent his head,And lay like one three-quarters dead.Forth went the whisper like a breeze;Left him amid the wondering trees,Left him by no means at his ease.Once more he weltered in despair,With hands, through denser-matted hair,More tightly clenched than then they were.When, bathed in dawn of living red,Majestic frowned the mountain head,'Tell me my fault,' was all he said.When, at high noon, the blazing skyScorched in his head each haggard eye,Then keenest rose his weary cry.And when at eve the unpitying sunSmiled grimly on the solemn fun,'Alack,' he sighed, 'whathaveI done?'But saddest, darkest was the sight,When the cold grasp of leaden NightDashed him to earth, and held him tight.Tortured, unaided, and alone,Thunders were silence to his groan,Bagpipes sweet music to its tone:'What? Ever thus, in dismal round,Shall Pain and Misery profoundPursue me like a sleepless hound,'With crimson-dashed and eager jaws,Me, still in ignorance of the cause,Unknowing what I brake of laws?'The whisper to his ear did seemLike echoed flow of silent stream,Or shadow of forgotten dream;The whisper trembling in the wind:'Her fate with thine was intertwined,'So spake it in his inner mind:'Each orbed on each a baleful star,Each proved the other's blight and bar,Each unto each were best, most far:'Yea, each to each was worse than foe,Thou, a scared dullard, gibbering low,And she, an avalanche of woe.'
The First Voice.With hands tight clenched through matted hair,He crouched in trance of dumb despair:There came a breeze from out the air.It passed athwart the glooming flat—It fanned his forehead as he sat—It lightly bore away his hat,All to the feet of one who stoodLike maid enchanted in a wood,Frowning as darkly as she could.With huge umbrella, lank and brown,Unerringly she pinned it down,Right through the centre of the crown.Then, with an aspect cold and grim,Regardless of its battered rim,She took it up and gave it him.Awhile like one in dreams he stood,Then faltered forth his gratitude,In words just short of being rude:For it had lost its shape and shine,And it had cost him four-and-nine,And he was going out to dine.With grave indifference to his speech,Fixing her eyes upon the beach,She said 'Each gives to more than each.'He could not answer yea or nay:He faltered 'Gifts may pass away.'Yet knew not what he meant to say.'If that be so,' she straight replied,'Each heart with each doth coincide.What boots it? For the world is wide.'And he, not wishing to appearLess wise, said 'This Material SphereIs but Attributive Idea.'But when she asked him 'Wherefore so?'He felt his very whiskers glow,And frankly owned 'I do not know.'While, like broad waves of golden grain.Or sunlit hues on cloistered pane,His colour came and went again.Pitying his obvious distress,Yet with a tinge of bitterness,She said 'The More exceeds the Less.''A truth of such undoubted weight,He urged, 'and so extreme in date,It were superfluous to state.'Roused into sudden passion, sheIn tone of cold malignity:'To others, yes: but not to thee.'But when she saw him quail and quake,And when he urged 'For pity's sake!'Once more in gentle tone she spake.'Thought in the mind doth still abide;That is by Intellect supplied,And within that Idea doth hide.'And he, that yearns the truth to know,Still further inwardly may go,And find Idea from Notion flow.'And thus the chain, that sages sought,Is to a glorious circle wrought,For Notion hath its source in Thought.'When he, with racked and whirling brain,Feebly implored her to explain,She simply said it all again.Wrenched with an agony intense,He spake, neglecting Sound and Sense,And careless of all consequence:'Mind—I believe—is Essence—Ent—Abstract—that is—an Accident—Which we—that is to say—I meant—'When, with quick breath and cheeks all flushed,At length his speech was somewhat hushed,She looked at him, and he was crushed.It needed not her calm reply:She fixed him with a stony eye,And he could neither fight nor fly,While she dissected, word by word,His speech, half guessed at and half heard,As might a cat a little bird.Then, having wholly overthrownHis views, and stripped them to the bone,Proceeded to unfold her own.So passed they on with even pace,Yet gradually one might traceA shadow growing on his face.The Second Voice.They walked beside the wave-worn beach,Her tongue was very apt to teach,And now and then he did beseechShe would abate her dulcet tone,Because the talk was all her own,And he was dull as any drone.She urged 'No cheese is made of chalk':And ceaseless flowed her dreary talk,Tuned to the footfall of a walk.Her voice was very full and rich,And, when at length she asked him 'Which?'It mounted to its highest pitch.He a bewildered answer gave,Drowned in the sullen moaning wave,Lost in the echoes of the cave.He answered her he knew not what:Like shaft from bow at random shot:He spoke, but she regarded not.She waited not for his reply,But with a downward leaden eyeWent on as if he were not by.Sound argument and grave defence,Strange questions raised on 'Why?' and 'Whence?'And weighted down with common sense.'Shall Man be Man? And shall he missOf other thoughts no thought but this,Harmonious dews of sober bliss?'What boots it? Shall his fevered eyeThrough towering nothingness descryThe grisly phantom hurry by?'And hear dumb shrieks that fill the air;See mouths that gape, and eyes that stareAnd redden in the dusky glare?'The meadows breathing amber light,The darkness toppling from the height,The feathery train of granite Night?'Shall he, grown gray among his peers,Through the thick curtain of his tearsCatch glimpses of his earlier years,'And hear the sounds he knew of yore,Old shufflings on the sanded floor,Old knuckles tapping at the door?'Yet still before him as he fliesOne pallid form shall ever rise,And, bodying forth in glassy eyes'The vision of a vanished good,Low peering through the tangled wood,Shall freeze the current of his blood.'Still from each fact, with skill uncouthAnd savage rapture, like a toothShe wrenched a slow reluctant truth.Till, like some silent water-mill,When summer suns have dried the rill,She reached a full stop, and was still.Dead calm succeeded to the fuss,As when the loaded omnibusHas reached the railway terminus:When, for the tumult of the street,Is heard the engine's stifled beat,The velvet tread of porters' feet.With glance that ever sought the ground,She moved her lips without a sound,And every now and then she frowned.He gazed upon the sleeping sea,And joyed in its tranquillity,And in that silence dead, but sheTo muse a little space did seem,Then, like the echo of a dream,Harped back upon her threadbare theme.Still an attentive ear he lent,But could not fathom what she meant:She was not deep, nor eloquent.He marked the ripple on the sand:The even swaying of her handWas all that he could understand.He left her, and he turned aside:He sat and watched the coming tideAcross the shores so newly dried.He wondered at the waters clear,The breeze that whispered in his ear,The billows heaving far and near;And why he had so long preferredTo hang upon her every word;'In truth,' he said, 'it was absurd.'The Third Voice.Not long this transport held its place:Within a little moment's spaceQuick tears were raining down his face.His heart stood still, aghast with fear;A wordless voice, nor far nor near,He seemed to hear and not to hear.'Tears kindle not the doubtful spark:If so, why not? Of this remarkThe bearings are profoundly dark.''Her speech,' he said, 'hath caused this pain;Easier I count it to explainThe jargon of the howling main,'Or, stretched beside some sedgy brook,To con, with inexpressive look,An unintelligible book.'Low spake the voice within his head,In words imagined more than said,Soundless as ghost's intended tread:'If thou art duller than before,Why quittedst thou the voice of lore?Why not endure, expecting more?''Rather than that,' he groaned aghast,'I'd writhe in depths of cavern vast,Some loathly vampire's rich repast.'''Twere hard,' it answered, 'themes immenseTo coop within the narrow fenceThat ringsthyscant intelligence.''Not so,' he urged, 'nor once alone:But there was that within her toneWhich chilled me to the very bone.'Her style was anything but clear,And most unpleasantly severe;Her epithets were very queer.'And yet, so grand were her replies,I could not choose but deem her wise;I did not dare to criticise;'Nor did I leave her, till she wentSo deep in tangled argumentThat all my powers of thought were spent,'A little whisper inly slid;'Yet truth is truth: you know you did—'A little wink beneath the lid.And, sickened with excess of dread,Prone to the dust he bent his head,And lay like one three-quarters dead.Forth went the whisper like a breeze;Left him amid the wondering trees,Left him by no means at his ease.Once more he weltered in despair,With hands, through denser-matted hair,More tightly clenched than then they were.When, bathed in dawn of living red,Majestic frowned the mountain head,'Tell me my fault,' was all he said.When, at high noon, the blazing skyScorched in his head each haggard eye,Then keenest rose his weary cry.And when at eve the unpitying sunSmiled grimly on the solemn fun,'Alack,' he sighed, 'whathaveI done?'But saddest, darkest was the sight,When the cold grasp of leaden NightDashed him to earth, and held him tight.Tortured, unaided, and alone,Thunders were silence to his groan,Bagpipes sweet music to its tone:'What? Ever thus, in dismal round,Shall Pain and Misery profoundPursue me like a sleepless hound,'With crimson-dashed and eager jaws,Me, still in ignorance of the cause,Unknowing what I brake of laws?'The whisper to his ear did seemLike echoed flow of silent stream,Or shadow of forgotten dream;The whisper trembling in the wind:'Her fate with thine was intertwined,'So spake it in his inner mind:'Each orbed on each a baleful star,Each proved the other's blight and bar,Each unto each were best, most far:'Yea, each to each was worse than foe,Thou, a scared dullard, gibbering low,And she, an avalanche of woe.'
With hands tight clenched through matted hair,He crouched in trance of dumb despair:There came a breeze from out the air.
With hands tight clenched through matted hair,
He crouched in trance of dumb despair:
There came a breeze from out the air.
It passed athwart the glooming flat—It fanned his forehead as he sat—It lightly bore away his hat,
It passed athwart the glooming flat—
It fanned his forehead as he sat—
It lightly bore away his hat,
All to the feet of one who stoodLike maid enchanted in a wood,Frowning as darkly as she could.
All to the feet of one who stood
Like maid enchanted in a wood,
Frowning as darkly as she could.
With huge umbrella, lank and brown,Unerringly she pinned it down,Right through the centre of the crown.
With huge umbrella, lank and brown,
Unerringly she pinned it down,
Right through the centre of the crown.
Then, with an aspect cold and grim,Regardless of its battered rim,She took it up and gave it him.
Then, with an aspect cold and grim,
Regardless of its battered rim,
She took it up and gave it him.
Awhile like one in dreams he stood,Then faltered forth his gratitude,In words just short of being rude:
Awhile like one in dreams he stood,
Then faltered forth his gratitude,
In words just short of being rude:
For it had lost its shape and shine,And it had cost him four-and-nine,And he was going out to dine.
For it had lost its shape and shine,
And it had cost him four-and-nine,
And he was going out to dine.
With grave indifference to his speech,Fixing her eyes upon the beach,She said 'Each gives to more than each.'
With grave indifference to his speech,
Fixing her eyes upon the beach,
She said 'Each gives to more than each.'
He could not answer yea or nay:He faltered 'Gifts may pass away.'Yet knew not what he meant to say.
He could not answer yea or nay:
He faltered 'Gifts may pass away.'
Yet knew not what he meant to say.
'If that be so,' she straight replied,'Each heart with each doth coincide.What boots it? For the world is wide.'
'If that be so,' she straight replied,
'Each heart with each doth coincide.
What boots it? For the world is wide.'
And he, not wishing to appearLess wise, said 'This Material SphereIs but Attributive Idea.'
And he, not wishing to appear
Less wise, said 'This Material Sphere
Is but Attributive Idea.'
But when she asked him 'Wherefore so?'He felt his very whiskers glow,And frankly owned 'I do not know.'
But when she asked him 'Wherefore so?'
He felt his very whiskers glow,
And frankly owned 'I do not know.'
While, like broad waves of golden grain.Or sunlit hues on cloistered pane,His colour came and went again.
While, like broad waves of golden grain.
Or sunlit hues on cloistered pane,
His colour came and went again.
Pitying his obvious distress,Yet with a tinge of bitterness,She said 'The More exceeds the Less.'
Pitying his obvious distress,
Yet with a tinge of bitterness,
She said 'The More exceeds the Less.'
'A truth of such undoubted weight,He urged, 'and so extreme in date,It were superfluous to state.'
'A truth of such undoubted weight,
He urged, 'and so extreme in date,
It were superfluous to state.'
Roused into sudden passion, sheIn tone of cold malignity:'To others, yes: but not to thee.'
Roused into sudden passion, she
In tone of cold malignity:
'To others, yes: but not to thee.'
But when she saw him quail and quake,And when he urged 'For pity's sake!'Once more in gentle tone she spake.
But when she saw him quail and quake,
And when he urged 'For pity's sake!'
Once more in gentle tone she spake.
'Thought in the mind doth still abide;That is by Intellect supplied,And within that Idea doth hide.
'Thought in the mind doth still abide;
That is by Intellect supplied,
And within that Idea doth hide.
'And he, that yearns the truth to know,Still further inwardly may go,And find Idea from Notion flow.
'And he, that yearns the truth to know,
Still further inwardly may go,
And find Idea from Notion flow.
'And thus the chain, that sages sought,Is to a glorious circle wrought,For Notion hath its source in Thought.'
'And thus the chain, that sages sought,
Is to a glorious circle wrought,
For Notion hath its source in Thought.'
When he, with racked and whirling brain,Feebly implored her to explain,She simply said it all again.
When he, with racked and whirling brain,
Feebly implored her to explain,
She simply said it all again.
Wrenched with an agony intense,He spake, neglecting Sound and Sense,And careless of all consequence:
Wrenched with an agony intense,
He spake, neglecting Sound and Sense,
And careless of all consequence:
'Mind—I believe—is Essence—Ent—Abstract—that is—an Accident—Which we—that is to say—I meant—'
'Mind—I believe—is Essence—Ent—
Abstract—that is—an Accident—
Which we—that is to say—I meant—'
When, with quick breath and cheeks all flushed,At length his speech was somewhat hushed,She looked at him, and he was crushed.
When, with quick breath and cheeks all flushed,
At length his speech was somewhat hushed,
She looked at him, and he was crushed.
It needed not her calm reply:She fixed him with a stony eye,And he could neither fight nor fly,
It needed not her calm reply:
She fixed him with a stony eye,
And he could neither fight nor fly,
While she dissected, word by word,His speech, half guessed at and half heard,As might a cat a little bird.
While she dissected, word by word,
His speech, half guessed at and half heard,
As might a cat a little bird.
Then, having wholly overthrownHis views, and stripped them to the bone,Proceeded to unfold her own.
Then, having wholly overthrown
His views, and stripped them to the bone,
Proceeded to unfold her own.
So passed they on with even pace,Yet gradually one might traceA shadow growing on his face.
So passed they on with even pace,
Yet gradually one might trace
A shadow growing on his face.
They walked beside the wave-worn beach,Her tongue was very apt to teach,And now and then he did beseech
They walked beside the wave-worn beach,
Her tongue was very apt to teach,
And now and then he did beseech
She would abate her dulcet tone,Because the talk was all her own,And he was dull as any drone.
She would abate her dulcet tone,
Because the talk was all her own,
And he was dull as any drone.
She urged 'No cheese is made of chalk':And ceaseless flowed her dreary talk,Tuned to the footfall of a walk.
She urged 'No cheese is made of chalk':
And ceaseless flowed her dreary talk,
Tuned to the footfall of a walk.
Her voice was very full and rich,And, when at length she asked him 'Which?'It mounted to its highest pitch.
Her voice was very full and rich,
And, when at length she asked him 'Which?'
It mounted to its highest pitch.
He a bewildered answer gave,Drowned in the sullen moaning wave,Lost in the echoes of the cave.
He a bewildered answer gave,
Drowned in the sullen moaning wave,
Lost in the echoes of the cave.
He answered her he knew not what:Like shaft from bow at random shot:He spoke, but she regarded not.
He answered her he knew not what:
Like shaft from bow at random shot:
He spoke, but she regarded not.
She waited not for his reply,But with a downward leaden eyeWent on as if he were not by.
She waited not for his reply,
But with a downward leaden eye
Went on as if he were not by.
Sound argument and grave defence,Strange questions raised on 'Why?' and 'Whence?'And weighted down with common sense.
Sound argument and grave defence,
Strange questions raised on 'Why?' and 'Whence?'
And weighted down with common sense.
'Shall Man be Man? And shall he missOf other thoughts no thought but this,Harmonious dews of sober bliss?
'Shall Man be Man? And shall he miss
Of other thoughts no thought but this,
Harmonious dews of sober bliss?
'What boots it? Shall his fevered eyeThrough towering nothingness descryThe grisly phantom hurry by?
'What boots it? Shall his fevered eye
Through towering nothingness descry
The grisly phantom hurry by?
'And hear dumb shrieks that fill the air;See mouths that gape, and eyes that stareAnd redden in the dusky glare?
'And hear dumb shrieks that fill the air;
See mouths that gape, and eyes that stare
And redden in the dusky glare?
'The meadows breathing amber light,The darkness toppling from the height,The feathery train of granite Night?
'The meadows breathing amber light,
The darkness toppling from the height,
The feathery train of granite Night?
'Shall he, grown gray among his peers,Through the thick curtain of his tearsCatch glimpses of his earlier years,
'Shall he, grown gray among his peers,
Through the thick curtain of his tears
Catch glimpses of his earlier years,
'And hear the sounds he knew of yore,Old shufflings on the sanded floor,Old knuckles tapping at the door?
'And hear the sounds he knew of yore,
Old shufflings on the sanded floor,
Old knuckles tapping at the door?
'Yet still before him as he fliesOne pallid form shall ever rise,And, bodying forth in glassy eyes
'Yet still before him as he flies
One pallid form shall ever rise,
And, bodying forth in glassy eyes
'The vision of a vanished good,Low peering through the tangled wood,Shall freeze the current of his blood.'
'The vision of a vanished good,
Low peering through the tangled wood,
Shall freeze the current of his blood.'
Still from each fact, with skill uncouthAnd savage rapture, like a toothShe wrenched a slow reluctant truth.
Still from each fact, with skill uncouth
And savage rapture, like a tooth
She wrenched a slow reluctant truth.
Till, like some silent water-mill,When summer suns have dried the rill,She reached a full stop, and was still.
Till, like some silent water-mill,
When summer suns have dried the rill,
She reached a full stop, and was still.
Dead calm succeeded to the fuss,As when the loaded omnibusHas reached the railway terminus:
Dead calm succeeded to the fuss,
As when the loaded omnibus
Has reached the railway terminus:
When, for the tumult of the street,Is heard the engine's stifled beat,The velvet tread of porters' feet.
When, for the tumult of the street,
Is heard the engine's stifled beat,
The velvet tread of porters' feet.
With glance that ever sought the ground,She moved her lips without a sound,And every now and then she frowned.
With glance that ever sought the ground,
She moved her lips without a sound,
And every now and then she frowned.
He gazed upon the sleeping sea,And joyed in its tranquillity,And in that silence dead, but she
He gazed upon the sleeping sea,
And joyed in its tranquillity,
And in that silence dead, but she
To muse a little space did seem,Then, like the echo of a dream,Harped back upon her threadbare theme.
To muse a little space did seem,
Then, like the echo of a dream,
Harped back upon her threadbare theme.
Still an attentive ear he lent,But could not fathom what she meant:She was not deep, nor eloquent.
Still an attentive ear he lent,
But could not fathom what she meant:
She was not deep, nor eloquent.
He marked the ripple on the sand:The even swaying of her handWas all that he could understand.
He marked the ripple on the sand:
The even swaying of her hand
Was all that he could understand.
He left her, and he turned aside:He sat and watched the coming tideAcross the shores so newly dried.
He left her, and he turned aside:
He sat and watched the coming tide
Across the shores so newly dried.
He wondered at the waters clear,The breeze that whispered in his ear,The billows heaving far and near;
He wondered at the waters clear,
The breeze that whispered in his ear,
The billows heaving far and near;
And why he had so long preferredTo hang upon her every word;'In truth,' he said, 'it was absurd.'
And why he had so long preferred
To hang upon her every word;
'In truth,' he said, 'it was absurd.'
Not long this transport held its place:Within a little moment's spaceQuick tears were raining down his face.
Not long this transport held its place:
Within a little moment's space
Quick tears were raining down his face.
His heart stood still, aghast with fear;A wordless voice, nor far nor near,He seemed to hear and not to hear.
His heart stood still, aghast with fear;
A wordless voice, nor far nor near,
He seemed to hear and not to hear.
'Tears kindle not the doubtful spark:If so, why not? Of this remarkThe bearings are profoundly dark.'
'Tears kindle not the doubtful spark:
If so, why not? Of this remark
The bearings are profoundly dark.'
'Her speech,' he said, 'hath caused this pain;Easier I count it to explainThe jargon of the howling main,
'Her speech,' he said, 'hath caused this pain;
Easier I count it to explain
The jargon of the howling main,
'Or, stretched beside some sedgy brook,To con, with inexpressive look,An unintelligible book.'
'Or, stretched beside some sedgy brook,
To con, with inexpressive look,
An unintelligible book.'
Low spake the voice within his head,In words imagined more than said,Soundless as ghost's intended tread:
Low spake the voice within his head,
In words imagined more than said,
Soundless as ghost's intended tread:
'If thou art duller than before,Why quittedst thou the voice of lore?Why not endure, expecting more?'
'If thou art duller than before,
Why quittedst thou the voice of lore?
Why not endure, expecting more?'
'Rather than that,' he groaned aghast,'I'd writhe in depths of cavern vast,Some loathly vampire's rich repast.'
'Rather than that,' he groaned aghast,
'I'd writhe in depths of cavern vast,
Some loathly vampire's rich repast.'
''Twere hard,' it answered, 'themes immenseTo coop within the narrow fenceThat ringsthyscant intelligence.'
''Twere hard,' it answered, 'themes immense
To coop within the narrow fence
That ringsthyscant intelligence.'
'Not so,' he urged, 'nor once alone:But there was that within her toneWhich chilled me to the very bone.
'Not so,' he urged, 'nor once alone:
But there was that within her tone
Which chilled me to the very bone.
'Her style was anything but clear,And most unpleasantly severe;Her epithets were very queer.
'Her style was anything but clear,
And most unpleasantly severe;
Her epithets were very queer.
'And yet, so grand were her replies,I could not choose but deem her wise;I did not dare to criticise;
'And yet, so grand were her replies,
I could not choose but deem her wise;
I did not dare to criticise;
'Nor did I leave her, till she wentSo deep in tangled argumentThat all my powers of thought were spent,'
'Nor did I leave her, till she went
So deep in tangled argument
That all my powers of thought were spent,'
A little whisper inly slid;'Yet truth is truth: you know you did—'A little wink beneath the lid.
A little whisper inly slid;
'Yet truth is truth: you know you did—'
A little wink beneath the lid.
And, sickened with excess of dread,Prone to the dust he bent his head,And lay like one three-quarters dead.
And, sickened with excess of dread,
Prone to the dust he bent his head,
And lay like one three-quarters dead.
Forth went the whisper like a breeze;Left him amid the wondering trees,Left him by no means at his ease.
Forth went the whisper like a breeze;
Left him amid the wondering trees,
Left him by no means at his ease.
Once more he weltered in despair,With hands, through denser-matted hair,More tightly clenched than then they were.
Once more he weltered in despair,
With hands, through denser-matted hair,
More tightly clenched than then they were.
When, bathed in dawn of living red,Majestic frowned the mountain head,'Tell me my fault,' was all he said.
When, bathed in dawn of living red,
Majestic frowned the mountain head,
'Tell me my fault,' was all he said.
When, at high noon, the blazing skyScorched in his head each haggard eye,Then keenest rose his weary cry.
When, at high noon, the blazing sky
Scorched in his head each haggard eye,
Then keenest rose his weary cry.
And when at eve the unpitying sunSmiled grimly on the solemn fun,'Alack,' he sighed, 'whathaveI done?'
And when at eve the unpitying sun
Smiled grimly on the solemn fun,
'Alack,' he sighed, 'whathaveI done?'
But saddest, darkest was the sight,When the cold grasp of leaden NightDashed him to earth, and held him tight.
But saddest, darkest was the sight,
When the cold grasp of leaden Night
Dashed him to earth, and held him tight.
Tortured, unaided, and alone,Thunders were silence to his groan,Bagpipes sweet music to its tone:
Tortured, unaided, and alone,
Thunders were silence to his groan,
Bagpipes sweet music to its tone:
'What? Ever thus, in dismal round,Shall Pain and Misery profoundPursue me like a sleepless hound,
'What? Ever thus, in dismal round,
Shall Pain and Misery profound
Pursue me like a sleepless hound,
'With crimson-dashed and eager jaws,Me, still in ignorance of the cause,Unknowing what I brake of laws?'
'With crimson-dashed and eager jaws,
Me, still in ignorance of the cause,
Unknowing what I brake of laws?'
The whisper to his ear did seemLike echoed flow of silent stream,Or shadow of forgotten dream;
The whisper to his ear did seem
Like echoed flow of silent stream,
Or shadow of forgotten dream;
The whisper trembling in the wind:'Her fate with thine was intertwined,'So spake it in his inner mind:
The whisper trembling in the wind:
'Her fate with thine was intertwined,'
So spake it in his inner mind:
'Each orbed on each a baleful star,Each proved the other's blight and bar,Each unto each were best, most far:
'Each orbed on each a baleful star,
Each proved the other's blight and bar,
Each unto each were best, most far:
'Yea, each to each was worse than foe,Thou, a scared dullard, gibbering low,And she, an avalanche of woe.'
'Yea, each to each was worse than foe,
Thou, a scared dullard, gibbering low,
And she, an avalanche of woe.'
Beautiful Soup, so rich and green,Waiting in a hot tureen!Who for such dainties would not stoop?Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!Soo—oop of the e—e—evening,Beautiful, beautiful Soup!Beautiful Soup! who cares for fish,Game, or any other dish?Who would not give all else for twoPennyworth only of beautiful Soup?Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup?Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!Soo—oop of the e—e—eveningBeautiful, beauti—FUL SOUP!
Beautiful Soup, so rich and green,Waiting in a hot tureen!Who for such dainties would not stoop?Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!Soo—oop of the e—e—evening,Beautiful, beautiful Soup!Beautiful Soup! who cares for fish,Game, or any other dish?Who would not give all else for twoPennyworth only of beautiful Soup?Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup?Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!Soo—oop of the e—e—eveningBeautiful, beauti—FUL SOUP!
Beautiful Soup, so rich and green,Waiting in a hot tureen!Who for such dainties would not stoop?Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!Soo—oop of the e—e—evening,Beautiful, beautiful Soup!
Beautiful Soup, so rich and green,
Waiting in a hot tureen!
Who for such dainties would not stoop?
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!
Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!
Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!
Soo—oop of the e—e—evening,
Beautiful, beautiful Soup!
Beautiful Soup! who cares for fish,Game, or any other dish?Who would not give all else for twoPennyworth only of beautiful Soup?Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup?Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!Soo—oop of the e—e—eveningBeautiful, beauti—FUL SOUP!
Beautiful Soup! who cares for fish,
Game, or any other dish?
Who would not give all else for two
Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup?
Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup?
Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!
Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!
Soo—oop of the e—e—evening
Beautiful, beauti—FUL SOUP!