Too oft we hide our Frailties' BlameBeneath some simple-sounding Name!So Folks, who in gilt Coaches ride,Will call Display butProper Pride;So Spendthrifts, who their Acres lose,Curse not their Folly but theJews;SoMadam, when her Roses faint,Resorts to ... anything butPaint.An honest Uncle, who had pliedHis Trade of Mercer inCheapside,Until his Name on'Changewas foundGood for some Thirty Thousand Pound,Was burdened with an Heir inclinedTo thoughts of quite a different Kind.His Nephew dreamed of Naught but VerseFrom Morn to Night, and, what was worse,He quitted all at length to followThat "sneaking, whey-faced God,Apollo."In plainer Words, he ran up BillsAtChild's, atBatson'sand atWill's;Discussed the Claims of rival BardsAt Midnight,—with a Pack of Cards;Or made excuse for "t'other Bottle"Over a point inAristotle.This could not last, and like his BettersHe found, too soon, theCostof Letters.Back to his Uncle's House he flew,Confessing that he'd not aSou.'Tis true, his Reasons, if sincere,Were more poetical than clear:"Alas!" he said, "I name no Names:TheMuse, dear Sir, theMusehas claims."His Uncle, who, behind his Till,Knew less ofPindusthanSnow-Hill,Looked grave, but thinking (as Men say)That Youth but once can have its Day,Equipped anew hisPrideandHopeTo frisk it onParnassusSlope.In one short Month he sought the DoorMore 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,"ThroughAsianCities begged his Bread.TheMuse—theMusedelights to seeNotBroadclothbutPhilosophy!Who doubts of this her Honour shames,But (as you know) she has her Claims....""Friend," quoth his Uncle then, "I doubtThis scurvy Craft that you're aboutWill lead yourphilosophicFeetEither toBedlamor theFleet.Still, as I would not have you lack,Go get someBroadclothto your Back,And—if it please this preciousMuse—'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 seenThat Votary ofHippocrene.As alongCheaphis Way he took,His Uncle spied him by a Brook,Not such asNymphs Castalianpour,—'Twas but the Kennel, nothing more.His Plight was plain by every SignOf Idiot Smile and Stains of Wine.He strove to rise, and wagged his Head—"TheMuse, dear Sir, theMuse—" he said."Muse!" quoth the Other, in a Fury,"TheMuseshan't serve you, I assure ye.She's just some wanton, idleJadeThat makes young Fools forget their Trade,—Who should be whipped, if I'd my Will,FromCharing CrosstoLudgate Hill.She's just...." But he began to stutter,So leftSir Gracelessin the Gutter.
Too oft we hide our Frailties' BlameBeneath some simple-sounding Name!So Folks, who in gilt Coaches ride,Will call Display butProper Pride;So Spendthrifts, who their Acres lose,Curse not their Folly but theJews;SoMadam, when her Roses faint,Resorts to ... anything butPaint.
An honest Uncle, who had pliedHis Trade of Mercer inCheapside,Until his Name on'Changewas foundGood for some Thirty Thousand Pound,Was burdened with an Heir inclinedTo thoughts of quite a different Kind.His Nephew dreamed of Naught but VerseFrom Morn to Night, and, what was worse,He quitted all at length to followThat "sneaking, whey-faced God,Apollo."In plainer Words, he ran up BillsAtChild's, atBatson'sand atWill's;Discussed the Claims of rival BardsAt Midnight,—with a Pack of Cards;Or made excuse for "t'other Bottle"Over a point inAristotle.This could not last, and like his BettersHe found, too soon, theCostof Letters.Back to his Uncle's House he flew,Confessing that he'd not aSou.'Tis true, his Reasons, if sincere,Were more poetical than clear:"Alas!" he said, "I name no Names:TheMuse, dear Sir, theMusehas claims."His Uncle, who, behind his Till,Knew less ofPindusthanSnow-Hill,Looked grave, but thinking (as Men say)That Youth but once can have its Day,Equipped anew hisPrideandHopeTo frisk it onParnassusSlope.In one short Month he sought the DoorMore 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,"ThroughAsianCities begged his Bread.TheMuse—theMusedelights to seeNotBroadclothbutPhilosophy!Who doubts of this her Honour shames,But (as you know) she has her Claims....""Friend," quoth his Uncle then, "I doubtThis scurvy Craft that you're aboutWill lead yourphilosophicFeetEither toBedlamor theFleet.Still, as I would not have you lack,Go get someBroadclothto your Back,And—if it please this preciousMuse—'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 seenThat Votary ofHippocrene.As alongCheaphis Way he took,His Uncle spied him by a Brook,Not such asNymphs Castalianpour,—'Twas but the Kennel, nothing more.His Plight was plain by every SignOf Idiot Smile and Stains of Wine.He strove to rise, and wagged his Head—"TheMuse, dear Sir, theMuse—" he said."Muse!" quoth the Other, in a Fury,"TheMuseshan't serve you, I assure ye.She's just some wanton, idleJadeThat makes young Fools forget their Trade,—Who should be whipped, if I'd my Will,FromCharing CrosstoLudgate Hill.She's just...." But he began to stutter,So leftSir Gracelessin the Gutter.
Nothing so idle as to wasteThis Life disputing uponTaste;And most—let that sad Truth be written—In this contentious Land ofBritain,Where each one holds "it seems to me"Equivalent to Q. E. D.,And if you dare to doubt his WordProclaims you Blockhead and absurd.And then, too often, the DebateIs not 'twixt First and Second-rate,Some narrow Issue, where a TouchOf 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.TakeBottom, who for one, 'tis clear,Possessed a "reasonable Ear;"He might have had at his CommandThe Symphonies ofFairy-Land;Well, our immortalShakespearownsThe Oaf preferred the "Tongs and Bones!"'SquireHomespunfromClod-Hallrode down,As the Phrase is—"to see the Town;"(The Town, in those Days, mostly layBetwixt theTavernand thePlay.)Like all their Worships the J.P.'s,He put up at theHercules;Then sallied forth on Shanks his Mare,Rather than jolt it in a Chair,—A curst, new-fangledLittle-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 CurThe starveling Breed ofHanover;He classed your Kickshaws andRagoosWith Popery and Wooden Shoes;Railed at all Foreign Tongues as Lingo,And sighed o'erChaosWine for Stingo.Hence, as he wandered to and fro,Nothing could please him, high or low.AsSavagesatShips of WarHe looked unawed onTemple-Bar;Scarce could conceal his DiscontentWithFish-Streetand theMonument;And might (except at Feeding-Hour)Have scorned the Lion in theTower,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 toVauxhall,What Time the eager Matron jerksHer slow Spouse to theWater-Works,And the coy Spinster, half-afraidConsults theHermitin the Shade.Dazed with the Din and Crowd, the 'SquireSank in a Seat before the Choir.TheFaustinetta, fair and showy,Warbled an Air fromArsinoë,Playing her Bosom and her EyesAs Swans do when they agonize.Alas! to some a Mug of AleIs better than anOrphic 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 atClod-Hallagain;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 KneeAt this most hugeous Pleasantry.The sawn Wood followed; last of allThe Man brought something in a Shawl,—Something that struggled, scraped, and squeakedAs Porkers do, whose tails are tweaked.Our honest 'Squire could scarcely sitSo excellent he thought the Wit.But whenSir Wagdrew off the SheathAnd showed there was no Pig beneath,His pent-up Wonder, Pleasure, Awe,Exploded in a long Guffaw:And, to his dying Day, he'd swearThat Naught in Town the Bell could bearFrom "Jockey wi' the Yellow CoatThat had a Farm-Yard in his Throat!"Moral the Firstyou may discover:The 'Squire was likeTitania'slover;He put a squeaking Pig beforeThe Harmony ofClayton'sScore.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.
Nothing so idle as to wasteThis Life disputing uponTaste;And most—let that sad Truth be written—In this contentious Land ofBritain,Where each one holds "it seems to me"Equivalent to Q. E. D.,And if you dare to doubt his WordProclaims you Blockhead and absurd.And then, too often, the DebateIs not 'twixt First and Second-rate,Some narrow Issue, where a TouchOf 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.TakeBottom, who for one, 'tis clear,Possessed a "reasonable Ear;"He might have had at his CommandThe Symphonies ofFairy-Land;Well, our immortalShakespearownsThe Oaf preferred the "Tongs and Bones!"
'SquireHomespunfromClod-Hallrode down,As the Phrase is—"to see the Town;"(The Town, in those Days, mostly layBetwixt theTavernand thePlay.)Like all their Worships the J.P.'s,He put up at theHercules;Then sallied forth on Shanks his Mare,Rather than jolt it in a Chair,—A curst, new-fangledLittle-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 CurThe starveling Breed ofHanover;He classed your Kickshaws andRagoosWith Popery and Wooden Shoes;Railed at all Foreign Tongues as Lingo,And sighed o'erChaosWine for Stingo.
Hence, as he wandered to and fro,Nothing could please him, high or low.AsSavagesatShips of WarHe looked unawed onTemple-Bar;Scarce could conceal his DiscontentWithFish-Streetand theMonument;And might (except at Feeding-Hour)Have scorned the Lion in theTower,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 toVauxhall,What Time the eager Matron jerksHer slow Spouse to theWater-Works,And the coy Spinster, half-afraidConsults theHermitin the Shade.Dazed with the Din and Crowd, the 'SquireSank in a Seat before the Choir.TheFaustinetta, fair and showy,Warbled an Air fromArsinoë,Playing her Bosom and her EyesAs Swans do when they agonize.Alas! to some a Mug of AleIs better than anOrphic 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 atClod-Hallagain;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 KneeAt this most hugeous Pleasantry.The sawn Wood followed; last of allThe Man brought something in a Shawl,—Something that struggled, scraped, and squeakedAs Porkers do, whose tails are tweaked.Our honest 'Squire could scarcely sitSo excellent he thought the Wit.But whenSir Wagdrew off the SheathAnd showed there was no Pig beneath,His pent-up Wonder, Pleasure, Awe,Exploded in a long Guffaw:And, to his dying Day, he'd swearThat Naught in Town the Bell could bearFrom "Jockey wi' the Yellow CoatThat had a Farm-Yard in his Throat!"
Moral the Firstyou may discover:The 'Squire was likeTitania'slover;He put a squeaking Pig beforeThe Harmony ofClayton'sScore.
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.
When do the reasoning Powers decline?The Ancients said at Forty-Nine.At Forty-Nine behoves it thenTo quit the Inkhorn and the Pen,SinceAristotleso 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, atDumpelsheimthe Lesser,A certain High-Dutch Herr Professor.ThanGrotiusmore alert and quick,More logical thanBurgersdyck,His Lectures both so much transcended,That far and wide his Fame extended,Proclaiming him to every climeWithin a Mile ofDumpelsheim.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 MenO'er-stepped the Limit now and then,He'd show unanswerably stillEither that all they did was "Nil,"Or else 'twas marked by IndicationOf 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 "Locusof 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 plainThe 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 RhymeThey buried him atDumpelsheim,And as they sorrowing set aboutA "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 DateOf 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.
When do the reasoning Powers decline?The Ancients said at Forty-Nine.At Forty-Nine behoves it thenTo quit the Inkhorn and the Pen,SinceAristotleso 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, atDumpelsheimthe Lesser,A certain High-Dutch Herr Professor.ThanGrotiusmore alert and quick,More logical thanBurgersdyck,His Lectures both so much transcended,That far and wide his Fame extended,Proclaiming him to every climeWithin a Mile ofDumpelsheim.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 MenO'er-stepped the Limit now and then,He'd show unanswerably stillEither that all they did was "Nil,"Or else 'twas marked by IndicationOf 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 "Locusof 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 plainThe 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 RhymeThey buried him atDumpelsheim,And as they sorrowing set aboutA "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 DateOf 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.
Much strange is true. And yet so muchDan Time thereto of doubtful laysHe 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 oneThey 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 beOf 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 excessSuch 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 carlineYe win, this summer's sky shall snow;"Or, likelier still, your doll's-eyed queenShall 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 theyAt those his words, since gear and storeOft 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 kneelBefore the taper's flickering flame,Sudden a little tremulous pealFrom out the Virgin's altar came.And they that heard must fain recallThe Umbrian, and the words of shameSpoke in his pride, and therewithalCame news how, at that very dateAnd 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.
Much strange is true. And yet so muchDan Time thereto of doubtful laysHe 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 oneThey 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 excessSuch 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 carlineYe win, this summer's sky shall snow;
"Or, likelier still, your doll's-eyed queenShall 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 theyAt 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 kneelBefore the taper's flickering flame,Sudden a little tremulous peal
From out the Virgin's altar came.And they that heard must fain recallThe Umbrian, and the words of shame
Spoke in his pride, and therewithalCame news how, at that very dateAnd 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.
"There's nothing new"—Not that I go so farAs he who also said "There's nothing true,"Since, on the contrary, I hold there areSurviving 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 thismystory is as old as Time,Being, indeed, that idyll of mythology,—The Cyclops' love,—which, somewhat varied, I'mTo 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 ledSeaward 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 ledYour 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 beganTumult 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 pailHalf filled with goat's milk, silently he drewAn anvil forth, and reaching shoe and nail,Bared a red forearm, bringing into viewAnchors and hearts in shadowy tattoo.And then he lit his fire.... But I dispenseHenceforth with you, my Reader, and your horse,As being but a colorable pretenceTo 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 ChildOne 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 knowIs that whene'er she spoke, or laughed, or romped, youFelt 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 ChildDid, in reality, run "somewhat wild."At first but peering at the sanded floorAnd 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 fateOf 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 frownedWith 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 presentlyShe felt a plucking, for the goat beganTo crop the trail of twining brionyShe held behind her; so that, laughing, sheTurned 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 bleatOf injured confidence, that soon the ChildFilled 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 fareAs 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 misogynistHaving, by stress of circumstances, smiled,Felt it at least incumbent to resistFurther encroachment, and as one beguiledBy adverse fortune, with the half-door shut,Dwelt in the dim seclusion of his hut.And yet not less from thence he still must seeThat daily coming, and must hear the goatBleating 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 EyeSeemed 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 intimateAbout himself, the anvil, and the cave;And then, at last, the Child, without alarmWould even spell the letters on his arm."G—a—l—Galatea." So there grewOn 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 beenLocked 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 hourWhen those young lips might feel the summer's thirst;Holding himself for all devotion paidBy that clear laughter of the little maid.Dwelling, alas! in that fond ParadiseWhere no to-morrow quivers in suspense,—Where scarce the changes of the sky sufficeTo break the soft forgetfulness of sense,—Where dreams become realities; and whereI willingly would leave him—did I dare.Yet for a little space it still endured,Until, upon a day when least of allThe 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 careFor such a "one-eyed, melancholy Bear."Thus there was war at once; not overt yet,For still the Child, unwilling, would not breakThe new acquaintanceship, nor quite forgetThe pleasant past; while, for his treasure's sake,The boding smith with clumsy efforts triedTo win the laughing scorner to his side.There are some sights pathetic; none I knowMore sad than this: to watch a slow-wrought mindHumbling itself, for love, to come and goBefore some petty tyrant of its kind;Saddest, ah!—saddest far,—when it can doNaught 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 HillWoke from her novel-reading trance, one dayHe waited long and wearily in vain,—But, from that hour, they never came again.Yet still he waited, hoping—wondering ifThey still might come, or dreaming that he heardThe 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 oneWho 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 onlyNow 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'erTicked 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 fourLooked 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 heLimped 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.
"There's nothing new"—Not that I go so farAs he who also said "There's nothing true,"Since, on the contrary, I hold there areSurviving 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 thismystory is as old as Time,Being, indeed, that idyll of mythology,—The Cyclops' love,—which, somewhat varied, I'mTo 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 ledSeaward 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 ledYour 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 beganTumult 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 pailHalf filled with goat's milk, silently he drewAn anvil forth, and reaching shoe and nail,Bared a red forearm, bringing into viewAnchors and hearts in shadowy tattoo.
And then he lit his fire.... But I dispenseHenceforth with you, my Reader, and your horse,As being but a colorable pretenceTo 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 ChildOne 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 knowIs that whene'er she spoke, or laughed, or romped, youFelt 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 ChildDid, in reality, run "somewhat wild."
At first but peering at the sanded floorAnd 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 fateOf 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 frownedWith 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 presentlyShe felt a plucking, for the goat beganTo crop the trail of twining brionyShe held behind her; so that, laughing, sheTurned 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 bleatOf injured confidence, that soon the ChildFilled 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 fareAs 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 misogynistHaving, by stress of circumstances, smiled,Felt it at least incumbent to resistFurther encroachment, and as one beguiledBy adverse fortune, with the half-door shut,Dwelt in the dim seclusion of his hut.
And yet not less from thence he still must seeThat daily coming, and must hear the goatBleating 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 EyeSeemed 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 intimateAbout himself, the anvil, and the cave;And then, at last, the Child, without alarmWould even spell the letters on his arm.
"G—a—l—Galatea." So there grewOn 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 beenLocked 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 hourWhen those young lips might feel the summer's thirst;Holding himself for all devotion paidBy that clear laughter of the little maid.
Dwelling, alas! in that fond ParadiseWhere no to-morrow quivers in suspense,—Where scarce the changes of the sky sufficeTo break the soft forgetfulness of sense,—Where dreams become realities; and whereI willingly would leave him—did I dare.
Yet for a little space it still endured,Until, upon a day when least of allThe 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 careFor such a "one-eyed, melancholy Bear."
Thus there was war at once; not overt yet,For still the Child, unwilling, would not breakThe new acquaintanceship, nor quite forgetThe pleasant past; while, for his treasure's sake,The boding smith with clumsy efforts triedTo win the laughing scorner to his side.
There are some sights pathetic; none I knowMore sad than this: to watch a slow-wrought mindHumbling itself, for love, to come and goBefore some petty tyrant of its kind;Saddest, ah!—saddest far,—when it can doNaught 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 HillWoke from her novel-reading trance, one dayHe waited long and wearily in vain,—But, from that hour, they never came again.
Yet still he waited, hoping—wondering ifThey still might come, or dreaming that he heardThe 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 oneWho 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 onlyNow 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'erTicked 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 fourLooked 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 heLimped 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.
"Sic visum Veneri: cui placet imparesFormas atque animos sub juga aëneaSaevo mittere cum joco."—Hor.i. 33.
"Sic visum Veneri: cui placet imparesFormas atque animos sub juga aëneaSaevo mittere cum joco."—Hor.i. 33.
"Love mocks us all"—as Horace said of old:From sheer perversity, that arch-offenderStill 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 ofBayle.It was in Athens that the thing occurred,In the last days of Alexander's rule,While yet in Grove or Portico was heardThe studious murmur of its learned school;—Nay, 'tis one favoured of Minerva's birdWho plays therein the hero (or the fool)With a Megarian, who must then have beenA maid, and beautiful, and just eighteen.I shan't describe her. Beauty is the sameIn 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 apeplumand achiton,Like any modern on the beach at Brighton.Stay, I forget! Of course the sequel showsShe had some qualities of disposition,To which, in general, her sex are foes,—As strange proclivities to erudition,And lore unfeminine, reserved for thoseWho 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 planFine-art habiliments in gold and fleece;(This was ere chasuble or cope beganTo 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;Hisforte, it seems, lay chiefly in expressingDisputed fact in Attic eloquence;His ways were primitive; and as to dressing,His toilet was a negative pretence;He kept, besides, therégimeof 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 VereOn some hedge-schoolmaster her heart had settled.Unheard! Intolerable!—a lumbering steerTo plod the upland with a mare high-mettled!—They would, no doubt, with far more pleasure hand herTo 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 commotionWhich poets feign inseparable from SpringTo suffer danger from a school-girl notion;Also they hoped that she might find her king,On close inspection, clumsy and Bœotian:—This was acute enough, and yet, between us,I think they thought too little about Venus.Something, I know, of this sort is relatedIn 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 debatedBy 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 aboutWhich 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 youA 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 theseThe young especially should be suspicious;Seeing no ailment in HippocratesCould be at once so tedious and capricious;No seeming apple of HesperidesMore 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 utteredWord 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 existedBut as an ill for that to remedy:There was no knot so intricately twisted,There was no riddle but at last should beBy Love—he meant Philosophy—resolved...."The truth is, he was getting quite involved.O sovran Love! how far thy power surpassesAught 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 yearningStronger 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 GreeksTook little care to keep concealment preyingAt any length upon their damask cheeks,—She answered him by very simply saying,She could and would:—and said it as one speaksWho 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 factInvolving nice adjustment of expenses;Moreover, too, reflection should revealThat 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,—Notharsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose;"And some, no doubt, for Love's sake have forgotMuch 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.
"Love mocks us all"—as Horace said of old:From sheer perversity, that arch-offenderStill 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 ofBayle.
It was in Athens that the thing occurred,In the last days of Alexander's rule,While yet in Grove or Portico was heardThe studious murmur of its learned school;—Nay, 'tis one favoured of Minerva's birdWho plays therein the hero (or the fool)With a Megarian, who must then have beenA maid, and beautiful, and just eighteen.
I shan't describe her. Beauty is the sameIn 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 apeplumand achiton,Like any modern on the beach at Brighton.
Stay, I forget! Of course the sequel showsShe had some qualities of disposition,To which, in general, her sex are foes,—As strange proclivities to erudition,And lore unfeminine, reserved for thoseWho 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 planFine-art habiliments in gold and fleece;(This was ere chasuble or cope beganTo 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;Hisforte, it seems, lay chiefly in expressingDisputed fact in Attic eloquence;His ways were primitive; and as to dressing,His toilet was a negative pretence;He kept, besides, therégimeof 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 VereOn some hedge-schoolmaster her heart had settled.Unheard! Intolerable!—a lumbering steerTo plod the upland with a mare high-mettled!—They would, no doubt, with far more pleasure hand herTo 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 commotionWhich poets feign inseparable from SpringTo suffer danger from a school-girl notion;Also they hoped that she might find her king,On close inspection, clumsy and Bœotian:—This was acute enough, and yet, between us,I think they thought too little about Venus.
Something, I know, of this sort is relatedIn 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 debatedBy 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 aboutWhich 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 youA 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 theseThe young especially should be suspicious;Seeing no ailment in HippocratesCould be at once so tedious and capricious;No seeming apple of HesperidesMore 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 utteredWord 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 existedBut as an ill for that to remedy:There was no knot so intricately twisted,There was no riddle but at last should beBy Love—he meant Philosophy—resolved...."The truth is, he was getting quite involved.
O sovran Love! how far thy power surpassesAught 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 yearningStronger 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 GreeksTook little care to keep concealment preyingAt any length upon their damask cheeks,—She answered him by very simply saying,She could and would:—and said it as one speaksWho 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 factInvolving nice adjustment of expenses;Moreover, too, reflection should revealThat 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,—Notharsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose;"And some, no doubt, for Love's sake have forgotMuch 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.