Flaccus, you write us charming songs:No bard we know possessesIn such perfection what belongsTo brief and bright addresses;No man can say that Life is shortWith mien so little fretful;No man to Virtue's paths exhortIn phrases less regretful;Or touch, with more serene distress,On Fortune's ways erratic;And then delightfully digressFrom Alp to Adriatic:All this is well, no doubt, and tendsBarbarian minds to soften;But,Horace—we, we are your friends—Why tell us this so often?Why feign to spread a cheerful feast,And then thrust in our facesThese barren scraps (to say the least)Of Stoic common-places?Recount, and welcome, your pursuits:Sing Lydë's lyre and hair;Sing drums and Berecynthian flutes;Sing parsley-wreaths; but spare,—O, spare to sing, what none deny,That things we love decay;—That Time and Gold have wings to fly;—That all must Fate obey!Or bid us dine—on this day week—And pour us, if you can,As soft and sleek as girlish cheek,Your inmost Cæcuban;—Of that we fear not overplus;But your didactic 'tap'—Forgive us!—grows monotonous;Nunc vale! Verbum sap.
Flaccus, you write us charming songs:No bard we know possessesIn such perfection what belongsTo brief and bright addresses;
No man can say that Life is shortWith mien so little fretful;No man to Virtue's paths exhortIn phrases less regretful;
Or touch, with more serene distress,On Fortune's ways erratic;And then delightfully digressFrom Alp to Adriatic:
All this is well, no doubt, and tendsBarbarian minds to soften;But,Horace—we, we are your friends—Why tell us this so often?
Why feign to spread a cheerful feast,And then thrust in our facesThese barren scraps (to say the least)Of Stoic common-places?
Recount, and welcome, your pursuits:Sing Lydë's lyre and hair;Sing drums and Berecynthian flutes;Sing parsley-wreaths; but spare,—
O, spare to sing, what none deny,That things we love decay;—That Time and Gold have wings to fly;—That all must Fate obey!
Or bid us dine—on this day week—And pour us, if you can,As soft and sleek as girlish cheek,Your inmost Cæcuban;—
Of that we fear not overplus;But your didactic 'tap'—Forgive us!—grows monotonous;Nunc vale! Verbum sap.
(FOR A DRAWING BY E. A. ABBEY.)
How weary 'twas to wait! The yearWent dragging slowly on;The red leaf to the running brookDropped sadly, and was gone;December came, and locked in iceThe plashing of the mill;The white snow filled the orchard up;But she was waiting still.Spring stirred and broke. The rooks once more'Gan cawing in the loft;The young lambs' new awakened criesCame trembling from the croft;The clumps of primrose filled againThe hollows by the way;The pale wind-flowers blew; but sheGrew paler still than they.How weary 'twas to wait! With June,Through all the drowsy street,Came distant murmurs of the war,And rumours of the fleet;The gossips, from the market-stalls,Cried news of Joe and Tim;But June shed all her leaves, and stillThere came no news of him.And then, at last, at last, at last,One blessèd August morn,Beneath the yellowing autumn elms,Pang-panging came the horn;The swift coach paused a creaking-space,Then flashed away, and passed;But she stood trembling yet, and dazed:The news had come—at last!And thus the artist saw her stand,While all around her seemsAs vague and shadowy as the shapesThat flit from us in dreams;And naught in all the world is true,Save those few words which tellThat he she lost is found again—Is found again—and well!
How weary 'twas to wait! The yearWent dragging slowly on;The red leaf to the running brookDropped sadly, and was gone;December came, and locked in iceThe plashing of the mill;The white snow filled the orchard up;But she was waiting still.
Spring stirred and broke. The rooks once more'Gan cawing in the loft;The young lambs' new awakened criesCame trembling from the croft;The clumps of primrose filled againThe hollows by the way;The pale wind-flowers blew; but sheGrew paler still than they.
How weary 'twas to wait! With June,Through all the drowsy street,Came distant murmurs of the war,And rumours of the fleet;The gossips, from the market-stalls,Cried news of Joe and Tim;But June shed all her leaves, and stillThere came no news of him.
And then, at last, at last, at last,One blessèd August morn,Beneath the yellowing autumn elms,Pang-panging came the horn;The swift coach paused a creaking-space,Then flashed away, and passed;But she stood trembling yet, and dazed:The news had come—at last!
And thus the artist saw her stand,While all around her seemsAs vague and shadowy as the shapesThat flit from us in dreams;And naught in all the world is true,Save those few words which tellThat he she lost is found again—Is found again—and well!
Ah,Postumus, we all must go:This keen North-Easter nips my shoulder;My strength begins to fail; I knowYoufind me older;I've made my Will. Dear, faithful friend—My Muse's friend and not my purse's!Who still would hear and still commendMy tedious verses,How will you live—of these deprived?I've learned your candid soul. The venal,—The sordid friend had scarce survivedA test so penal;But you—Nay, nay, 'tis so. The restAre not as you: you hide your merit;You, more than all, deserve the bestTrue friends inherit;—Not gold,—that hearts like yours despise;Not "spacious dirt" (your own expression),No; but the rarer, dearer prize—The Life's Confession!You catch my thought? What! Can't you guess?You, you alone, admired my Cantos;—I've left you, P., my whole MS.,In three portmanteaus!
Ah,Postumus, we all must go:This keen North-Easter nips my shoulder;My strength begins to fail; I knowYoufind me older;
I've made my Will. Dear, faithful friend—My Muse's friend and not my purse's!Who still would hear and still commendMy tedious verses,
How will you live—of these deprived?I've learned your candid soul. The venal,—The sordid friend had scarce survivedA test so penal;
But you—Nay, nay, 'tis so. The restAre not as you: you hide your merit;You, more than all, deserve the bestTrue friends inherit;—
Not gold,—that hearts like yours despise;Not "spacious dirt" (your own expression),No; but the rarer, dearer prize—The Life's Confession!
You catch my thought? What! Can't you guess?You, you alone, admired my Cantos;—I've left you, P., my whole MS.,In three portmanteaus!
"Little Blue-Ribbons!" We call her thatFrom the ribbons she wears in her favourite hat;For may not a person be only five,And yet have the neatest of taste alive?—As a matter of fact, this one has viewsOf the strictest sort as to frocks and shoes;And we never object to a sash or bow,When "little Blue-Ribbons" prefers it so."Little Blue-Ribbons" has eyes of blue,And an arch little mouth, when the teeth peep through;And her primitive look is wise and grave,With a sense of the weight of the word "behave;"Though now and again she may condescendTo a radiant smile for a private friend;But to smile for ever is weak, you know,And "little Blue-Ribbons" regards it so.She's a staid little woman! And so as wellIs her ladyship's doll, "Miss Bonnibelle;"But I think what at present the most takes upThe thoughts of her heart is her last new cup;For the object thereon,—be it understood,—Is the "Robin that buried the 'Babes in the Wood'"—It is not in the least like a robin, though,But "little Blue-Ribbons" declares it so."Little Blue-Ribbons" believes, I think,That the rain comes down for the birds to drink;Moreover, she holds, in a cab you'd getTo the spot where the suns of yesterday set;And I know that she fully expects to meetWith a lion or wolf in Regent Street!We may smile, and deny as we like—But, no;For "little Blue-Ribbons" still dreams it so.Dear "little Blue-Ribbons!" She tells us allThat she never intends to be "great" and "tall";(For how could she ever contrive to sitIn her "own, own chair," if she grew one bit!)And, further, she says, she intends to stayIn her "darling home" till she gets "quite gray;"Alas! we are gray; and we doubt, you know,But "little Blue-Ribbons" will have it so!
"Little Blue-Ribbons!" We call her thatFrom the ribbons she wears in her favourite hat;For may not a person be only five,And yet have the neatest of taste alive?—As a matter of fact, this one has viewsOf the strictest sort as to frocks and shoes;And we never object to a sash or bow,When "little Blue-Ribbons" prefers it so.
"Little Blue-Ribbons" has eyes of blue,And an arch little mouth, when the teeth peep through;And her primitive look is wise and grave,With a sense of the weight of the word "behave;"Though now and again she may condescendTo a radiant smile for a private friend;But to smile for ever is weak, you know,And "little Blue-Ribbons" regards it so.
She's a staid little woman! And so as wellIs her ladyship's doll, "Miss Bonnibelle;"But I think what at present the most takes upThe thoughts of her heart is her last new cup;For the object thereon,—be it understood,—Is the "Robin that buried the 'Babes in the Wood'"—It is not in the least like a robin, though,But "little Blue-Ribbons" declares it so.
"Little Blue-Ribbons" believes, I think,That the rain comes down for the birds to drink;Moreover, she holds, in a cab you'd getTo the spot where the suns of yesterday set;And I know that she fully expects to meetWith a lion or wolf in Regent Street!We may smile, and deny as we like—But, no;For "little Blue-Ribbons" still dreams it so.
Dear "little Blue-Ribbons!" She tells us allThat she never intends to be "great" and "tall";(For how could she ever contrive to sitIn her "own, own chair," if she grew one bit!)And, further, she says, she intends to stayIn her "darling home" till she gets "quite gray;"Alas! we are gray; and we doubt, you know,But "little Blue-Ribbons" will have it so!
"—the music of the moonSleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale."Aylmer's Field.
"—the music of the moonSleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale."Aylmer's Field.
Five geese,—a landscape damp and wild,—A stunted, not too pretty, child,Beneath a battered gingham;Such things, to say the least, requireA Muse of more-than-average FireEffectively to sing 'em.And yet—Why should they? Souls of markHave sprung from such;—e'en Joan of ArcHad scarce a grander duty;Not always ('tis a maxim trite)From righteous sources comes the right,—From beautiful, the beauty.Who shall decide where seed is sown?Maybe some priceless germ was blownTo this unwholesome marish;(And what must grow will still increase,Though cackled round by half the geeseAnd ganders in the parish.)Maybe this homely face may hideA Staël before whose mannish prideOur frailer sex shall tremble;Perchance this audience anserineMay hiss (O fluttering Muse of mine!)—May hiss—a future Kemble!Or say the gingham shadows o'erAn undeveloped Hannah More!—A latent Mrs. Trimmer!!Who shall affirm it?—who deny?—Since of the truth nor you nor IDiscern the faintest glimmer?So then—Caps off, my Masters all;Reserve your final word,—recallYour all-too-hasty strictures;Caps off, I say, for Wisdom seesUndreamed potentialitiesIn most unhopeful pictures.
Five geese,—a landscape damp and wild,—A stunted, not too pretty, child,Beneath a battered gingham;Such things, to say the least, requireA Muse of more-than-average FireEffectively to sing 'em.
And yet—Why should they? Souls of markHave sprung from such;—e'en Joan of ArcHad scarce a grander duty;Not always ('tis a maxim trite)From righteous sources comes the right,—From beautiful, the beauty.
Who shall decide where seed is sown?Maybe some priceless germ was blownTo this unwholesome marish;(And what must grow will still increase,Though cackled round by half the geeseAnd ganders in the parish.)
Maybe this homely face may hideA Staël before whose mannish prideOur frailer sex shall tremble;Perchance this audience anserineMay hiss (O fluttering Muse of mine!)—May hiss—a future Kemble!
Or say the gingham shadows o'erAn undeveloped Hannah More!—A latent Mrs. Trimmer!!Who shall affirm it?—who deny?—Since of the truth nor you nor IDiscern the faintest glimmer?
So then—Caps off, my Masters all;Reserve your final word,—recallYour all-too-hasty strictures;Caps off, I say, for Wisdom seesUndreamed potentialitiesIn most unhopeful pictures.
"On court, hélas! après la vérité;Ah! croyez-moi, l'erreur a son mérite."Voltaire.
"On court, hélas! après la vérité;Ah! croyez-moi, l'erreur a son mérite."Voltaire.
Curled in a maze of dolls and bricks,I find Miss Mary,ætatsix,Blonde, blue-eyed, frank, capricious,Absorbed in her first fairy book,From which she scarce can pause to look,Because it's "sodelicious!""Such marvels, too. A wondrous Boat,In which they cross a magic Moat,That's smooth as glass to row on—A Cat that brings all kinds of things;And see, the Queen has angel wings—ThenOgrecomes"—and so on.What trash it is! How sad to find(Dear Moralist!) the childish mind,So active and so pliant.Rejecting themes in which you mixFond truths and pleasing facts, to fixOn tales of Dwarf and Giant!In merest prudence men should teachThat cats mellifluous in speechAre painful contradictions;That science ranks as monstrous thingsTwopairs of upper limbs; so wings—E'en angels' wings!—are fictions:That there's no giant now but Steam;That life, although "an empty dream,"Is scarce a "land of Fairy.""Of course I said all this?" Why, no;Idida thing far wiser, though,—I read the tale with Mary.
Curled in a maze of dolls and bricks,I find Miss Mary,ætatsix,Blonde, blue-eyed, frank, capricious,Absorbed in her first fairy book,From which she scarce can pause to look,Because it's "sodelicious!"
"Such marvels, too. A wondrous Boat,In which they cross a magic Moat,That's smooth as glass to row on—A Cat that brings all kinds of things;And see, the Queen has angel wings—ThenOgrecomes"—and so on.
What trash it is! How sad to find(Dear Moralist!) the childish mind,So active and so pliant.Rejecting themes in which you mixFond truths and pleasing facts, to fixOn tales of Dwarf and Giant!
In merest prudence men should teachThat cats mellifluous in speechAre painful contradictions;That science ranks as monstrous thingsTwopairs of upper limbs; so wings—E'en angels' wings!—are fictions:
That there's no giant now but Steam;That life, although "an empty dream,"Is scarce a "land of Fairy.""Of course I said all this?" Why, no;Idida thing far wiser, though,—I read the tale with Mary.
(FROM THE "GARLAND OF RACHEL.")
How shall I sing you, Child, for whomSo many lyres are strung;Or how the only tone assumeThat fits a Maid so young?What rocks there are on either hand!Suppose—'tis on the cards—You should grow up with quite a grandPlatonic hate for bards!How shall I then be shamed, undone,For ah! with what a scornYour eyes must greet that luckless OneWho rhymed you, newly born,—Who o'er your "helpless cradle" bentHis idle verse to turn;And twanged his tiresome instrumentAbove your unconcern!Nay,—let my words be so discreet,That, keeping Chance in view,Whatever after fate you meetA part may still be true.Let others wish you mere good looks,—Your sex is always fair;Or to be writ in Fortune's books,—She's rich who has to spare:I wish you but a heart that's kind,A head that's sound and clear;(Yet let the heart be not too blind,The head not too severe!)A joy of life, a frank delight;A not-too-large desire;And—if you fail to find a Knight—At least ... a trusty Squire.
How shall I sing you, Child, for whomSo many lyres are strung;Or how the only tone assumeThat fits a Maid so young?
What rocks there are on either hand!Suppose—'tis on the cards—You should grow up with quite a grandPlatonic hate for bards!
How shall I then be shamed, undone,For ah! with what a scornYour eyes must greet that luckless OneWho rhymed you, newly born,—
Who o'er your "helpless cradle" bentHis idle verse to turn;And twanged his tiresome instrumentAbove your unconcern!
Nay,—let my words be so discreet,That, keeping Chance in view,Whatever after fate you meetA part may still be true.
Let others wish you mere good looks,—Your sex is always fair;Or to be writ in Fortune's books,—She's rich who has to spare:
I wish you but a heart that's kind,A head that's sound and clear;(Yet let the heart be not too blind,The head not too severe!)
A joy of life, a frank delight;A not-too-large desire;And—if you fail to find a Knight—At least ... a trusty Squire.
"Mine be a cot," for the hours of play,Of the kind that is built byMiss Greenaway;Where the walls are low, and the roofs are red,And the birds are gay in the blue o'erhead;And the dear little figures, in frocks and frills,Go roaming about at their own sweet wills,And "play with the pups," and "reprove the calves,"And do nought in the world (but Work) by halves,From "Hunt the Slipper" and "Riddle-me-ree"To watching the cat in the apple-tree.O Art of the Household! Men may prateOf their ways "intense" and Italianate,—They may soar on their wings of sense, and floatTo theau delàand the dim remote,—Till the last sun sink in the last-lit West,'Tis the Art at the Door that will please the best;To the end of Time 'twill be still the same,For the Earth first laughed when the children came!
"Mine be a cot," for the hours of play,Of the kind that is built byMiss Greenaway;Where the walls are low, and the roofs are red,And the birds are gay in the blue o'erhead;And the dear little figures, in frocks and frills,Go roaming about at their own sweet wills,And "play with the pups," and "reprove the calves,"And do nought in the world (but Work) by halves,From "Hunt the Slipper" and "Riddle-me-ree"To watching the cat in the apple-tree.
O Art of the Household! Men may prateOf their ways "intense" and Italianate,—They may soar on their wings of sense, and floatTo theau delàand the dim remote,—Till the last sun sink in the last-lit West,'Tis the Art at the Door that will please the best;To the end of Time 'twill be still the same,For the Earth first laughed when the children came!
A SUGGESTION FROM HOGARTH.
One knows the scene so well,—a touch,A word, brings back againThat room, not garnished overmuch,In gusty Drury Lane;The empty safe, the child that cries,The kittens on the coat,The good-wife with her patient eyes,The milkmaid's tuneless throat;And last, in that mute woe sublime,The luckless verseman's air:The "Bysshe," the foolscap and the rhyme,—The Rhyme ... that is not there!Poor Bard! to dream the verse inspired—With dews Castalian wet—Is built from cold abstractions squiredBy "Bysshe," his epithet!Ah! when she comes, the glad-eyed Muse,No step upon the stairBetrays the guest that none refuse,—She takes us unaware;And tips with fire our lyric lips,And sets our hearts a-flame,And then, like Ariel, off she trips,And none know how she came.Only, henceforth, for right or wrong,By some dull sense grown keen,Some blank hour blossomed into song,We feel that she has been.
One knows the scene so well,—a touch,A word, brings back againThat room, not garnished overmuch,In gusty Drury Lane;
The empty safe, the child that cries,The kittens on the coat,The good-wife with her patient eyes,The milkmaid's tuneless throat;
And last, in that mute woe sublime,The luckless verseman's air:The "Bysshe," the foolscap and the rhyme,—The Rhyme ... that is not there!
Poor Bard! to dream the verse inspired—With dews Castalian wet—Is built from cold abstractions squiredBy "Bysshe," his epithet!
Ah! when she comes, the glad-eyed Muse,No step upon the stairBetrays the guest that none refuse,—She takes us unaware;
And tips with fire our lyric lips,And sets our hearts a-flame,And then, like Ariel, off she trips,And none know how she came.
Only, henceforth, for right or wrong,By some dull sense grown keen,Some blank hour blossomed into song,We feel that she has been.
In our hearts is the Great One of AvonEngraven,And we climb the cold summits once built onBy Milton.But at times not the air that is rarestIs fairest,And we long in the valley to followApollo.Then we drop from the heights atmosphericTo Herrick,Or we pour the Greek honey, grown blander,Of Landor;Or our cosiest nook in the shade isWhere Praed is,Or we toss the light bells of the mockerWith Locker.Oh, the song where not one of the GracesTight-laces,—Where we woo the sweet Muses not starchly,But archly,—Where the verse, like a piper a-Maying,Comes playing,—And the rhyme is as gay as a dancerIn answer,—It will last till men weary of pleasureIn measure!It will last till men weary of laughter ...And after!
In our hearts is the Great One of AvonEngraven,And we climb the cold summits once built onBy Milton.
But at times not the air that is rarestIs fairest,And we long in the valley to followApollo.
Then we drop from the heights atmosphericTo Herrick,Or we pour the Greek honey, grown blander,Of Landor;
Or our cosiest nook in the shade isWhere Praed is,Or we toss the light bells of the mockerWith Locker.
Oh, the song where not one of the GracesTight-laces,—Where we woo the sweet Muses not starchly,But archly,—
Where the verse, like a piper a-Maying,Comes playing,—And the rhyme is as gay as a dancerIn answer,—
It will last till men weary of pleasureIn measure!It will last till men weary of laughter ...And after!
They dwell in the odour of camphor,They stand in a Sheraton shrine,They are "warranted early editions,"These worshipful tomes of mine;—In their creamiest "Oxford vellum,"In their redolent "crushed Levant,"With their delicate watered linings,They are jewels of price, I grant;—Blind-tooled and morocco-jointed,They have Zaehnsdorf's daintiest dress,They are graceful, attenuate, polished,But they gather the dust, no less;—For the row that I prize is yonder,Away on the unglazed shelves,The bulged and the bruisedoctavos,The dear and the dumpy twelves,—Montaigne with his sheepskin blistered,And Howell the worse for wear,And the worm-drilled Jesuits' Horace,And the little old cropped Molière,And the Burton I bought for a florin,And the Rabelais foxed and flea'd,—For the others I never have opened,But those are the books I read.
They dwell in the odour of camphor,They stand in a Sheraton shrine,They are "warranted early editions,"These worshipful tomes of mine;—
In their creamiest "Oxford vellum,"In their redolent "crushed Levant,"With their delicate watered linings,They are jewels of price, I grant;—
Blind-tooled and morocco-jointed,They have Zaehnsdorf's daintiest dress,They are graceful, attenuate, polished,But they gather the dust, no less;—
For the row that I prize is yonder,Away on the unglazed shelves,The bulged and the bruisedoctavos,The dear and the dumpy twelves,—
Montaigne with his sheepskin blistered,And Howell the worse for wear,And the worm-drilled Jesuits' Horace,And the little old cropped Molière,
And the Burton I bought for a florin,And the Rabelais foxed and flea'd,—For the others I never have opened,But those are the books I read.
BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE TEMPLE.
While cynicCharlesstill trimm'd the vane'TwixtQuerouailleandCastlemaine,In days that shockedJohn Evelyn,My First Possessor fixed me in.In days ofDutchmen, and of frost,The narrow sea withJamesI cross'd,Returning when once more beganThe Age ofSaturnand ofAnne.I am a part of all the past;I knew theGeorges, first and last;I have been oft where else was noneSave the great wig ofAddison;And seen on shelves beneath me gropeThe little eager form ofPope.I lost the Third that owned me whenFrenchNoaillesfled at Dettingen;The yearJames Wolfesurpris'd Quebec,The Fourth in hunting broke his neck;The day thatWilliam Hogarthdy'd,The Fifth one found me in Cheapside.This was aScholar, one of thoseWhoseGreekis sounder than theirhose;He lov'd old Books and nappy ale,So liv'd at Streatham, next toThrale.'Twas there this stain of grease I boastWas made by Dr.Johnson'stoast.(He did it, as I think, for Spite;My Master call'd himJacobite!)And now that I so long to-dayHave restedpost discrimina,Safe in the brass-wir'd book-case whereI watch'd the Vicar's whit'ning hair,Must I these travell'd bones interIn someCollector'ssepulchre!Must I be torn herefrom and thrownWithfrontispieceandcolophon!With vagrantE's, andI's, andO's,The spoil of plunder'dFolios!With scraps and snippets that toMeAre naught butkitchen company!Nay, rather,Friend, this favour grant me:Tear me at once;but don't transplant me.Cheltenham,Sept. 31, 1792.
While cynicCharlesstill trimm'd the vane'TwixtQuerouailleandCastlemaine,In days that shockedJohn Evelyn,My First Possessor fixed me in.In days ofDutchmen, and of frost,The narrow sea withJamesI cross'd,Returning when once more beganThe Age ofSaturnand ofAnne.I am a part of all the past;I knew theGeorges, first and last;I have been oft where else was noneSave the great wig ofAddison;And seen on shelves beneath me gropeThe little eager form ofPope.I lost the Third that owned me whenFrenchNoaillesfled at Dettingen;The yearJames Wolfesurpris'd Quebec,The Fourth in hunting broke his neck;The day thatWilliam Hogarthdy'd,The Fifth one found me in Cheapside.This was aScholar, one of thoseWhoseGreekis sounder than theirhose;He lov'd old Books and nappy ale,So liv'd at Streatham, next toThrale.'Twas there this stain of grease I boastWas made by Dr.Johnson'stoast.(He did it, as I think, for Spite;My Master call'd himJacobite!)And now that I so long to-dayHave restedpost discrimina,Safe in the brass-wir'd book-case whereI watch'd the Vicar's whit'ning hair,Must I these travell'd bones interIn someCollector'ssepulchre!Must I be torn herefrom and thrownWithfrontispieceandcolophon!With vagrantE's, andI's, andO's,The spoil of plunder'dFolios!With scraps and snippets that toMeAre naught butkitchen company!Nay, rather,Friend, this favour grant me:Tear me at once;but don't transplant me.
Cheltenham,Sept. 31, 1792.
Him best in all the dim Arthuriad,Of lovers of fair women, him I prize,—The Pagan Palomydes. Never gladWas he with sweetness of his lady's eyes,Nor joy he had.But, unloved ever, still must love the same,And riding ever through a lonely world,Whene'er on adverse shield or crest he came,Against the danger desperately hurled,Crying her name.So I, who strove to You I may not earn,Methinks, am come unto so high a place,That though from hence I can but vainly yearnFor that averted favour of your face,I shall not turn.No, I am come too high. Whate'er betide,To find the doubtful thing that fights with me,Toward the mountain tops I still shall ride,And cry your name in my extremity,As Palomyde,Until the issue come. Will it discloseNo gift of grace, no pity made complete,After much labour done,—much war with woes?Will you deny me still in Heaven, my sweet;—Ah, Death—who knows?
Him best in all the dim Arthuriad,Of lovers of fair women, him I prize,—The Pagan Palomydes. Never gladWas he with sweetness of his lady's eyes,Nor joy he had.
But, unloved ever, still must love the same,And riding ever through a lonely world,Whene'er on adverse shield or crest he came,Against the danger desperately hurled,Crying her name.
So I, who strove to You I may not earn,Methinks, am come unto so high a place,That though from hence I can but vainly yearnFor that averted favour of your face,I shall not turn.
No, I am come too high. Whate'er betide,To find the doubtful thing that fights with me,Toward the mountain tops I still shall ride,And cry your name in my extremity,As Palomyde,
Until the issue come. Will it discloseNo gift of grace, no pity made complete,After much labour done,—much war with woes?Will you deny me still in Heaven, my sweet;—Ah, Death—who knows?
(Clerk of Love, 1170.)
HIS PLAINT TO VENUS OF THE COMING YEARS.
"Plus ne suis ce que j'ay estéEt ne le sçaurois jamais estre;Mon beau printemps et mon estéOnt fait le saut par la fenestre."
"Plus ne suis ce que j'ay estéEt ne le sçaurois jamais estre;Mon beau printemps et mon estéOnt fait le saut par la fenestre."
Queen Venus, round whose feet,To tend thy sacred fire,With service bitter-sweetNor youths nor maidens tire;—Goddess, whose bounties beLarge as the un-oared sea;—Mother, whose eldest bornFirst stirred his stammering tongue,In the world's youngest morn,When the first daisies sprung:—Whose last, when Time shall die,In the same grave shall lie:—Hear thou one suppliant more!Must I, thy Bard, grow old,Bent, with the temples frore,Not jocund be nor bold,To tune for folk in MayBallad and virelay?Shall the youths jeer and jape,"Behold his verse doth dote,—Leave thou Love's lute to scrape,And tune thy wrinkled throatTo songs of 'Flesh is Grass,'"—Shall they cry thus and pass?And the sweet girls go by?"Beshrew the grey-beard's tune!—What ails his minstrelsyTo sing us snow in June!"Shall they too laugh, and fleetFar in the sun-warmed street?But Thou, whose beauty bright,Upon thy wooded hill,With ineffectual lightThe wan sun seeketh still;—Woman, whose tears are dried,Hardly, for Adon's side,—Have pity, Erycine!Withhold not all thy sweets;Must I thy gifts resignFor Love's mere broken meats;And suit for alms preferThat was thine Almoner?Must I, as bondsman, kneelThat, in full many a cause,Have scrolled thy just appeal?Have I not writ thy Laws?That none from Love shall takeSave but for Love's sweet sake;—That none shall aught refuseTo Love of Love's fair dues;—That none dear Love shall scoffOr deem foul shame thereof;—That none shall traitor beTo Love's own secrecy;—Avert,—avert it, Queen!Debarred thy listed sports,Let me at least be seenAn usher in thy courts,Outworn, but still induedWith badge of servitude.When I no more may go,As one who treads on air,To string-notes soft and slow,By maids found sweet and fair—When I no more may beOf Love's blithe company;—When I no more may sitWithin thine own pleasànce,To weave, in sentence fit,Thy golden dalliance;When other hands than theseRecord thy soft decrees;—Leave me at least to singAbout thine outer wall,To tell thy pleasuring,Thy mirth, thy festival;Yea, let my swan-song beThy grace, thy sanctity.[Here ended André's words:But One that writeth, saith—Betwixt his stricken chordsHe heard the Wheels of Death;And knew the fruits Love bareBut Dead-Sea apples were.]
Queen Venus, round whose feet,To tend thy sacred fire,With service bitter-sweetNor youths nor maidens tire;—Goddess, whose bounties beLarge as the un-oared sea;—
Mother, whose eldest bornFirst stirred his stammering tongue,In the world's youngest morn,When the first daisies sprung:—Whose last, when Time shall die,In the same grave shall lie:—
Hear thou one suppliant more!Must I, thy Bard, grow old,Bent, with the temples frore,Not jocund be nor bold,To tune for folk in MayBallad and virelay?
Shall the youths jeer and jape,"Behold his verse doth dote,—Leave thou Love's lute to scrape,And tune thy wrinkled throatTo songs of 'Flesh is Grass,'"—Shall they cry thus and pass?
And the sweet girls go by?"Beshrew the grey-beard's tune!—What ails his minstrelsyTo sing us snow in June!"Shall they too laugh, and fleetFar in the sun-warmed street?
But Thou, whose beauty bright,Upon thy wooded hill,With ineffectual lightThe wan sun seeketh still;—Woman, whose tears are dried,Hardly, for Adon's side,—
Have pity, Erycine!Withhold not all thy sweets;Must I thy gifts resignFor Love's mere broken meats;And suit for alms preferThat was thine Almoner?
Must I, as bondsman, kneelThat, in full many a cause,Have scrolled thy just appeal?Have I not writ thy Laws?That none from Love shall takeSave but for Love's sweet sake;—
That none shall aught refuseTo Love of Love's fair dues;—That none dear Love shall scoffOr deem foul shame thereof;—That none shall traitor beTo Love's own secrecy;—
Avert,—avert it, Queen!Debarred thy listed sports,Let me at least be seenAn usher in thy courts,Outworn, but still induedWith badge of servitude.
When I no more may go,As one who treads on air,To string-notes soft and slow,By maids found sweet and fair—When I no more may beOf Love's blithe company;—
When I no more may sitWithin thine own pleasànce,To weave, in sentence fit,Thy golden dalliance;When other hands than theseRecord thy soft decrees;—
Leave me at least to singAbout thine outer wall,To tell thy pleasuring,Thy mirth, thy festival;Yea, let my swan-song beThy grace, thy sanctity.
[Here ended André's words:But One that writeth, saith—Betwixt his stricken chordsHe heard the Wheels of Death;And knew the fruits Love bareBut Dead-Sea apples were.]
"Buy,—who'll buy?" In the market-place,Out of the market din and clatter,The quack with his puckered persuasive facePatters away in the ancient patter."Buy,—who'll buy? In this flask I hold—In this little flask that I tap with my stick, Sir—Is the famed, infallible Water of Gold,—The One, Original, True Elixir!"Buy—who'll buy? There's a maiden there,—She with the ell-long flaxen tresses,—Here is a draught that will make you fair,Fit for an emperor's own caresses!"Buy,—who'll buy? Are you old and gray?Drink but of this, and in less than a minute,Lo! you will dance like the flowers in May,Chirp and chirk like a new-fledged linnet!"Buy,—who'll buy? Is a baby ill?Drop but a drop of this in his throttle,Straight he will gossip and gorge his fill,Brisk as a burgher over a bottle!"Here is wealth for your life,—if you will but ask;Here is health for your limb, without lint or lotion;Here is all that you lack, in this tiny flask;And the price is a couple of silver groschen!"Buy,—who'll buy?" So the tale runs on:And still in the great world's market-placesThe Quack, with his quack catholicon,Finds ever his crowd of upturned faces;For he plays on our hearts with his pipe and drum,On our vague regret, on our weary yearning;For he sells the thing that never can come,Or the thing that has vanished, past returning.
"Buy,—who'll buy?" In the market-place,Out of the market din and clatter,The quack with his puckered persuasive facePatters away in the ancient patter.
"Buy,—who'll buy? In this flask I hold—In this little flask that I tap with my stick, Sir—Is the famed, infallible Water of Gold,—The One, Original, True Elixir!
"Buy—who'll buy? There's a maiden there,—She with the ell-long flaxen tresses,—Here is a draught that will make you fair,Fit for an emperor's own caresses!
"Buy,—who'll buy? Are you old and gray?Drink but of this, and in less than a minute,Lo! you will dance like the flowers in May,Chirp and chirk like a new-fledged linnet!
"Buy,—who'll buy? Is a baby ill?Drop but a drop of this in his throttle,Straight he will gossip and gorge his fill,Brisk as a burgher over a bottle!
"Here is wealth for your life,—if you will but ask;Here is health for your limb, without lint or lotion;Here is all that you lack, in this tiny flask;And the price is a couple of silver groschen!
"Buy,—who'll buy?" So the tale runs on:And still in the great world's market-placesThe Quack, with his quack catholicon,Finds ever his crowd of upturned faces;
For he plays on our hearts with his pipe and drum,On our vague regret, on our weary yearning;For he sells the thing that never can come,Or the thing that has vanished, past returning.
"De mémoires de Roses on n'a point vu mourir le Jardinier."
The Rose in the garden slipped her bud,And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood,As she thought of the Gardener standing by—"He is old,—so old! And he soon must die!"The full Rose waxed in the warm June air,And she spread and spread till her heart lay bare;And she laughed once more as she heard his tread—"He is older now! He will soon be dead!"But the breeze of the morning blew, and foundThat the leaves of the blown Rose strewed the ground;And he came at noon, that Gardener old,And he raked them gently under the mould.And I wove the thing to a random rhyme,For the Rose is Beauty, the Gardener, Time.
The Rose in the garden slipped her bud,And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood,As she thought of the Gardener standing by—"He is old,—so old! And he soon must die!"
The full Rose waxed in the warm June air,And she spread and spread till her heart lay bare;And she laughed once more as she heard his tread—"He is older now! He will soon be dead!"
But the breeze of the morning blew, and foundThat the leaves of the blown Rose strewed the ground;And he came at noon, that Gardener old,And he raked them gently under the mould.
And I wove the thing to a random rhyme,For the Rose is Beauty, the Gardener, Time.
Behind thy pasteboard, on thy battered hack,Thy lean cheek striped with plaster to and fro,Thy long spear levelled at the unseen foe,And doubtful Sancho trudging at thy back,Thou wert a figure strange enough, good lack!To make Wiseacredom, both high and low,Rub purblind eyes, and (having watched thee go)Dispatch its Dogberrys upon thy track:Alas! poor Knight! Alas! poor soul possest?Yet would to-day when Courtesy grows chill,And life's fine loyalties are turned to jest,Some fire of thine might burn within us still!Ah, would but one might lay his lance in rest,And charge in earnest—were it but a mill!
Behind thy pasteboard, on thy battered hack,Thy lean cheek striped with plaster to and fro,Thy long spear levelled at the unseen foe,And doubtful Sancho trudging at thy back,Thou wert a figure strange enough, good lack!To make Wiseacredom, both high and low,Rub purblind eyes, and (having watched thee go)Dispatch its Dogberrys upon thy track:Alas! poor Knight! Alas! poor soul possest?Yet would to-day when Courtesy grows chill,And life's fine loyalties are turned to jest,Some fire of thine might burn within us still!Ah, would but one might lay his lance in rest,And charge in earnest—were it but a mill!
(To A. L.)
The shopman shambled from the doorway outAnd twitched it down—Snapped in the blade! 'Twas scarcely dear, I doubt,At half-a-crown.Useless enough! And yet can still be seen,In letters clear,Traced on the metal's rusty damaskeen—"Povr Paruenyr."Whose was it once?—Who manned it once in hopeHis fate to gain?Who was it dreamed his oyster-world should opeTo this—in vain?Maybe with some stout Argonaut it sailedThe Western Seas;Maybe but to some paltry Nym availedFor toasting cheese!Or decked by Beauty on some morning lawnWith silken knot,Perchance, ere night, for Church and King 'twas drawn—Perchance 'twas not!Who knows—or cares? To-day, 'mid foils and glovesIts hilt depends,Flanked by the favours of forgotten loves,—Remembered friends;—And oft its legend lends, in hours of stress,A word to aid;Or like a warning comes, in puffed success,Its broken blade.
The shopman shambled from the doorway outAnd twitched it down—Snapped in the blade! 'Twas scarcely dear, I doubt,At half-a-crown.
Useless enough! And yet can still be seen,In letters clear,Traced on the metal's rusty damaskeen—"Povr Paruenyr."
Whose was it once?—Who manned it once in hopeHis fate to gain?Who was it dreamed his oyster-world should opeTo this—in vain?
Maybe with some stout Argonaut it sailedThe Western Seas;Maybe but to some paltry Nym availedFor toasting cheese!
Or decked by Beauty on some morning lawnWith silken knot,Perchance, ere night, for Church and King 'twas drawn—Perchance 'twas not!
Who knows—or cares? To-day, 'mid foils and glovesIts hilt depends,Flanked by the favours of forgotten loves,—Remembered friends;—
And oft its legend lends, in hours of stress,A word to aid;Or like a warning comes, in puffed success,Its broken blade.
AN IDYLL OF THE SUBURBS.
"Ille terrarum mihi præter omnesAngulusRidet."—Hor. ii. 6.
"Ille terrarum mihi præter omnesAngulusRidet."—Hor. ii. 6.
It was an elm-tree root of yore,With lordly trunk, before they lopped it,And weighty, said those five who boreIts bulk across the lawn, and dropped itNot once or twice, before it lay.With two young pear-trees to protect it,Safe where the Poet hoped some dayThe curious pilgrim would inspect it.He saw him with his Poet's eye,The stately Maori, turned from etchingThe ruin of St. Paul's, to trySome object better worth the sketching:—He saw him, and it nerved his strengthWhat time he hacked and hewed and scraped it,Until the monster grew at lengthThe Master-piece to which he shaped it.To wit—a goodly garden seat,And fit alike for Shah or Sophy,With shelf for cigarettes complete,And one, but lower down, for coffee;He planted pansies 'round its foot,—"Pansies for thoughts!" and rose and arum;The Motto (that he meant to put)Was "Ille angulus terrarum."But "Oh! the change" (as Milton sings)—"The heavy change!" When May departed,When June with its "delightful things"Had come and gone, the rough bark started,—Began to lose its sylvan brown,Grew parched, and powdery, and spotted;And, though the Poet nailed it down,It still flapped up, and dropped, and rotted.Nor was this all. 'Twas next the sceneOf vague (and viscous) vegetations;Queer fissures gaped, with oozings green,And moist, unsavoury exhalations,—Faint wafts of wood decayed and sick,Till, where he meant to carve his Motto,Strange leathery fungi sprouted thick,And made it like an oyster grotto.Briefly, it grew a seat of scorn,Bare,—shameless,—till, for fresh disaster,From end to end, one April morn,'Twas riddled like a pepper caster,—Drilled like a vellum of old time;And musing on this final mystery,The Poet left off scribbling rhyme,And took to studying Natural History.This was the turning of the tide;His five-act play is still unwritten;The dreams that now his soul divideAre more of Lubbock than of Lytton;"Ballades" are "verses vain" to himWhose first ambition is to lecture(So much is man the sport of whim!)On "Insects and their Architecture."
It was an elm-tree root of yore,With lordly trunk, before they lopped it,And weighty, said those five who boreIts bulk across the lawn, and dropped itNot once or twice, before it lay.With two young pear-trees to protect it,Safe where the Poet hoped some dayThe curious pilgrim would inspect it.
He saw him with his Poet's eye,The stately Maori, turned from etchingThe ruin of St. Paul's, to trySome object better worth the sketching:—He saw him, and it nerved his strengthWhat time he hacked and hewed and scraped it,Until the monster grew at lengthThe Master-piece to which he shaped it.
To wit—a goodly garden seat,And fit alike for Shah or Sophy,With shelf for cigarettes complete,And one, but lower down, for coffee;He planted pansies 'round its foot,—"Pansies for thoughts!" and rose and arum;The Motto (that he meant to put)Was "Ille angulus terrarum."
But "Oh! the change" (as Milton sings)—"The heavy change!" When May departed,When June with its "delightful things"Had come and gone, the rough bark started,—Began to lose its sylvan brown,Grew parched, and powdery, and spotted;And, though the Poet nailed it down,It still flapped up, and dropped, and rotted.
Nor was this all. 'Twas next the sceneOf vague (and viscous) vegetations;Queer fissures gaped, with oozings green,And moist, unsavoury exhalations,—Faint wafts of wood decayed and sick,Till, where he meant to carve his Motto,Strange leathery fungi sprouted thick,And made it like an oyster grotto.
Briefly, it grew a seat of scorn,Bare,—shameless,—till, for fresh disaster,From end to end, one April morn,'Twas riddled like a pepper caster,—Drilled like a vellum of old time;And musing on this final mystery,The Poet left off scribbling rhyme,And took to studying Natural History.
This was the turning of the tide;His five-act play is still unwritten;The dreams that now his soul divideAre more of Lubbock than of Lytton;"Ballades" are "verses vain" to himWhose first ambition is to lecture(So much is man the sport of whim!)On "Insects and their Architecture."
"One drop of ruddy human blood puts more life into the veins of a poem than all the delusive 'aurum potabile' that can be distilled out of the choicest library."—Lowell.