Chapter 152

CXXXIXAs for La Roque, he having laughed his laughTo heart's content,—the joke defunct at once,Dead in the birth, you see,—its epitaphWas sober earnest. "Well, sir, for the nonce,You 've gained the laurel; never hope to graffA second sprig of triumph there! EnsconceYourself again at Croisic: let it beEnough you mastered both Voltaire and—me!CXL"Don't linger here in Paris to paradeYour victory, and have the very boysPoint at you! 'There 's the little mouse which madeBelieve those two big lions that its noise,Nibbling away behind the hedge, conveyedIntelligence that—portent which destroysAll courage in the lion's heart, with hornThat's fable—there lay couched the unicorn!'CXLI"Beware us, now we 've found who fooled us! QuickTo cover! 'In proportion to men's fright,Expect their fright's revenge!' quoth politicOld Macchiavelli. As for me,—all's right:I'm but a journalist. But no pin's prickThe tooth leaves when Voltaire is roused to bite!So, keep your counsel, I advise! Adieu!Good journey I Ha, ha, ha, Malcrais was—you!"CXLII"—Yes, I 'm Malcrais, and somebody beside,You snickering monkey!" thus winds up the taleOur hero, safe at home, to that black-eyedCherry-cheeked sister, as she soothes the paleMortified poet. "Let their worst be tried,I'm their match henceforth—very man and male!Don't talk to me of knocking-under! manAnd male must end what petticoats began!CXLIII"How woman-like it is to apprehendThe world will eat its words! why, words transfixedTo stone, they stare at you in print,—at end,Each writer's style and title! Choose betwixtFool and knave for his name, who should intendTo perpetrate a baseness so unmixedWith prospect of advantage! What is writIs writ: they've praised me, there's an end of it!CXLIV"No, Dear, allow me! I shall print these samePieces, with no omitted line, as Paul's.Malcrais no longer, let me see folk blameWhat they—praised simply?—placed on pedestals,Each piece a statue in the House of Fame!Fast will they stand there, though their presence gallsThe envious crew: such show their teeth, perhaps,And snarl, but never bite! I know the chaps!"CXLVO Paul, oh, piteously deluded! PaceThy sad sterility of Croisic flats,Watch, from their southern edge, the foamy raceOf high-tide as it heaves the drowning matsOf yellow-berried web-growth from their place,The rock-ridge, when, rolling as far as Batz,One broadside crashes on it, and the crags,That needle under, stream with weedy rags!CXLVIOr, if thou wilt, at inland Bergerac,Rude heritage but recognized domain,Do as two here are doing: make hearth crackWith logs until thy chimney roar againJolly with fire-glow! Let its angle lackNo grace of Cherry-cheeks thy sister, fainTo do a sister's office and laugh smoothThy corrugated brow—that scowls forsooth!CXLVIIWherefore? Who does not know how these La Roques,Voltaires, can say and unsay, praise and blame,Prove black white, white black, play at paradoxAnd, when they seem to lose it, win the game?Care not thou what this badger, and that fox,His fellow in rascality, call "fame!"Fiddlepin's end! Thou hadst it,—quack, quack, quack!Have quietude from geese at Bergerac!CXLVIIIQuietude! For, be very sure of this!A twelvemonth hence, and men shall know or careAs much for what to-day they clap or hissAs for the fashion of the wigs they wear,Then wonder at. There's fame which, bale or bliss,—Got by no gracious word of great VoltaireOr not-so-great La Roque,—is taken backBy neither, any more than Bergerac!CXLIXToo true! or rather, true as ought to be!No more of Paul the man, Malcrais the maid,Thenceforth forever! One or two, I see,Stuck by their poet: who the longest stayedWas Jean-Baptiste Rousseau, and even heSeemingly saddened as perforce he paidA rhyming tribute: "After death, survive—He hoped he should: and died while yet alive!"CLNo, he hoped nothing of the kind, or heldHis peace and died in silent good old age.Him it was, curiosity impelledTo seek if there were extant still some pageOf his great predecessor, rat who belledThe cat once, and would never deign engageIn after-combat with mere mice,—saved fromMore sonneteering.—René Gentilhomme.CLIPaul's story furnished forth that famous playOf Piron's "Métromanie:" there you 'll findHe 's Francaleu, while Demoiselle MalcraisIs Demoiselle No-end-of-names-behind!As for Voltaire, he's Damis. Good and gayThe plot and dialogue, and all 's designedTo spite Voltaire: at "Something" such the laughOf simply "Nothing!" (see his epitaph).CLIIBut truth, truth, that's the gold! and all the goodI find in fancy is, it serves to setGold's inmost glint free, gold which comes up rudeAnd rayless from the mine. All fume and fretOf artistry beyond this point pursuedBrings out another sort of burnish: yetAlways the ingot has its very ownValue, a sparkle struck from truth alone.CLIIINow, take this sparkle and the other spirtOf fitful flame,—twin births of our gray brandThat 's sinking fast to ashes! I assert,As sparkles want but fuel to expandInto a conflagration no mere squirtWill quench too quickly, so might Croisic strand,Had Fortune pleased posterity to chowse,Boast of her brace or beacons luminous.CLIVDid earlier Agamemnons lack their bard?But later bards lacked Agamemnon too!How often frustrate they of fame's awardJust because Fortune, as she listed, blewSome slight bark's sails to bellying, mauled and marredAnd forced to put about the First-rate True,Such tacks but for a time: still—small-craft rideAt anchor, rot while Beddoes breasts the tide!CLVDear, shall I tell you? There 's a simple testWould serve, when people take on them to weighThe worth of poets. "Who was better, best,This, that, the other bard?" (Bards none gainsayAs good, observe! no matter for the rest.)"What quality preponderating mayTurn the scale as it trembles?" End the strifeBy asking "Which one led a happy life?"CLVIIf one did, over his antagonistThat yelled or shrieked or sobbed or wept or wailedOr simply had the dumps,—dispute who list,—I count him victor. Where his fellow failed,Mastered by his own means of might,—acquistOf necessary sorrows,—he prevailed,A strong since joyful man who stood distinctAbove slave-sorrows to his chariot linked.CLVIIWas not his lot to feel more? What meant "feel"Unless to suffer! Not, to see more? Sight—What helped it but to watch the drunken reelOf vice and folly round him, left and right,One dance of rogues and idiots! Not, to dealMore with things lovely? What provoked the spiteOf filth incarnate, like the poet's needOf other nutriment than strife and greed!CLVIIIWho knows most, doubts most; entertaining hope,Means recognizing fear; the keener senseOf all comprised within our actual scopeRecoils from aught beyond earth's dim and dense.Who, grown familiar with the sky, will gropeHenceforward among groundlings? That's offenceJust as indubitably: stars aboundO'erhead, but then—what flowers make glad the ground!CLIXSo, force is sorrow, and each sorrow, force:What then? since Swiftness gives the charioteerThe palm, his hope be in the vivid horseWhose neck God clothed with thunder, not the steerSluggish and safe! Yoke Hatred, Crime, Remorse,Despair: but ever 'mid the whirling fear,Let, through the tumult, break the poet's faceRadiant, assured his wild slaves win the race!CLXTherefore I say ... no, shall not say, but think,And save my breath for better purpose. WhiteFrom gray our log has burned to: just one blinkThat quivers, loth to leave it, as a spriteThe outworn body. Ere your eyelids' winkPunish who sealed so deep into the nightYour mouth up, for two poets dead so long,—Here pleads a live pretender: right your wrong!What a pretty tale you told meOnce upon a time—Said you found it somewhere (scold me!)Was it prose or was it rhyme,Greek or Latin? Greek, you said,While your shoulder propped my head.Anyhow there 's no forgettingThis much if no more,That a poet (pray, no petting!)Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore,Went where suchlike used to go,Singing for a prize, you know.Well, he had to sing, nor merelySing but play the lyre;Playing was important clearlyQuite as singing: I desire,Sir, you keep the fact in mindFor a purpose that 's behind.There stood he, while deep attentionHeld the judges round,—Judges able, I should mention,To detect the slightest soundSung or played amiss: such earsHad old judges, it appears!None the less he sang out boldly,Played in time and tune,Till the judges, weighing coldlyEach note's worth, seemed, late or soon,Sure to smile "In vain one triesPicking faults out: take the prize!"When, a mischief! Were they sevenStrings the lyre possessed?Oh, and afterwards eleven,Thank you! Well, sir,—who had guessedSuch ill luck in store?—it happedOne of those same seven strings snapped.All was lost, then! No! a cricket(What "cicada"? Pooh!)—Some mad thing that left its thicketFor mere love of music—flewWith its little heart on fire,Lighted on the crippled lyre.So that when (Ah, joy!) our singerFor his truant stringFeels with disconcerted finger,What does cricket else but flingFiery heart forth, sound the noteWanted by the throbbing throat?Ay and, ever to the ending,Cricket chirps at need,Executes the hand's intending,Promptly, perfectly,—indeedSaves the singer from defeatWith her chirrup low and sweet.Till, at ending, all the judgesCry with one assent"Take the prize—a prize who grudgesSuch a voice and instrument?Why, we took your lyre for harp,So it shrilled us forth F sharp!"Did the conqueror spurn the creature,Once its service done?That's no such uncommon featureIn the case when Music's sonFinds his Lotte's power too spentFor aiding soul-development.No! This other, on returningHomeward, prize in hand,Satisfied his bosom's yearning:(Sir, I hope you understand!)—Said "Some record there must beOf this cricket's help to me!"So, he made himself a statue:Marble stood, life-size;On the lyre, he pointed at you,Perched his partner in the prize;Never more apart you foundHer, he throned, from him, she crowned.That 's the tale: its application?Somebody I knowHopes one day for reputationThrough his poetry that 's—Oh,All so learned and so wiseAnd deserving of a prize!If he gains one, will some ticket,When his statue 's built,Tell the gazer "'T was a cricketHelped my crippled lyre, whose liltSweet and low, when strength usurpedSoftness' place i' the scale, she chirped?"For as victory was nighest,While I sang and played,—With my lyre at lowest, highest,Right alike,—one string that made'Love' sound soft was snapt in twain,Never to be heard again,—"Had not a kind cricket fluttered,Perched upon the placeVacant left, and duly uttered'Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the bassAsked the treble to atoneFor its somewhat sombre drone."But you don't know music! WhereforeKeep on casting pearlsTo a—poet? All I care forIs—to tell him that a girl's"Love" comes aptly in when gruffGrows his singing. (There, enough!)

CXXXIX

As for La Roque, he having laughed his laughTo heart's content,—the joke defunct at once,Dead in the birth, you see,—its epitaphWas sober earnest. "Well, sir, for the nonce,You 've gained the laurel; never hope to graffA second sprig of triumph there! EnsconceYourself again at Croisic: let it beEnough you mastered both Voltaire and—me!

As for La Roque, he having laughed his laugh

To heart's content,—the joke defunct at once,

Dead in the birth, you see,—its epitaph

Was sober earnest. "Well, sir, for the nonce,

You 've gained the laurel; never hope to graff

A second sprig of triumph there! Ensconce

Yourself again at Croisic: let it be

Enough you mastered both Voltaire and—me!

CXL

"Don't linger here in Paris to paradeYour victory, and have the very boysPoint at you! 'There 's the little mouse which madeBelieve those two big lions that its noise,Nibbling away behind the hedge, conveyedIntelligence that—portent which destroysAll courage in the lion's heart, with hornThat's fable—there lay couched the unicorn!'

"Don't linger here in Paris to parade

Your victory, and have the very boys

Point at you! 'There 's the little mouse which made

Believe those two big lions that its noise,

Nibbling away behind the hedge, conveyed

Intelligence that—portent which destroys

All courage in the lion's heart, with horn

That's fable—there lay couched the unicorn!'

CXLI

"Beware us, now we 've found who fooled us! QuickTo cover! 'In proportion to men's fright,Expect their fright's revenge!' quoth politicOld Macchiavelli. As for me,—all's right:I'm but a journalist. But no pin's prickThe tooth leaves when Voltaire is roused to bite!So, keep your counsel, I advise! Adieu!Good journey I Ha, ha, ha, Malcrais was—you!"

"Beware us, now we 've found who fooled us! Quick

To cover! 'In proportion to men's fright,

Expect their fright's revenge!' quoth politic

Old Macchiavelli. As for me,—all's right:

I'm but a journalist. But no pin's prick

The tooth leaves when Voltaire is roused to bite!

So, keep your counsel, I advise! Adieu!

Good journey I Ha, ha, ha, Malcrais was—you!"

CXLII

"—Yes, I 'm Malcrais, and somebody beside,You snickering monkey!" thus winds up the taleOur hero, safe at home, to that black-eyedCherry-cheeked sister, as she soothes the paleMortified poet. "Let their worst be tried,I'm their match henceforth—very man and male!Don't talk to me of knocking-under! manAnd male must end what petticoats began!

"—Yes, I 'm Malcrais, and somebody beside,

You snickering monkey!" thus winds up the tale

Our hero, safe at home, to that black-eyed

Cherry-cheeked sister, as she soothes the pale

Mortified poet. "Let their worst be tried,

I'm their match henceforth—very man and male!

Don't talk to me of knocking-under! man

And male must end what petticoats began!

CXLIII

"How woman-like it is to apprehendThe world will eat its words! why, words transfixedTo stone, they stare at you in print,—at end,Each writer's style and title! Choose betwixtFool and knave for his name, who should intendTo perpetrate a baseness so unmixedWith prospect of advantage! What is writIs writ: they've praised me, there's an end of it!

"How woman-like it is to apprehend

The world will eat its words! why, words transfixed

To stone, they stare at you in print,—at end,

Each writer's style and title! Choose betwixt

Fool and knave for his name, who should intend

To perpetrate a baseness so unmixed

With prospect of advantage! What is writ

Is writ: they've praised me, there's an end of it!

CXLIV

"No, Dear, allow me! I shall print these samePieces, with no omitted line, as Paul's.Malcrais no longer, let me see folk blameWhat they—praised simply?—placed on pedestals,Each piece a statue in the House of Fame!Fast will they stand there, though their presence gallsThe envious crew: such show their teeth, perhaps,And snarl, but never bite! I know the chaps!"

"No, Dear, allow me! I shall print these same

Pieces, with no omitted line, as Paul's.

Malcrais no longer, let me see folk blame

What they—praised simply?—placed on pedestals,

Each piece a statue in the House of Fame!

Fast will they stand there, though their presence galls

The envious crew: such show their teeth, perhaps,

And snarl, but never bite! I know the chaps!"

CXLV

O Paul, oh, piteously deluded! PaceThy sad sterility of Croisic flats,Watch, from their southern edge, the foamy raceOf high-tide as it heaves the drowning matsOf yellow-berried web-growth from their place,The rock-ridge, when, rolling as far as Batz,One broadside crashes on it, and the crags,That needle under, stream with weedy rags!

O Paul, oh, piteously deluded! Pace

Thy sad sterility of Croisic flats,

Watch, from their southern edge, the foamy race

Of high-tide as it heaves the drowning mats

Of yellow-berried web-growth from their place,

The rock-ridge, when, rolling as far as Batz,

One broadside crashes on it, and the crags,

That needle under, stream with weedy rags!

CXLVI

Or, if thou wilt, at inland Bergerac,Rude heritage but recognized domain,Do as two here are doing: make hearth crackWith logs until thy chimney roar againJolly with fire-glow! Let its angle lackNo grace of Cherry-cheeks thy sister, fainTo do a sister's office and laugh smoothThy corrugated brow—that scowls forsooth!

Or, if thou wilt, at inland Bergerac,

Rude heritage but recognized domain,

Do as two here are doing: make hearth crack

With logs until thy chimney roar again

Jolly with fire-glow! Let its angle lack

No grace of Cherry-cheeks thy sister, fain

To do a sister's office and laugh smooth

Thy corrugated brow—that scowls forsooth!

CXLVII

Wherefore? Who does not know how these La Roques,Voltaires, can say and unsay, praise and blame,Prove black white, white black, play at paradoxAnd, when they seem to lose it, win the game?Care not thou what this badger, and that fox,His fellow in rascality, call "fame!"Fiddlepin's end! Thou hadst it,—quack, quack, quack!Have quietude from geese at Bergerac!

Wherefore? Who does not know how these La Roques,

Voltaires, can say and unsay, praise and blame,

Prove black white, white black, play at paradox

And, when they seem to lose it, win the game?

Care not thou what this badger, and that fox,

His fellow in rascality, call "fame!"

Fiddlepin's end! Thou hadst it,—quack, quack, quack!

Have quietude from geese at Bergerac!

CXLVIII

Quietude! For, be very sure of this!A twelvemonth hence, and men shall know or careAs much for what to-day they clap or hissAs for the fashion of the wigs they wear,Then wonder at. There's fame which, bale or bliss,—Got by no gracious word of great VoltaireOr not-so-great La Roque,—is taken backBy neither, any more than Bergerac!

Quietude! For, be very sure of this!

A twelvemonth hence, and men shall know or care

As much for what to-day they clap or hiss

As for the fashion of the wigs they wear,

Then wonder at. There's fame which, bale or bliss,—

Got by no gracious word of great Voltaire

Or not-so-great La Roque,—is taken back

By neither, any more than Bergerac!

CXLIX

Too true! or rather, true as ought to be!No more of Paul the man, Malcrais the maid,Thenceforth forever! One or two, I see,Stuck by their poet: who the longest stayedWas Jean-Baptiste Rousseau, and even heSeemingly saddened as perforce he paidA rhyming tribute: "After death, survive—He hoped he should: and died while yet alive!"

Too true! or rather, true as ought to be!

No more of Paul the man, Malcrais the maid,

Thenceforth forever! One or two, I see,

Stuck by their poet: who the longest stayed

Was Jean-Baptiste Rousseau, and even he

Seemingly saddened as perforce he paid

A rhyming tribute: "After death, survive—

He hoped he should: and died while yet alive!"

No, he hoped nothing of the kind, or heldHis peace and died in silent good old age.Him it was, curiosity impelledTo seek if there were extant still some pageOf his great predecessor, rat who belledThe cat once, and would never deign engageIn after-combat with mere mice,—saved fromMore sonneteering.—René Gentilhomme.

No, he hoped nothing of the kind, or held

His peace and died in silent good old age.

Him it was, curiosity impelled

To seek if there were extant still some page

Of his great predecessor, rat who belled

The cat once, and would never deign engage

In after-combat with mere mice,—saved from

More sonneteering.—René Gentilhomme.

CLI

Paul's story furnished forth that famous playOf Piron's "Métromanie:" there you 'll findHe 's Francaleu, while Demoiselle MalcraisIs Demoiselle No-end-of-names-behind!As for Voltaire, he's Damis. Good and gayThe plot and dialogue, and all 's designedTo spite Voltaire: at "Something" such the laughOf simply "Nothing!" (see his epitaph).

Paul's story furnished forth that famous play

Of Piron's "Métromanie:" there you 'll find

He 's Francaleu, while Demoiselle Malcrais

Is Demoiselle No-end-of-names-behind!

As for Voltaire, he's Damis. Good and gay

The plot and dialogue, and all 's designed

To spite Voltaire: at "Something" such the laugh

Of simply "Nothing!" (see his epitaph).

CLII

But truth, truth, that's the gold! and all the goodI find in fancy is, it serves to setGold's inmost glint free, gold which comes up rudeAnd rayless from the mine. All fume and fretOf artistry beyond this point pursuedBrings out another sort of burnish: yetAlways the ingot has its very ownValue, a sparkle struck from truth alone.

But truth, truth, that's the gold! and all the good

I find in fancy is, it serves to set

Gold's inmost glint free, gold which comes up rude

And rayless from the mine. All fume and fret

Of artistry beyond this point pursued

Brings out another sort of burnish: yet

Always the ingot has its very own

Value, a sparkle struck from truth alone.

CLIII

Now, take this sparkle and the other spirtOf fitful flame,—twin births of our gray brandThat 's sinking fast to ashes! I assert,As sparkles want but fuel to expandInto a conflagration no mere squirtWill quench too quickly, so might Croisic strand,Had Fortune pleased posterity to chowse,Boast of her brace or beacons luminous.

Now, take this sparkle and the other spirt

Of fitful flame,—twin births of our gray brand

That 's sinking fast to ashes! I assert,

As sparkles want but fuel to expand

Into a conflagration no mere squirt

Will quench too quickly, so might Croisic strand,

Had Fortune pleased posterity to chowse,

Boast of her brace or beacons luminous.

CLIV

Did earlier Agamemnons lack their bard?But later bards lacked Agamemnon too!How often frustrate they of fame's awardJust because Fortune, as she listed, blewSome slight bark's sails to bellying, mauled and marredAnd forced to put about the First-rate True,Such tacks but for a time: still—small-craft rideAt anchor, rot while Beddoes breasts the tide!

Did earlier Agamemnons lack their bard?

But later bards lacked Agamemnon too!

How often frustrate they of fame's award

Just because Fortune, as she listed, blew

Some slight bark's sails to bellying, mauled and marred

And forced to put about the First-rate True,

Such tacks but for a time: still—small-craft ride

At anchor, rot while Beddoes breasts the tide!

CLV

Dear, shall I tell you? There 's a simple testWould serve, when people take on them to weighThe worth of poets. "Who was better, best,This, that, the other bard?" (Bards none gainsayAs good, observe! no matter for the rest.)"What quality preponderating mayTurn the scale as it trembles?" End the strifeBy asking "Which one led a happy life?"

Dear, shall I tell you? There 's a simple test

Would serve, when people take on them to weigh

The worth of poets. "Who was better, best,

This, that, the other bard?" (Bards none gainsay

As good, observe! no matter for the rest.)

"What quality preponderating may

Turn the scale as it trembles?" End the strife

By asking "Which one led a happy life?"

CLVI

If one did, over his antagonistThat yelled or shrieked or sobbed or wept or wailedOr simply had the dumps,—dispute who list,—I count him victor. Where his fellow failed,Mastered by his own means of might,—acquistOf necessary sorrows,—he prevailed,A strong since joyful man who stood distinctAbove slave-sorrows to his chariot linked.

If one did, over his antagonist

That yelled or shrieked or sobbed or wept or wailed

Or simply had the dumps,—dispute who list,—

I count him victor. Where his fellow failed,

Mastered by his own means of might,—acquist

Of necessary sorrows,—he prevailed,

A strong since joyful man who stood distinct

Above slave-sorrows to his chariot linked.

CLVII

Was not his lot to feel more? What meant "feel"Unless to suffer! Not, to see more? Sight—What helped it but to watch the drunken reelOf vice and folly round him, left and right,One dance of rogues and idiots! Not, to dealMore with things lovely? What provoked the spiteOf filth incarnate, like the poet's needOf other nutriment than strife and greed!

Was not his lot to feel more? What meant "feel"

Unless to suffer! Not, to see more? Sight—

What helped it but to watch the drunken reel

Of vice and folly round him, left and right,

One dance of rogues and idiots! Not, to deal

More with things lovely? What provoked the spite

Of filth incarnate, like the poet's need

Of other nutriment than strife and greed!

CLVIII

Who knows most, doubts most; entertaining hope,Means recognizing fear; the keener senseOf all comprised within our actual scopeRecoils from aught beyond earth's dim and dense.Who, grown familiar with the sky, will gropeHenceforward among groundlings? That's offenceJust as indubitably: stars aboundO'erhead, but then—what flowers make glad the ground!

Who knows most, doubts most; entertaining hope,

Means recognizing fear; the keener sense

Of all comprised within our actual scope

Recoils from aught beyond earth's dim and dense.

Who, grown familiar with the sky, will grope

Henceforward among groundlings? That's offence

Just as indubitably: stars abound

O'erhead, but then—what flowers make glad the ground!

CLIX

So, force is sorrow, and each sorrow, force:What then? since Swiftness gives the charioteerThe palm, his hope be in the vivid horseWhose neck God clothed with thunder, not the steerSluggish and safe! Yoke Hatred, Crime, Remorse,Despair: but ever 'mid the whirling fear,Let, through the tumult, break the poet's faceRadiant, assured his wild slaves win the race!

So, force is sorrow, and each sorrow, force:

What then? since Swiftness gives the charioteer

The palm, his hope be in the vivid horse

Whose neck God clothed with thunder, not the steer

Sluggish and safe! Yoke Hatred, Crime, Remorse,

Despair: but ever 'mid the whirling fear,

Let, through the tumult, break the poet's face

Radiant, assured his wild slaves win the race!

CLX

Therefore I say ... no, shall not say, but think,And save my breath for better purpose. WhiteFrom gray our log has burned to: just one blinkThat quivers, loth to leave it, as a spriteThe outworn body. Ere your eyelids' winkPunish who sealed so deep into the nightYour mouth up, for two poets dead so long,—Here pleads a live pretender: right your wrong!

Therefore I say ... no, shall not say, but think,

And save my breath for better purpose. White

From gray our log has burned to: just one blink

That quivers, loth to leave it, as a sprite

The outworn body. Ere your eyelids' wink

Punish who sealed so deep into the night

Your mouth up, for two poets dead so long,—

Here pleads a live pretender: right your wrong!

What a pretty tale you told meOnce upon a time—Said you found it somewhere (scold me!)Was it prose or was it rhyme,Greek or Latin? Greek, you said,While your shoulder propped my head.

What a pretty tale you told me

Once upon a time

—Said you found it somewhere (scold me!)

Was it prose or was it rhyme,

Greek or Latin? Greek, you said,

While your shoulder propped my head.

Anyhow there 's no forgettingThis much if no more,That a poet (pray, no petting!)Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore,Went where suchlike used to go,Singing for a prize, you know.

Anyhow there 's no forgetting

This much if no more,

That a poet (pray, no petting!)

Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore,

Went where suchlike used to go,

Singing for a prize, you know.

Well, he had to sing, nor merelySing but play the lyre;Playing was important clearlyQuite as singing: I desire,Sir, you keep the fact in mindFor a purpose that 's behind.

Well, he had to sing, nor merely

Sing but play the lyre;

Playing was important clearly

Quite as singing: I desire,

Sir, you keep the fact in mind

For a purpose that 's behind.

There stood he, while deep attentionHeld the judges round,—Judges able, I should mention,To detect the slightest soundSung or played amiss: such earsHad old judges, it appears!

There stood he, while deep attention

Held the judges round,

—Judges able, I should mention,

To detect the slightest sound

Sung or played amiss: such ears

Had old judges, it appears!

None the less he sang out boldly,Played in time and tune,Till the judges, weighing coldlyEach note's worth, seemed, late or soon,Sure to smile "In vain one triesPicking faults out: take the prize!"

None the less he sang out boldly,

Played in time and tune,

Till the judges, weighing coldly

Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon,

Sure to smile "In vain one tries

Picking faults out: take the prize!"

When, a mischief! Were they sevenStrings the lyre possessed?Oh, and afterwards eleven,Thank you! Well, sir,—who had guessedSuch ill luck in store?—it happedOne of those same seven strings snapped.

When, a mischief! Were they seven

Strings the lyre possessed?

Oh, and afterwards eleven,

Thank you! Well, sir,—who had guessed

Such ill luck in store?—it happed

One of those same seven strings snapped.

All was lost, then! No! a cricket(What "cicada"? Pooh!)—Some mad thing that left its thicketFor mere love of music—flewWith its little heart on fire,Lighted on the crippled lyre.

All was lost, then! No! a cricket

(What "cicada"? Pooh!)

—Some mad thing that left its thicket

For mere love of music—flew

With its little heart on fire,

Lighted on the crippled lyre.

So that when (Ah, joy!) our singerFor his truant stringFeels with disconcerted finger,What does cricket else but flingFiery heart forth, sound the noteWanted by the throbbing throat?

So that when (Ah, joy!) our singer

For his truant string

Feels with disconcerted finger,

What does cricket else but fling

Fiery heart forth, sound the note

Wanted by the throbbing throat?

Ay and, ever to the ending,Cricket chirps at need,Executes the hand's intending,Promptly, perfectly,—indeedSaves the singer from defeatWith her chirrup low and sweet.

Ay and, ever to the ending,

Cricket chirps at need,

Executes the hand's intending,

Promptly, perfectly,—indeed

Saves the singer from defeat

With her chirrup low and sweet.

Till, at ending, all the judgesCry with one assent"Take the prize—a prize who grudgesSuch a voice and instrument?Why, we took your lyre for harp,So it shrilled us forth F sharp!"

Till, at ending, all the judges

Cry with one assent

"Take the prize—a prize who grudges

Such a voice and instrument?

Why, we took your lyre for harp,

So it shrilled us forth F sharp!"

Did the conqueror spurn the creature,Once its service done?That's no such uncommon featureIn the case when Music's sonFinds his Lotte's power too spentFor aiding soul-development.

Did the conqueror spurn the creature,

Once its service done?

That's no such uncommon feature

In the case when Music's son

Finds his Lotte's power too spent

For aiding soul-development.

No! This other, on returningHomeward, prize in hand,Satisfied his bosom's yearning:(Sir, I hope you understand!)—Said "Some record there must beOf this cricket's help to me!"

No! This other, on returning

Homeward, prize in hand,

Satisfied his bosom's yearning:

(Sir, I hope you understand!)

—Said "Some record there must be

Of this cricket's help to me!"

So, he made himself a statue:Marble stood, life-size;On the lyre, he pointed at you,Perched his partner in the prize;Never more apart you foundHer, he throned, from him, she crowned.

So, he made himself a statue:

Marble stood, life-size;

On the lyre, he pointed at you,

Perched his partner in the prize;

Never more apart you found

Her, he throned, from him, she crowned.

That 's the tale: its application?Somebody I knowHopes one day for reputationThrough his poetry that 's—Oh,All so learned and so wiseAnd deserving of a prize!

That 's the tale: its application?

Somebody I know

Hopes one day for reputation

Through his poetry that 's—Oh,

All so learned and so wise

And deserving of a prize!

If he gains one, will some ticket,When his statue 's built,Tell the gazer "'T was a cricketHelped my crippled lyre, whose liltSweet and low, when strength usurpedSoftness' place i' the scale, she chirped?

If he gains one, will some ticket,

When his statue 's built,

Tell the gazer "'T was a cricket

Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt

Sweet and low, when strength usurped

Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped?

"For as victory was nighest,While I sang and played,—With my lyre at lowest, highest,Right alike,—one string that made'Love' sound soft was snapt in twain,Never to be heard again,—

"For as victory was nighest,

While I sang and played,—

With my lyre at lowest, highest,

Right alike,—one string that made

'Love' sound soft was snapt in twain,

Never to be heard again,—

"Had not a kind cricket fluttered,Perched upon the placeVacant left, and duly uttered'Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the bassAsked the treble to atoneFor its somewhat sombre drone."

"Had not a kind cricket fluttered,

Perched upon the place

Vacant left, and duly uttered

'Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the bass

Asked the treble to atone

For its somewhat sombre drone."

But you don't know music! WhereforeKeep on casting pearlsTo a—poet? All I care forIs—to tell him that a girl's"Love" comes aptly in when gruffGrows his singing. (There, enough!)

But you don't know music! Wherefore

Keep on casting pearls

To a—poet? All I care for

Is—to tell him that a girl's

"Love" comes aptly in when gruff

Grows his singing. (There, enough!)

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