The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Heptalogia

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe HeptalogiaThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The HeptalogiaAuthor: Algernon Charles SwinburneRelease date: April 19, 2006 [eBook #18210]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Paul Murray, Diane Monico, and the ProjectGutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HEPTALOGIA ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The HeptalogiaAuthor: Algernon Charles SwinburneRelease date: April 19, 2006 [eBook #18210]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Paul Murray, Diane Monico, and the ProjectGutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net

Title: The Heptalogia

Author: Algernon Charles Swinburne

Release date: April 19, 2006 [eBook #18210]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Paul Murray, Diane Monico, and the ProjectGutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HEPTALOGIA ***

Taken from

I.Poems and Ballads(First Series).II.Songs before Sunrise, andSongs of Two Nations.III.Poems and Ballads(Second and Third Series), andSongs of The Springtides.IV.Tristram of Lyonesse, The Tale of Balen, Atalanta in Calydon, Erechtheus.V.Studies in Song, A Century of Roundels, Sonnets on English Dramatic Poets, The Heptalogia, Etc.VI.A Midsummer Holiday, Astrophel, A Channel Passage and Other Poems.

LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN

1917LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN

First printed (Chatto), 1904Reprinted 1904, '09, '10, '12(Heinemann), 1917London: William Heinemann, 1917

The Higher Pantheism in a Nutshell373John Jones's Wife375The Poet and the Woodlouse396The Person of the House400Last Words of a Seventh-Rate Poet406Sonnet for a Picture421Nephelidia422

One, who is not, we see: but one, whom we see not, is:Surely this is not that: but that is assuredly this.What, and wherefore, and whence? for under is over and under:If thunder could be without lightning, lightning could be without thunder.Doubt is faith in the main: but faith, on the whole, is doubt:We cannot believe by proof: but could we believe without?Why, and whither, and how? for barley and rye are not clover:Neither are straight lines curves: yet over is under and over.Two and two may be four: but four and four are not eight:Fate and God may be twain: but God is the same thing as fate.Ask a man what he thinks, and get from a man what he feels:God, once caught in the fact, shows you a fair pair of heels.Body and spirit are twins: God only knows which is which:The soul squats down in the flesh, like a tinker drunk in a ditch.More is the whole than a part: but half is more than the whole:Clearly, the soul is the body: but is not the body the soul?One and two are not one: but one and nothing is two:Truth can hardly be false, if falsehood cannot be true.Once the mastodon was: pterodactyls were common as cocks:Then the mammoth was God: now is He a prize ox.Parallels all things are: yet many of these are askew:You are certainly I: but certainly I am not you.Springs the rock from the plain, shoots the stream from the rock:Cocks exist for the hen: but hens exist for the cock.God, whom we see not, is: and God, who is not, we see:Fiddle, we know, is diddle: and diddle, we take it, is dee.

One, who is not, we see: but one, whom we see not, is:Surely this is not that: but that is assuredly this.

What, and wherefore, and whence? for under is over and under:If thunder could be without lightning, lightning could be without thunder.

Doubt is faith in the main: but faith, on the whole, is doubt:We cannot believe by proof: but could we believe without?

Why, and whither, and how? for barley and rye are not clover:Neither are straight lines curves: yet over is under and over.

Two and two may be four: but four and four are not eight:Fate and God may be twain: but God is the same thing as fate.

Ask a man what he thinks, and get from a man what he feels:God, once caught in the fact, shows you a fair pair of heels.

Body and spirit are twins: God only knows which is which:The soul squats down in the flesh, like a tinker drunk in a ditch.

More is the whole than a part: but half is more than the whole:Clearly, the soul is the body: but is not the body the soul?

One and two are not one: but one and nothing is two:Truth can hardly be false, if falsehood cannot be true.

Once the mastodon was: pterodactyls were common as cocks:Then the mammoth was God: now is He a prize ox.

Parallels all things are: yet many of these are askew:You are certainly I: but certainly I am not you.

Springs the rock from the plain, shoots the stream from the rock:Cocks exist for the hen: but hens exist for the cock.

God, whom we see not, is: and God, who is not, we see:Fiddle, we know, is diddle: and diddle, we take it, is dee.

IAT THE PIANOILove me and leave me; what love bids retrieve me? can June's fist grasp May?Leave me and love me; hopes eyed once above me like spring's sprouts decay;Fall as the snow falls, when summer leaves grow false—cards packed for storm's play!IINay, say Decay's self be but last May's elf, wing shifted, eye sheathed—Changeling in April's crib rocked, who lets 'scape rills locked fast since frost breathed—Skin cast (think!) adder-like, now bloom bursts bladder-like,—bloom frost bequeathed?IIIAh, how can fear sit and hear as love hears it grief's heart's cracked grate's screech?Chance lets the gate sway that opens on hate's way and shews on shame's beachCrouched like an imp sly change watch sweet love's shrimps lie, a toothful in each.IVTime feels his tooth slip on husks wet from Truth's lip, which drops them and grins—Shells where no throb stirs of life left in lobsters since joy thrilled their fins—Hues of the prawn's tail or comb that makes dawn stale, so red for our sins!VYears blind and deaf use the soul's joys as refuse, heart's peace as manure,Reared whence, next June's rose shall bloom where our moons rose last year, just as pure:Moons' ends match roses' ends: men by beasts' noses' ends mete sin's stink's cure.VILeaves love last year smelt now feel dead love's tears melt—flies caught in time's mesh!Salt are the dews in which new time breeds new sin, brews blood and stews flesh;Next year may see dead more germs than this weeded and reared them afresh.VIIOld times left perish, there's new time to cherish; life just shifts its tune;As, when the day dies, earth, half afraid, eyes the growth of the moon;Love me and save me, take me or waive me; death takes one so soon!

AT THE PIANO

Love me and leave me; what love bids retrieve me? can June's fist grasp May?Leave me and love me; hopes eyed once above me like spring's sprouts decay;Fall as the snow falls, when summer leaves grow false—cards packed for storm's play!

Nay, say Decay's self be but last May's elf, wing shifted, eye sheathed—Changeling in April's crib rocked, who lets 'scape rills locked fast since frost breathed—Skin cast (think!) adder-like, now bloom bursts bladder-like,—bloom frost bequeathed?

III

Ah, how can fear sit and hear as love hears it grief's heart's cracked grate's screech?Chance lets the gate sway that opens on hate's way and shews on shame's beachCrouched like an imp sly change watch sweet love's shrimps lie, a toothful in each.

Time feels his tooth slip on husks wet from Truth's lip, which drops them and grins—Shells where no throb stirs of life left in lobsters since joy thrilled their fins—Hues of the prawn's tail or comb that makes dawn stale, so red for our sins!

Years blind and deaf use the soul's joys as refuse, heart's peace as manure,Reared whence, next June's rose shall bloom where our moons rose last year, just as pure:Moons' ends match roses' ends: men by beasts' noses' ends mete sin's stink's cure.

Leaves love last year smelt now feel dead love's tears melt—flies caught in time's mesh!Salt are the dews in which new time breeds new sin, brews blood and stews flesh;Next year may see dead more germs than this weeded and reared them afresh.

VII

Old times left perish, there's new time to cherish; life just shifts its tune;As, when the day dies, earth, half afraid, eyes the growth of the moon;Love me and save me, take me or waive me; death takes one so soon!

IIBY THE CLIFFIIs it daytime (guess),You that feed my soulTo excessWith that light in those eyesAnd those curls drawn like a scrollIn that round grave guise?No or yes?IIOh, the end, I'd say!Such a foolish thing(Pure girls' play!)As a mere mute heart,Was it worth a kiss, a ring,This? for two must part—Not to-day.IIILook, the whole sand crawls,Hums, a heaving hive,Scrapes and scrawls—Such a buzz and burst!Here just one thing's not alive,One that was at first—But life palls.IVYes, my heart, I know,Just my heart's stone dead—Yes, just so.Sick with heat, those wormsDrop down scorched and overfed—No more need of germs!Let them go.VYes, but you now, look,You, the rouged stage femaleWith a crook,Chalked Arcadian sham,You that made my soul's sleep's dream ail—Your soul fit to damn?Shut the book.

BY THE CLIFF

Is it daytime (guess),You that feed my soulTo excessWith that light in those eyesAnd those curls drawn like a scrollIn that round grave guise?No or yes?

Oh, the end, I'd say!Such a foolish thing(Pure girls' play!)As a mere mute heart,Was it worth a kiss, a ring,This? for two must part—Not to-day.

III

Look, the whole sand crawls,Hums, a heaving hive,Scrapes and scrawls—Such a buzz and burst!Here just one thing's not alive,One that was at first—But life palls.

Yes, my heart, I know,Just my heart's stone dead—Yes, just so.Sick with heat, those wormsDrop down scorched and overfed—No more need of germs!Let them go.

Yes, but you now, look,You, the rouged stage femaleWith a crook,Chalked Arcadian sham,You that made my soul's sleep's dream ail—Your soul fit to damn?Shut the book.

IIION THE SANDSIThere was nothing at all in the case (conceive)But love; being love, it was not (understand)Such a thing as the years let fall (believe)Like the rope's coil dropt from a fisherman's handWhen the boat's hauled up—"by your leave!"IISo—well! How that crab writhes—leg after legDrawn, as a worm draws ring upon ringGradually, not gladly! Chicken or egg,Is it more than the ransom (say) of a king(Take my meaning at least) that I beg?IIINot so! You were ready to learn, I think,What the world said! "He loves you too well (suppose)For such leanings! These poets, their love's mere ink—Like a flower, their flame flashes—a rosebud, blows—Then it all drops down at a wink!IV"Ah, the instance! A curl of a blossomless vineThe vinedresser passing it sickens to seeAnd mutters 'Much hope (under God) of His wineFrom the branch and the bark of a barren treeSpring reared not, and winter lets pine—V"'His wine that should glorify (saith He) the cupThat a man beholding (not tasting) might say"Pour out life at a draught, drain it dry, drink it up,Give this one thing, and huddle the rest away—Save the bitch, and be hanged to the pup!"VI"'Let it rot then!' which saying, he leaves it—we'll guess,Feels (if the sap move at all) thus much—Yearns, and would blossom, would quicken no less,Bud at an eye's glance, flower at a touch—'Die, perhaps, would you not, for her?'—'Yes!'VII"Note the hitch there! That's piteous—so much being done,(He'll think some day, your lover) so little to do!Such infinite days to wear out, once begun!Since the hand its glove holds, and the footsole its shoe—Overhead too there's always the sun!"VIIIOh, no doubt they had said so, your friends—been profuseOf good counsel, wise hints—"where the trap lurks, walk warily—Squeeze the fruit to the core ere you count on the juice!For the graft may fail, shift, wax, change colour, wane, vary, lie—"You were cautious, God knows—to what use?IXThis crab's wiser, it strikes me—no twist but implies life—Not a curl but's so fit you could find none fitter—For the brute from its brutehood looks up thus and eyes life—Stoop your soul down and listen, you'll hear it twitter,Laughing lightly,—my crab's life's the wise life!XThose who've read S. T. Coleridge remember how Sammy sighsTo his pensive (I think he says) Sara—"most soothing-sweet"—Crab's bulk's less (look!) than man's—yet (quoth Cancer) I am my size,And my bulk's girth contents me! Man's maw (see?) craves two things—wheatAnd flesh likewise—man's gluttonous—damn his eyes!XICrab's content with crab's provender: crab's love, if soothing,Is no sweeter than pincers are soft—and a new sickleCuts no sharper than crab's claws nip, keen as boar's toothing!Yet crab's love's no less fervent than bard's, if less musical—'Tis a new thing I'd lilt—but a true thing.XIIOld songs tell us, of all drinks for Englishmen fighting, ale'sOut and out best: salt water contents crab, it seems to me,Though pugnacious as sailors, and skilled to steer right in galesThat craze pilots, if slow to sing—"Sleep'st thou? thou dream'st o' me!"In such love-strains as mine—or a nightingale's.XIIIAh, now, look you—tail foremost, the beast sets seaward—The sea draws it, sand sucks it—he's wise, my crab!From the napkin out jumps his one talent—good steward,Just judge! So a man shirks the smile or the stab,And sets his sail duly to leeward!XIVTrust me? Hardly! I bid you not lean (remark)On my spirit, your spirit—my flesh, your flesh—Hold my hand, and tread safe through the horrible dark—Quench my soul as with sprinklings of snow, then refreshWith some blast of new bellows the spark!XVBy no means! This were easy (men tell me) to say—"Give her all, throw your chance up, fall back on her heart!"(Say my friends) "she must change! after night follows day—"No such fool! I am safe set in hell, for my part—So let heaven do the worst now he may!XVIWhat they bid me? Well, this, nothing more—"Tell her this—'You are mine, I yours, though the whole world fail—Though things are not, I know there is one thing which is—Though the oars break, there's hope for us yet—hoist the sail!Oh, your heart! what's the heart? but your kiss!'XVII"Then she breaks, she drops down, she lies flat at your feet—Take her then!" Well, I knew it—what fools are men!Take the bee by her horns, will your honey prove sweet?Sweet is grass—will you pasture your cows in a fen?Oh, if contraries could but once meet!XVIIILove you call it? Some twitch in the moon's face (observe),Wet blink of her eyelid, tear dropt about dewfall,Cheek flushed or obscured—does it make the sky swerve?Fetch the test, work the question to rags, bring to proof all—Find what souls want and bodies deserve!XIXAh, we know you! Your soul works to infinite ends,Frets, uses life up for death's sake, takes pains,Flings down love's self—"but you, bear me witness, my friends!Have I lost spring? count up (see) the winter's fresh gains!Is the shrub spoilt? the pine's hair impends!"XXWhat, you'd say—"Mark how God works! Years crowd, time wears thin,Earth keeps good yet, the sun goes on, stars hold their own,And you'll change, climb past sight of the world, shift your skin,Never heeding how life moans—'more flesh now, less bone!'For that cheek's worn waste outline (death's grin)XXI"Pleads with time still—'what good if I lose this? but see—'"(There's the crab gone!) "'I said, "Though earth sinks,"'" (you perceive?Ah, true, back there!) your soul now—"'"yet some vein might be(Could one find it alive in the heart's core's pulse, cleaveThrough the life-springs where "you" melts in "me")—XXII"'"Some true vein of the absolute soul, which survivesAll that flesh runs to waste through"—and lo, this fails!Here's death close on us! One life? a million of lives!Why choose one sail to watch of these infinite sails?Time's a tennis-play? thank you, no, fives!XXIII"'Stop life's ball then!' Such folly! melt earth down for that,Till the pure ore eludes you and leaves you raw scoriæ?Pish, the vein's wrong!" But you, friends—come, what were you atWhen God spat you out suddenly? what was the story HeCut short thus, the growth He laid flat?XXIVWait! the crab's twice alive, mark! Oh, worthy, your soul,Of strange ends, great results, novel labours! Take note,I reject this for one! (ay, now, straight to the hole!Safe in sand there—your skirts smooth out all as they float!)I, shirk drinking through flaws in the bowl?XXVOr suppose now that rock's cleft—grim, scored to the quick,As a man's face kept fighting all life through gets scored,Mossed and marked with grey purulent leprosies, sick,Flat and foul as man's life here (be swift with your sword—Cut the soul out, stuck fast where thorns prick!)XXVI—Say it let the rock's heart out, its meaning, the thingAll was made for, devised, ruled out gradually, planned—Ah, that sea-shell, perhaps—since it lies, such a ringOf pure colour, a cup full of sunbeams, to stand(Say, in Lent) at the priest's hand—(no king!)XXVIIBlame the cleft then? Praise rather! So—just a chance gone!Had you said—"Save the seed and secure souls in flower"—Ah, how time laughs, years palpitate, pro grapples con,Till one day you shrug shoulders—"Well, gone, the good hour!"Till one night—"Is God off now? or on?"

III

ON THE SANDS

There was nothing at all in the case (conceive)But love; being love, it was not (understand)Such a thing as the years let fall (believe)Like the rope's coil dropt from a fisherman's handWhen the boat's hauled up—"by your leave!"

So—well! How that crab writhes—leg after legDrawn, as a worm draws ring upon ringGradually, not gladly! Chicken or egg,Is it more than the ransom (say) of a king(Take my meaning at least) that I beg?

III

Not so! You were ready to learn, I think,What the world said! "He loves you too well (suppose)For such leanings! These poets, their love's mere ink—Like a flower, their flame flashes—a rosebud, blows—Then it all drops down at a wink!

"Ah, the instance! A curl of a blossomless vineThe vinedresser passing it sickens to seeAnd mutters 'Much hope (under God) of His wineFrom the branch and the bark of a barren treeSpring reared not, and winter lets pine—

"'His wine that should glorify (saith He) the cupThat a man beholding (not tasting) might say"Pour out life at a draught, drain it dry, drink it up,Give this one thing, and huddle the rest away—Save the bitch, and be hanged to the pup!"

"'Let it rot then!' which saying, he leaves it—we'll guess,Feels (if the sap move at all) thus much—Yearns, and would blossom, would quicken no less,Bud at an eye's glance, flower at a touch—'Die, perhaps, would you not, for her?'—'Yes!'

VII

"Note the hitch there! That's piteous—so much being done,(He'll think some day, your lover) so little to do!Such infinite days to wear out, once begun!Since the hand its glove holds, and the footsole its shoe—Overhead too there's always the sun!"

VIII

Oh, no doubt they had said so, your friends—been profuseOf good counsel, wise hints—"where the trap lurks, walk warily—Squeeze the fruit to the core ere you count on the juice!For the graft may fail, shift, wax, change colour, wane, vary, lie—"You were cautious, God knows—to what use?

This crab's wiser, it strikes me—no twist but implies life—Not a curl but's so fit you could find none fitter—For the brute from its brutehood looks up thus and eyes life—Stoop your soul down and listen, you'll hear it twitter,Laughing lightly,—my crab's life's the wise life!

Those who've read S. T. Coleridge remember how Sammy sighsTo his pensive (I think he says) Sara—"most soothing-sweet"—Crab's bulk's less (look!) than man's—yet (quoth Cancer) I am my size,And my bulk's girth contents me! Man's maw (see?) craves two things—wheatAnd flesh likewise—man's gluttonous—damn his eyes!

Crab's content with crab's provender: crab's love, if soothing,Is no sweeter than pincers are soft—and a new sickleCuts no sharper than crab's claws nip, keen as boar's toothing!Yet crab's love's no less fervent than bard's, if less musical—'Tis a new thing I'd lilt—but a true thing.

XII

Old songs tell us, of all drinks for Englishmen fighting, ale'sOut and out best: salt water contents crab, it seems to me,Though pugnacious as sailors, and skilled to steer right in galesThat craze pilots, if slow to sing—"Sleep'st thou? thou dream'st o' me!"In such love-strains as mine—or a nightingale's.

XIII

Ah, now, look you—tail foremost, the beast sets seaward—The sea draws it, sand sucks it—he's wise, my crab!From the napkin out jumps his one talent—good steward,Just judge! So a man shirks the smile or the stab,And sets his sail duly to leeward!

XIV

Trust me? Hardly! I bid you not lean (remark)On my spirit, your spirit—my flesh, your flesh—Hold my hand, and tread safe through the horrible dark—Quench my soul as with sprinklings of snow, then refreshWith some blast of new bellows the spark!

By no means! This were easy (men tell me) to say—"Give her all, throw your chance up, fall back on her heart!"(Say my friends) "she must change! after night follows day—"No such fool! I am safe set in hell, for my part—So let heaven do the worst now he may!

XVI

What they bid me? Well, this, nothing more—"Tell her this—'You are mine, I yours, though the whole world fail—Though things are not, I know there is one thing which is—Though the oars break, there's hope for us yet—hoist the sail!Oh, your heart! what's the heart? but your kiss!'

XVII

"Then she breaks, she drops down, she lies flat at your feet—Take her then!" Well, I knew it—what fools are men!Take the bee by her horns, will your honey prove sweet?Sweet is grass—will you pasture your cows in a fen?Oh, if contraries could but once meet!

XVIII

Love you call it? Some twitch in the moon's face (observe),Wet blink of her eyelid, tear dropt about dewfall,Cheek flushed or obscured—does it make the sky swerve?Fetch the test, work the question to rags, bring to proof all—Find what souls want and bodies deserve!

XIX

Ah, we know you! Your soul works to infinite ends,Frets, uses life up for death's sake, takes pains,Flings down love's self—"but you, bear me witness, my friends!Have I lost spring? count up (see) the winter's fresh gains!Is the shrub spoilt? the pine's hair impends!"

What, you'd say—"Mark how God works! Years crowd, time wears thin,Earth keeps good yet, the sun goes on, stars hold their own,And you'll change, climb past sight of the world, shift your skin,Never heeding how life moans—'more flesh now, less bone!'For that cheek's worn waste outline (death's grin)

XXI

"Pleads with time still—'what good if I lose this? but see—'"(There's the crab gone!) "'I said, "Though earth sinks,"'" (you perceive?Ah, true, back there!) your soul now—"'"yet some vein might be(Could one find it alive in the heart's core's pulse, cleaveThrough the life-springs where "you" melts in "me")—

XXII

"'"Some true vein of the absolute soul, which survivesAll that flesh runs to waste through"—and lo, this fails!Here's death close on us! One life? a million of lives!Why choose one sail to watch of these infinite sails?Time's a tennis-play? thank you, no, fives!

XXIII

"'Stop life's ball then!' Such folly! melt earth down for that,Till the pure ore eludes you and leaves you raw scoriæ?Pish, the vein's wrong!" But you, friends—come, what were you atWhen God spat you out suddenly? what was the story HeCut short thus, the growth He laid flat?

XXIV

Wait! the crab's twice alive, mark! Oh, worthy, your soul,Of strange ends, great results, novel labours! Take note,I reject this for one! (ay, now, straight to the hole!Safe in sand there—your skirts smooth out all as they float!)I, shirk drinking through flaws in the bowl?

XXV

Or suppose now that rock's cleft—grim, scored to the quick,As a man's face kept fighting all life through gets scored,Mossed and marked with grey purulent leprosies, sick,Flat and foul as man's life here (be swift with your sword—Cut the soul out, stuck fast where thorns prick!)

XXVI

—Say it let the rock's heart out, its meaning, the thingAll was made for, devised, ruled out gradually, planned—Ah, that sea-shell, perhaps—since it lies, such a ringOf pure colour, a cup full of sunbeams, to stand(Say, in Lent) at the priest's hand—(no king!)

XXVII

Blame the cleft then? Praise rather! So—just a chance gone!Had you said—"Save the seed and secure souls in flower"—Ah, how time laughs, years palpitate, pro grapples con,Till one day you shrug shoulders—"Well, gone, the good hour!"Till one night—"Is God off now? or on?"

IVUP THE SPOUTIHi! Just you drop that! Stop, I say!Shirk work, think slink off, twist friend's wrist?Where that spined sand's lined band's the bay—Lined blind with true sea's blue, as due—Promising—not to pay?IIFor the sea's debt leaves wet the sand;Burst worst fate's weights in one burst gun?A man's own yacht, blown—What? off land?Tack back, or veer round here, then—queer!Reef points, though—understand?IIII'm blest if I do. Sigh? be blowed!Love's doves make break life's ropes, eh? Tropes!Faith's brig, baulked, sides caulked, rides at road;Hope's gropes befogged, storm-dogged and bogged—Clogged, water-logged, her load!IVStowed, by Jove, right and tight, away!No show now how best plough sea's brow,Wrinkling—breeze quick, tease thick, ere day,Clear sheer wave's sheen of green, I mean,With twinkling wrinkles—eh?VSea sprinkles winkles, tinkles lightShells' bells—boy's joys that hap to snap!It's just sea's fun, breeze done, to spiteGod's rods that scourge her surge, I'd urge—Not proper, is it—quite?VISee, fore and aft, life's craft undone!Crank plank, split spritsail—mark, sea's lark!That grey cold sea's old sprees, begunWhen men lay dark i' the ark, no spark,All water—just God's fun!VIINot bright, at best, his jest to theseSeemed—screamed, shrieked, wreaked on kin for sin!When for mirth's yell earth's knell seemed pleaseSome dumb new grim great whim in himMade Jews take chalk for cheese.VIIICould God's rods bruise God's Jews? Their jowlsBobbed, sobbed, gaped, aped the plaice in face:None heard, 'tis odds, his—God's—folk's howls.Now, how must I apply, to tryThis hookiest-beaked of owls?IXWell, I suppose God knows—I don't.Time's crimes mark dark men's types, in stripesBroad as fen's lands men's hands were wontLeave grieve unploughed, though proud and loudWith birds' words—No! he won't!XOne never should think good impossible.Eh? say I'd hide this Jew's oil's cruse—His shop might hold bright gold, engrossibleBy spy—spring's air takes there no careTo wave the heath-flower's glossy bell!XIBut gold bells chime in time there, coined—Gold! Old Sphinx winks there—"Read my screed!"Doctrine Jews learn, use, burn for, joined(Through new craft's stealth) with health and wealth—At once all three purloined!XIII rose with dawn, to pawn, no doubt,(Miss this chance, glance untried aside?)John's shirt, my—no! Ay, so—the lout!Let yet the door gape, store on floorAnd not a soul about?XIIISuch men lay traps, perhaps—and I'mWeak—meek—mild—child of woe, you know!But theft, I doubt, my lout calls crime.Shrink? Think! Love's dawn in pawn—you spawnOf Jewry! Just in time!

UP THE SPOUT

Hi! Just you drop that! Stop, I say!Shirk work, think slink off, twist friend's wrist?Where that spined sand's lined band's the bay—Lined blind with true sea's blue, as due—Promising—not to pay?

For the sea's debt leaves wet the sand;Burst worst fate's weights in one burst gun?A man's own yacht, blown—What? off land?Tack back, or veer round here, then—queer!Reef points, though—understand?

III

I'm blest if I do. Sigh? be blowed!Love's doves make break life's ropes, eh? Tropes!Faith's brig, baulked, sides caulked, rides at road;Hope's gropes befogged, storm-dogged and bogged—Clogged, water-logged, her load!

Stowed, by Jove, right and tight, away!No show now how best plough sea's brow,Wrinkling—breeze quick, tease thick, ere day,Clear sheer wave's sheen of green, I mean,With twinkling wrinkles—eh?

Sea sprinkles winkles, tinkles lightShells' bells—boy's joys that hap to snap!It's just sea's fun, breeze done, to spiteGod's rods that scourge her surge, I'd urge—Not proper, is it—quite?

See, fore and aft, life's craft undone!Crank plank, split spritsail—mark, sea's lark!That grey cold sea's old sprees, begunWhen men lay dark i' the ark, no spark,All water—just God's fun!

VII

Not bright, at best, his jest to theseSeemed—screamed, shrieked, wreaked on kin for sin!When for mirth's yell earth's knell seemed pleaseSome dumb new grim great whim in himMade Jews take chalk for cheese.

VIII

Could God's rods bruise God's Jews? Their jowlsBobbed, sobbed, gaped, aped the plaice in face:None heard, 'tis odds, his—God's—folk's howls.Now, how must I apply, to tryThis hookiest-beaked of owls?

Well, I suppose God knows—I don't.Time's crimes mark dark men's types, in stripesBroad as fen's lands men's hands were wontLeave grieve unploughed, though proud and loudWith birds' words—No! he won't!

One never should think good impossible.Eh? say I'd hide this Jew's oil's cruse—His shop might hold bright gold, engrossibleBy spy—spring's air takes there no careTo wave the heath-flower's glossy bell!

But gold bells chime in time there, coined—Gold! Old Sphinx winks there—"Read my screed!"Doctrine Jews learn, use, burn for, joined(Through new craft's stealth) with health and wealth—At once all three purloined!

XII

I rose with dawn, to pawn, no doubt,(Miss this chance, glance untried aside?)John's shirt, my—no! Ay, so—the lout!Let yet the door gape, store on floorAnd not a soul about?

XIII

Such men lay traps, perhaps—and I'mWeak—meek—mild—child of woe, you know!But theft, I doubt, my lout calls crime.Shrink? Think! Love's dawn in pawn—you spawnOf Jewry! Just in time!

VOFF THE PIERIOne last glance at these sands and stones!Time goes past men, and lives to his liking,Steals, and ruins, and sometimes atones.Why should he be king, though, and why not I king?There now, that wind, like a swarm of sick drones!IIIs it heaven or mere earth (come!) that moves so and moans?Oh, I knew, when you loved me, my soul was in flowerage—Now the frost comes; from prime, though, I watched through to nones,Read love's litanies over—his age was not our age!No more flutes in this world for me now, dear! trombones.IIIAll that youth once denied and made mouths at, age owns.Facts put fangs out and bite us; life stings and grows viperous;And time's fugues are a hubbub of meaningless tones.Once we followed the piper; now why not the piper us?Love, grown grey, plays mere solos; we want antiphones.IVAnd we sharpen our wits up with passions for hones,Melt down loadstars for magnets, use women for whetstones,Learn to bear with dead calms by remembering cyclones,Snap strings short with sharp thumbnails, till silence begets tones,Burn our souls out, shift spirits, turn skins and change zones;VThen the heart, when all's done with, wakes, whimpers, intonesSome lost fragment of tune it thought sweet ere it grew sick;(Is it life that disclaims this, or death that disowns?)Mere dead metal, scrawled bars—ah, one touch, you make music!Love's worth saving, youth doubts, but experience depones.VIIn the darkness (right Dickens) of Tom-All-Alone'sOr the Morgue out in Paris, where tragedy centuplesLife's effects by Death's algebra, Shakespeare (Malone's)Might have said sleep was murdered—new scholiasts have sent you pillsTo purge text of him! Bread? give me—Scotticè—scones!VIIThink, what use, when youth's saddle galls bay's back or roan's,To seek chords on love's keys to strike, other than his chords?There's an error joy winks at and grief half condones,Or life's counterpoint grates the C major of discords—'Tis man's choice 'twixt sluts rose-crowned and queens age dethrones.VIIII for instance might groan as a bag-pipe groans,Give the flesh of my heart for sharp sorrows to flagellate,Grief might grind my cheeks down, age make sticks of my bones,(Though a queen drowned in tears must be worth more than Madge elate)[1]Rose might turn burdock, and pine-apples cones;IXMy skin might change to a pitiful crone's,My lips to a lizard's, my hair to weed,My features, in fact, to a series of loans;Thus much is conceded; now, you, concedeYou would hardly salute me by choice, John Jones?

OFF THE PIER

One last glance at these sands and stones!Time goes past men, and lives to his liking,Steals, and ruins, and sometimes atones.Why should he be king, though, and why not I king?There now, that wind, like a swarm of sick drones!

Is it heaven or mere earth (come!) that moves so and moans?Oh, I knew, when you loved me, my soul was in flowerage—Now the frost comes; from prime, though, I watched through to nones,Read love's litanies over—his age was not our age!No more flutes in this world for me now, dear! trombones.

III

All that youth once denied and made mouths at, age owns.Facts put fangs out and bite us; life stings and grows viperous;And time's fugues are a hubbub of meaningless tones.Once we followed the piper; now why not the piper us?Love, grown grey, plays mere solos; we want antiphones.

And we sharpen our wits up with passions for hones,Melt down loadstars for magnets, use women for whetstones,Learn to bear with dead calms by remembering cyclones,Snap strings short with sharp thumbnails, till silence begets tones,Burn our souls out, shift spirits, turn skins and change zones;

Then the heart, when all's done with, wakes, whimpers, intonesSome lost fragment of tune it thought sweet ere it grew sick;(Is it life that disclaims this, or death that disowns?)Mere dead metal, scrawled bars—ah, one touch, you make music!Love's worth saving, youth doubts, but experience depones.

In the darkness (right Dickens) of Tom-All-Alone'sOr the Morgue out in Paris, where tragedy centuplesLife's effects by Death's algebra, Shakespeare (Malone's)Might have said sleep was murdered—new scholiasts have sent you pillsTo purge text of him! Bread? give me—Scotticè—scones!

VII

Think, what use, when youth's saddle galls bay's back or roan's,To seek chords on love's keys to strike, other than his chords?There's an error joy winks at and grief half condones,Or life's counterpoint grates the C major of discords—'Tis man's choice 'twixt sluts rose-crowned and queens age dethrones.

VIII

I for instance might groan as a bag-pipe groans,Give the flesh of my heart for sharp sorrows to flagellate,Grief might grind my cheeks down, age make sticks of my bones,(Though a queen drowned in tears must be worth more than Madge elate)[1]Rose might turn burdock, and pine-apples cones;

My skin might change to a pitiful crone's,My lips to a lizard's, my hair to weed,My features, in fact, to a series of loans;Thus much is conceded; now, you, concedeYou would hardly salute me by choice, John Jones?

[1]First edition:—And my face bear his brand—mine, that once bore Love's badge elate!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE ACCOMPANIMENTS1. The Monthly Nurse2. The Caudle3. The SentencesTHE KID1. THE MONTHLY NURSEThe sickly airs had died of damp;Through huddling leaves the holy chimeFlagged; I, expecting Mrs. Gamp,Thought—"Will the woman come in time?"Upstairs I knew the matron bedHeld her whose name confirms all joyTo me; and tremblingly I said,"Ah! will it be a girl or boy?"And, soothed, my fluttering doubts beganTo sift the pleasantness of things;Developing the unshapen man,An eagle baffled of his wings;Considering, next, how fair the stateAnd large the license that sublimesA nineteenth-century female fate—Sweet cause that thralls my liberal rhymes!And Chastities and colder Shames,Decorums mute and marvellous,And fair Behaviour that reclaimsAll fancies grown erroneous,Moved round me musing, till my choiceFaltered. A female in a wigStood by me, and a drouthy voiceAnnounced her—Mrs. Betsy Prig.2. THE CAUDLESweet Love that sways the reeling years,The crown and chief of certitudes,For whose calm eyes and modest earsTime writes the rule and text of prudes—That, surpliced, stoops a nuptial head,Nor chooses to live blindly free,But, with all pulses quieted,Plays tunes of domesticity—That Love I sing of and have sungAnd mean to sing till Death yawn sheer,He rules the music of my tongue,Stills it or quickens, there or here.I say but this: as we went upI heard the Monthly give a sniffAnd "ifthe big dog makes the pup—"She murmured—then repeated "if!"The caudle on a slab was placed;She snuffed it, snorting loud and long;I fled—I would not stop to taste—And dreamed all night of things gone wrong.3. THE SENTENCESIAbortive Love is half a sin;But Love's abortions dearer farThan wheels without an axle-pinOr life without a married star.IIMy rules are hard to understandFor him whom sensual rules depress;A bandbox in a midwife's handMay hold a costlier bridal dress.III"I like her not; in fact I loathe;Bugs hath she brought from London beds."Friend! wouldst thou rather bear their growthOr have a baby with two heads?IDYL CCCLXVITHE KIDMy spirit, in the doorway's pause,Fluttered with fancies in my breast;Obsequious to all decent laws,I felt exceedingly distressed.I knew it rude to enter thereWith Mrs. V. in such a state;And, 'neath a magisterial air,Felt actually indelicate.I knew the nurse began to grin;I turned to greet my Love. Said she—"Confound your modesty, come in!—What shall we call the darling, V.?"(There are so many charming names!Girls'—Peg, Moll, Doll, Fan, Kate, Blanche, Bab:Boys'—Mahershahal-hashbaz, James,Luke, Nick, Dick, Mark, Aminadab.)Lo, as the acorn to the oak,As well-heads to the river's height,As to the chicken the moist yolk,As to high noon the day's first white—Such is the baby to the man.There, straddling one red arm and leg,Lay my last work, in length a span,Half hatched, and conscious of the egg.A creditable child, I hoped;And half a score of joys to beThrough sunny lengths of prospect slopedSmooth to the bland futurity.O, fate surpassing other dooms,O, hope above all wrecks of time!O, light that fills all vanquished glooms,O, silent song o'ermastering rhyme!I covered either little foot,I drew the strings about its waist;Pink as the unshell'd inner fruit,But barely decent, hardly chaste,Its nudity had startled me;But when the petticoats were on,"I know," I said; "its name shall bePaul Cyril Athanasius John.""Why," said my wife, "the child's a girl."My brain swooned, sick with failing sense;With all perception in a whirl,How could I tell the difference?"Nay," smiled the nurse, "the child's a boy."And all my soul was soothed to hearThat so it was: then startled JoyMocked Sorrow with a doubtful tear.And I was glad as one who seesFor sensual optics things unmeet:As purity makes passion freeze,So faith warns science off her beat.Blessed are they that have not seen,And yet, not seeing, have believed:To walk by faith, as preached the Dean,And not by sight, have I achieved.Let love, that does not look, believe;Let knowledge, that believes not, look:Truth pins her trust on falsehood's sleeve,While reason blunders by the book.Then Mrs. Prig addressed me thus;"Sir, if you'll be advised by me,You'll leave the blessed babe to us;It's my belief he wants his tea."

THE ACCOMPANIMENTS

1. The Monthly Nurse2. The Caudle3. The Sentences

THE KID

1. THE MONTHLY NURSE

The sickly airs had died of damp;Through huddling leaves the holy chimeFlagged; I, expecting Mrs. Gamp,Thought—"Will the woman come in time?"Upstairs I knew the matron bedHeld her whose name confirms all joyTo me; and tremblingly I said,"Ah! will it be a girl or boy?"And, soothed, my fluttering doubts beganTo sift the pleasantness of things;Developing the unshapen man,An eagle baffled of his wings;Considering, next, how fair the stateAnd large the license that sublimesA nineteenth-century female fate—Sweet cause that thralls my liberal rhymes!And Chastities and colder Shames,Decorums mute and marvellous,And fair Behaviour that reclaimsAll fancies grown erroneous,Moved round me musing, till my choiceFaltered. A female in a wigStood by me, and a drouthy voiceAnnounced her—Mrs. Betsy Prig.

2. THE CAUDLE

Sweet Love that sways the reeling years,The crown and chief of certitudes,For whose calm eyes and modest earsTime writes the rule and text of prudes—That, surpliced, stoops a nuptial head,Nor chooses to live blindly free,But, with all pulses quieted,Plays tunes of domesticity—That Love I sing of and have sungAnd mean to sing till Death yawn sheer,He rules the music of my tongue,Stills it or quickens, there or here.I say but this: as we went upI heard the Monthly give a sniffAnd "ifthe big dog makes the pup—"She murmured—then repeated "if!"The caudle on a slab was placed;She snuffed it, snorting loud and long;I fled—I would not stop to taste—And dreamed all night of things gone wrong.

3. THE SENTENCES

Abortive Love is half a sin;But Love's abortions dearer farThan wheels without an axle-pinOr life without a married star.

My rules are hard to understandFor him whom sensual rules depress;A bandbox in a midwife's handMay hold a costlier bridal dress.

III

"I like her not; in fact I loathe;Bugs hath she brought from London beds."Friend! wouldst thou rather bear their growthOr have a baby with two heads?

IDYL CCCLXVI

THE KID

My spirit, in the doorway's pause,Fluttered with fancies in my breast;Obsequious to all decent laws,I felt exceedingly distressed.I knew it rude to enter thereWith Mrs. V. in such a state;And, 'neath a magisterial air,Felt actually indelicate.I knew the nurse began to grin;I turned to greet my Love. Said she—"Confound your modesty, come in!—What shall we call the darling, V.?"(There are so many charming names!Girls'—Peg, Moll, Doll, Fan, Kate, Blanche, Bab:Boys'—Mahershahal-hashbaz, James,Luke, Nick, Dick, Mark, Aminadab.)

Lo, as the acorn to the oak,As well-heads to the river's height,As to the chicken the moist yolk,As to high noon the day's first white—Such is the baby to the man.There, straddling one red arm and leg,Lay my last work, in length a span,Half hatched, and conscious of the egg.A creditable child, I hoped;And half a score of joys to beThrough sunny lengths of prospect slopedSmooth to the bland futurity.O, fate surpassing other dooms,O, hope above all wrecks of time!O, light that fills all vanquished glooms,O, silent song o'ermastering rhyme!I covered either little foot,I drew the strings about its waist;Pink as the unshell'd inner fruit,But barely decent, hardly chaste,Its nudity had startled me;But when the petticoats were on,"I know," I said; "its name shall bePaul Cyril Athanasius John.""Why," said my wife, "the child's a girl."My brain swooned, sick with failing sense;With all perception in a whirl,How could I tell the difference?"Nay," smiled the nurse, "the child's a boy."And all my soul was soothed to hearThat so it was: then startled JoyMocked Sorrow with a doubtful tear.And I was glad as one who seesFor sensual optics things unmeet:As purity makes passion freeze,So faith warns science off her beat.Blessed are they that have not seen,And yet, not seeing, have believed:To walk by faith, as preached the Dean,And not by sight, have I achieved.Let love, that does not look, believe;Let knowledge, that believes not, look:Truth pins her trust on falsehood's sleeve,While reason blunders by the book.Then Mrs. Prig addressed me thus;"Sir, if you'll be advised by me,You'll leave the blessed babe to us;It's my belief he wants his tea."

Back to Index Next