THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES ■ii <* COLLECTED POEMS PREVIOUS ISSUES OLD-WORLD IDYLLS. Eleventh Thousand. AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE. Eighth Thousand. THE BALLAD OF BEAU BROCADE. Twelfth Thousand. PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. Seventh Thousand. THE STORY OF ROSIN A. lenth Thousand. •POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. 2 vols. " Three hundred .ind fifiy copies of this were printed as a strictly limited Edition for the English market. LONDON : KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TKUBNER &- CO. LTD. COLLECTED POEMS BY AUSTIN DOBSON WITH A PORTRAIT Majores majora sonent LONDON KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRUBNER & CO. Ltd PATERNOSTKR HOUSK, CHARING CROSS ROAD 1897 The rights 0/ translation and of reprotitiction arc reseriied Printed liy l'> m.lanivne, Hanson i5r> Co. At tlie Hallaiityne Press PREFACE This volume comprises all the verses written by me during the last thirty years which — in my opinion — seem worthy of preservation. Even with these it is possible that I have occasionally been more indulgent to a personal memory than attentive to a critical instinct. But I am fully conscious of the limitations of the result attained, and the motto on my title-page is sincere. Let me here complete it : — " w'lh't parva locuto Sujffic'it in vestras sape redire mantis " JA>g7o8n To you I ling, tvliom toivns immure, And bonds of toil holdfast and sure ; — • To you across iviiosc achinrr sicrlit Come -woodlands bathed in April light. And dreams of pastime premature. And you, S^id, tvJio still endure Some luound that onli/ Time can cure, — To you, in -watches of the night,— To you I sing ! But most to you -luith eyelids pure. Scarce ivitting yet nf love or lure; — To you, ivitli bird-like glances bright. Half-paused to speak, half-poised in fight ;- English Girl, divine, demure, To YOU I sing/ VU CONTENTS Old-Worli) Idylls : — A Dead Lelter A Gentleman of the Old Sclioul A Gentlewoman of the Old School The Ballad of " Beau Brocade " Une Marquise The Story of Rosina 3 9 14 19 29 34 Proverbs in Porcelain : — Prologue .... The Ballad a-la-Mode . The Metamorphosis The Song out of Season . The Cap that Fits . The Secrets of the Heart "Good-Night, Babette!" Epilogue . . . . 47 49 S3 56 59 63 67 71 Vignettes in Rhvme: — The Drama uf the Doctor's Window An Autumn Idyll A Garden Idyll Tu Quoque A Dialogue from I'lalo The Romaunt of the Rose Love in \\'iiiter Pot-1'ourri ix 75 83 90 94 97 99 lOI 102 Contents Vkjnkttes in Rhyme (conn'iiiicd):- Dorothy . Avice The Love-Letter The Misogynist A Virtuoso Laissez Faire . To Q. IL F. . To " Lydia Languish" A Cage d' Am our Cupid's Alley . The Idyll of the Carp The Sundial . \\\ Unfinished Song The Child- Musician The Cradle Before Sedan . The Forgotten Crave My Landlady . Before the Curtain . A Nightingale in Kensington Cardens Miscellaneous Pieces : — A Song of the Four Seasons . The Paradox of Time To a Greek Girl The Death of I'rocris The Prayer of the Swine to Circe A Case of Cameos . Love's Quest .... The Sick .Man and llie Birils . A Flower Song of Angiola A Song of Angiola in Heaven Andre Ic Chajielain The Dying of Tannc[;uy du Bois PACE 104 107 no i'3 116 119 121 124 127 130 134 140 143 146 147 148 •50 •51 •54 156 161 '63 16S 167 170 175 17S 179 182 185 189 '93 Contents Miscellaneous Pieces {continueci) : — Palomydes ..... 196 The Mosque of the Caliph 198 In the Belfry 203 Ars Victrix ...... 204 At the Sign of the Lyre :— The Ladies of St. James's 209 The Old Sedan Chair .... 212 To an Intrusive Butterfly 215 The Cure's Progress .... 217 The Masque of the Months 219 Two Sermons 222 "AuRevoir" 223 The Carver and the Caliph 230 ■^11 Molly Trefusis 235 At the Convent Gate . . 238 The Milkmaid 240 An Old Fish- Pond 242 An Eastern Apologue .... 245 To a Mi.ssal of the Thirteenth Century . 247 A Revolutionary Relic .... 249 A Madrigal ...... 254 A Song to the Lute .... 256 A Garden Song ..... 258 A Chapter of P'roissart .... 260 To the Mammoth -Tortoise 263 A Roman Round-Robin .... 265 Verses to Order ..... 267 A Legacy 269 "Little Blue-Ribbons" .... . 271 Lines to a Stupid Picture 273 A I'airy Tale ...... 275 To a Child • 277 xi Contents At the Sign of tiik Lyrk (ionthtucd) Household Arl The Distressed Poet Jocosa Lyra . My Piooks IThe Collector to his Library , The Book-Plate's Petition *The Water of Gold A Fancy from Fontenelle Don <)iiixole . A Broken Swonl *The Poet's Seat . The Lost Elixir 279 280 282 284 286 287 289 291 292 293 295 298 Memorial Verses : — A Dialogue (Alexander Pope) A Familiar Epistle (William Hogarth Henry Fielding .... fA Postscri|)t to " Retaliation " (Samue Johnson) ..... Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Charles George (Jordon . Victor Hugo ..... *Alfred, Lord Tennyson . 301 • 306 • 309 amuel • 313 . . 316 • 317 . . 318 • 319 Fakles of Literature an'd Art: The Poet and the Critics The Toyman . The Successful Author The Dilettant . The Two I'ainters . The Claims of the Muse The 'Sijuire at Vauxhall The Climacteric xii 323 325 327 330 332 334 337 341 Contents Tales in Rhyme : — *The Virgin with the Bells A Tale of Polypheme A Story from a Dictionary The Water-Cure *The Noble Patron 347 3SO 360 367 372 Vers de SociixE : — tA City Flower Incognita .... Dora versus Rose . Ad Rosam .... Outward Bound In the Royal Academy . The Last Despatch . " Premiers Amours " The Screen in the Lumber Room Daisy's Valentines . In Town .... A Sonnet in Dialogue Growing Gray 381 383 387 390 394 397 402 405 408 410 412 414 416 VARfA :- The Maltworm's Madrigal An April Pastoral . A New Song of the Spring Gardens A Love-Song .... Of his Mistress The Nameless Charm To Phidyle .... To his Book .... For a Cojjy of Ilerrick . *With a Volume of Verse *For the Avery " Knickerbocker " xiii 421 423 424 426 427 429 430 431 433 434 435 Contents Varia (continuecJ) : — To a Pastoral Poet . +To One who Bids me Sing . *" Sat est Scripsisse " Essays in Old French Forms: — Rose- Leaves {Triolets) . "Persicos Odi " ,, The Wanderer (Rnndel) . "Vitas Hinnuleo" ,, "On London Stones" (Rondeau) " Farewell, Renown ! " "More Poets Yet!" "With Pipe and Flute " To a June Rose To Daffodils On the Hurry of this 'J'ime " When Burbadge Played " *A Greeting tLeal Souvenir * After Watteau To Ethel " When Fitth Comes " " O F'ons Bandusice " xiv 437 438 439 Prolocuks and Epilogues: — Prologue and Envoi to Abbey's Edition of " She Sloops to Conquer " . . . . 445 *Prologue and Epilogue to Abbey's "Quiet Life" 451 tDedicalion of " The Story of Rosina " . . 453 tPrologue to " Eighteenth-Century Vignettes " ( Third Scries) 454 tF'pilugue to " F'ighteenth-Century Vignettes " (Second Series) 457 461 463 464 465 466 467 46cS 469 470 471 472 473 474 475 476 477 478 479 Contents Essays in Old French Forms {continued): " Extremuni T.inain " (A'ondeau) . "Vixi Puellis" „ " When I saw you last, Rose " ( Villanelle) On a Nankin Plate ,, For a Copy of Theocritus ,, "Tu nc Quaesieiis" ,, The Prodigals {Ballade: Irregular) On a Fan {Ballade) A Ballad to Queen Elizabeth {Ballade) A Ballad of Heroes ,, The Ballad of the Thrush The Ballad of the Barmecide „ The Ballad of Imitation „ The Ballad of Prose and Rhyme „ " O Navis '■ The Dance of Death ( Clianl Royal) Notes 480 481 482 483 484 485 4S6 488 490 492 494 496 498 500 502 504 511 ,*, Those pieces marked with a star [*] were first reprinted or restored in Poems on Several Occasions, 2 vols., 1895; those marked with a dagger [t], with one exception, have not previously appeared in a volume of collected verses. XV OLD-WORLD IDYLLS A DEAD LETTER " A caur hlcsse — I'ombrc it Ic silfiicf." H. DE B/U.ZAC. T DREW it from its china tomb ; — ^ It came out feebly scented With some thin ghost of past perfume That dust and days had lent it. An old, old letter, — folded still ! To read with due composure, I sought the sun-lit window-sill, Above the gray enclosure, That glimmering in the sultry haze, Faint-flowered, dimly shaded. Slumbered like Goldsmith's Madam Blaize, Bedizened and brocaded. A queer old place ! You'd surely say Some tea-board garden-maker Had planned it in Dutch William's day To please some florist Quaker, 3 Old- World Idylls So trim it was. The yew-trees still, With pious care perverted, Grew in the same grim shapes ; and still The lipless dolphin spurted ; Still in his wonted state abode 'I'he broken-nosed Apollo ; And still the cypress-arbour showed The same umbrageous hollow. Only, — as fresh young Beauty gleams From coffee-coloured laces, — So peeped from its old-fashioned dreams The fresher modern traces ; For idle mallet, hoop, and ball Upon the lawn were lying ; A magazine, a tumbled shawl, Round which the swifts were flying ; And, tossed beside the Guelder rose, A heap of rainbow knitting, Where, blinking in her pleased repose, A Persian cat was sitting. " A place to love in, — live,— for aye, If we too, like Tithonus, Could find some God to stretch the gray. Scant life the Fates have thrown us ; 4 A Dead Letter " But now by steam we run our race, With buttoned heart and pocket ; Our Love's a gilded, surplus grace, — Just like an empty locket ! " 'The time is out of joint.' Who will May strive to make it better ; For me, this warm old window-sill, And this old dusty letter." II " Dear John (the letter ran), it can't, can't be. For Father's gone to Charley Fair with Sam, And Mother's storing Apples,- — Prue and Me Up to our Elbows making Damson Jam : But we shall meet before a Week is gone, — ' 'Tis a long Lane that has no turning,' /o///? ! " Only till Sunday next, and then you'll wait Behind the White-Thorn, by the broken Stile — ^^''e can go round and catch them at the Gate, All to Ourselves, for nearly one long Mile ; Dear Prue won't look, and Father he'll go on, And Sam's two Eyes are all for Cissy, John ! "John, she's so smart, — ^with every Ribbon new, Flame-coloured Sack, and Crimson Padesoy : As proud as proud ; and has the Vapours too. Just like My Lady; — calls poor Sam a Boy, And vows no Sweet-heart's worth the Thinking-on Till he's past 'I'hirty ... I know better, John ! 5 Old-World Idylls " My Dear, I don't think that I thought of much Before we knew each other, I and you ; And now, why, Jn/ni, your least, least Finger-touch, Gives me enough to think a Summer through. See, for I send you Something ! There, 'tis gone ! Look in this corner, — mind you fmd it, Jn/iii / " III This was the matter of the note, — A long-forgot de[)osit, Dropped in an Indian dragon's throat. Deep in a fragrant closet. Piled with a dapper Dresden world, — Beaux, beauties, prayers, and poses, — Bonzes witli squat legs undercurled, And great jars filled wilh roses. Ah, heart that wrote ! Ah, lips that kissed You had no thought or presage Into what keeping you dismissed Vour simple old-world message! A reverent one. 'lliough we to-day Distrust 1 reliefs and powers, The artless, ageless things you say Are fresh as May's own flowers, 6 A Dead Letter Starring some pure primeval spring, Ere Gold had grown despotic, — Ere Life was yet a selfish thing. Or Love a mere exotic ! I need not search too much to find Whose lot it was to send it, That feel upon me yet the kind, Soft hand of her who penned it ; And see, through two score years of smoke, In by-gone, quaint apparel, Shine from yon time-black Norway oak The face of Patience Caryl, — The pale, smooth forehead, silver-tre; sed ; The gray gown, primly flowered ; The spotless, stately coif whose crest Like Hector's horse-plume towered ; And still the sweet half-solemn look Where some past thought was clinging, As when one shuts a serious book To hear the thrushes singing. I kneel to you ! Of those you were, Whose kind old Ixjarts grow mellow,- Whose fair old faces grow more fair As Point and Flanders yellow ; 7 Old- World Idylls Whom some old store of garnered grief, Their placid temples shading, Crowns like a wreath of autumn leaf With tender tints of fading. Peace to your soul ! You died unwed — Despite this loving letter. And what of John ? The less that's said Of John, 1 think, the better. A Gentleman of the Old School A GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL T_T E lived in that past Georgian day, J- -*- When men were less inclined to say That " Time is Gold," and overlay With toil their pleasure; He held some land, and dwelt thereon, — Where, I forget, — the house is gone ; His Christian name, I think, was John, — His surname. Leisure. Reynolds has painted him, — a face Filled with a fine, old-fashioned grace. Fresh-coloured, frnnk, with ne'er a trace Of trouble shaded ; The eyes are blue, the hair is drest In plainest way, — one hand is prest Deep in a flapped canary vest, ^Vith buds brocaded. He wears a brown old Brunswick coat. With silver ])uttons, — round his throat, A soft cravat ; — in all you note An elder fishion, — 9 Old-World Idylls A strangeness, which, to us who shine In shapely hats, — whose coats combine All harmonies of hue and line, — Inspires compassion. He lived so long ago, you see ! Men were untravelled then, but we, Like Ariel, post o'er land and sea With careless parting ; He found it quite enough for him To smoke his pipe in " garden trim," And watcli, about the fish tank's brim. The swallows darting. ■»• He liked the well-wheel's creaking tongue,- He liked the thrush that stopped and sung,- He liked the drone of flies among His netted peaches ; He liked to watch the sunlight fall Athwart his ivied orchard wall ; Or pause to catch the cuckoo's call Beyond the beeches. His were the times of Paint and Patch, And yet no Ranelagh could match The sober doves that round his thatch S|)read tails and sidled ; Pie liked their ruffling, puffed content, — For him their drowsy wheelings meant More tlian a Mall of Beaux that bent, Or Belles that bridled. ID A Gentleman of the Old School Not that, in truth, when life iDegan, He shunned the flutter of the fan ; He too had maybe " pinked his man " In Beauty's quarrel ; But now his " fervent youth " had flown Where lost things go ; and he was grown As staid and slow-paced as his own Old hunter, Sorrel. Yet still he loved the chase, and held That no composer's score excelled The merry horn, when Sweetlip swelled Its jovial riot ; But most his measured words of praise Caressed the angler's easy ways, — His idly meditative days, — His rustic diet. Not that his " meditating " rose Beyond a sunny summer doze; He never trouJjled his repose With fruitless prying; But held, as law for high and low. What Crod withholds no man can know, And smiled away inquiry so, AVithout replying. We read — alas, how much we read ! The jumbled strifes of creed and creed \Vith endless controversies feed Our groaning tables; I I Old- World Idylls His books — and they sufficed liim -were Cotton's "Montaigne," "The (Jrave" of Blair, A " Walton " — much the worse for wear — And " ^sop's Fables." One more, — "The Bible." Not that he Had searched its page as deep as we ; No sophistries could make him see Its slender credit ; It may be that he could not count The sires and sons to Jesse's fount, — He liked the " Sermon on the Mount," — And more, he read it. Once he had loved, but failed to wed, A red-cheeked lass who long was dead : His ways were far too slow, he sjid, To quite forget her; And still wlien time had turned him gray, The earliest hawthorn buds in May Would find his lingering feet astray. Where first he met her. " In Ccelo Oiiies " heads the stone On Leisure's grave, — now little known, A tangle of wild- rose has grown So tliick across it ; Tlie " Benefactions " still declare He left the clerk an elbow-chair, And "12 Pence Yearly to Prepare A Christmas Posset." 12 A Gentleman of the Old School Lie softly, Leisure ! Doubtless you AVith too serene a conscience drew Your easy breath, and slumbered through The gravest issue ; But we, to whom our age allows Scarce space to wipe our weary brows, Look down upon your narrow house. Old friend, and miss you ! Old-World Idylls A GENTLEWOMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL SH L lived in Georgian era too. Most women then, if bards be true, Succumbed to Routs and Girds, or grew Devout and acid. But hers was neither fate. She came Of good west-country folk, whose fame Has faded now. For us her name Is " Madam Placid." Patience or Prudence, — what you will, Some prefix faintly fragrant still As those old musky scents that fill Our grandams' pillows ; And for her youthful portrait take Some long-waist child uf Mudson's make, Stiffiy at ease beside a lake With swans and willows. 1 keep her later semblance placed Beside my desk, — 'tis lawned and laced, In shadowy sanguine stipple traced By Bartolozzi ; '4 A Gentlewoman of the Old School A placid face, in which surprise Is seldom seen, but yet there lies Some vestige of the laughing eyes Of arcli Piozzi. For her e'en Time grew debonair. He, finding cheeks unclaimed of care, With late-delayed faint roses there. And lingering dimples, Had spared to touch the fair old face, And only kissed with Vauxhall grace The soft white hand that stroked her lace. Or smoothed her wimples. So left her beautiful. Her age Was comely as her youth was sage, And yet she once had been the rage ; — It hath been hinted. Indeed, affirmed by one or two, Some spark at Bath (as sparks will do) Inscribed a song to " l.ovely Prue," Which Url)an printed. I know she thought ; I know she felt ; Pel chance could sum, I douljt she spelt: She knew as little of the Celt As of the Saxon ; I know she played and sang, for yet We keep the tumble-down spinet To which she quavered l)allads set I'y Arne or Jackson. ^5 Old- World Idylls Her tastes were not refined as ours ; She liked plain food and homely flowers, Refused to paint, kept early hours. Went clad demurely ; Her art was sampler-work design, Fireworks for her were " vastly fine," Her luxury was elder-wine, — She loved that " purely." She was renowned, traditions say. For June conserves, for curds and whey, For finest tea (she called it " tay"). And ratafia ; She knew, for sprains, what bands to choose. Could tell the sovereign wash to use For freckles, and was learned in brews As erst Medea. Yet studied little. She would read, On Sundays, " Pearson on the Creed," Though, as I think, she could not heed His text profoundly ; Seeing she chose for her retreat The warm west-looking window- seat, Where, if you chanced to raise your feet, You slumbered soundly. This, 'twixt ourselves. The dear old dame, In truth, was not so much to l;lame; The excellent divine I name Is scarcely stirring; 1 6 A Gentlewoman of the Old School Her plain-song piety preferred Pure life to precept. If she erred, She knew her faults. Her softest word Was for the erring. If she had loved, or if she kept Some ancient memory green, or wept Over the shoulder-knot that slept Within her cuff-box, I know not. Only this I know. At sixty-five she'd still her beau, A lean French exile, lame and slow. With monstrous snuff-box. Younger than she, well-born and bred. She'd found him in St. Giles', half dead Of teaching French for nightly bed And daily dinners ; Starving, in fact, 'twixt want and pride ; And so, henceforth, you always spied His rusty " pigeon-wings " beside Her Mechlin pinners. He worshipped her, you may suppose. She gained him pupils, gave him clothes. Delighted in his dry bon-mots And cackling laughter ; And when, at last, the long duet Of conversation and picquet Ceased with her death, of sheer regret He died soon after. 17 B Old-World Idylls Dear Madam Placid ! Others knew Your worth as well as he, and threw Their flowers upon your coffin too, I take for granted. Their loves are lost ; but still we see Your kind and gracious memory Bloom yearly with the almond tree The Frenchman planted. 18 The Ballad of "Beau Brocade" THE BALLAD OF "BEAU BROCADE" " Hark ! I hear the sound of coaches ! " — Beggar's Opera. SEVENTEEN hundred and thirty-nine :— That was the date of this tale of mine. First great George was buried and gone ; George the Second was plodding on. London then, as the " Guides " aver, Shared its glories with Westminster; And people of rank, to correct their " tone," Went out of town to Marybone. Those were the days of the War with Spain, Porto-Bello would soon be ta'en ; Whitefield preached to the colliers grim. Bishops in lawn sleeves preached at him ; Walpolk talked of " a man and his price " ; Nobody's virtue was over-nice : — 19 Old-World Idylls Those, in fine, were the brave days when Coaches were stopped by . . Highwaymen ! And of all the knights of the gentle trade Nobody bolder than " Beau Brocade." This they knew on the whole way down ; Best, — maybe, — -at the " Oak and Crovon." (For timorous cits on their pilgrimage Would " club " for a " Guard " to ride the stage ; And the Guard that rode on more than one Was the Host of this hostel's sister's son.) Open we here on a March day fine, Under the oak with the hanging sign. There was Barber Dick with his basin by ; Cobbler Joe with the patch on his eye; Portly product of Beef and Beer, John the host, he was standing near. Straining and creaking, with wheels awry, Lumbering came the " Plyvmttth Fly" ; — Lumbering up from Bagshot Heoth, Guard in the basket armed to the teeth ; Passengers heavily armed inside ; Not the less surely the coach had been tried ! 20 The Ballad of "Beau Brocade" Tried ! — but a couple of miles away, By a well-dressed man ! — in the open day ! Tried successfully, never a doubt, — Pockets of passengers all turned out ! Cloak-bags rifled, and cushions ripped, — Even an Ensign's wallet stripped ! Even a Methodist hosier's wife Offered the choice of her Money or Life ! Highwayman's manners no less polite, Hoped that their coppers (returned) were right ; — Sorry to find the company poor, Hoped next time they'd travel with more ; — Plucked them all at his ease, in short : — Such was the " Plymouth Fly's " report. Sympathy ! horror ! and wonderment ! " Catch the Villain ! " (But Nobody went.) Hosier's wife led into the Bar; (That's where the best strong waters are !) Followed the tale of the hundrcd-and-one Things that Somebody ought to have done. Ensign (of Bragg's) made a terrible clangour : dra 21 But fur the Ladies had drawn his hanger ! Old- World Idylls Robber, of course, was " Beau Brocade " ; Out-spoke ])oLi,Y the Chambermaid. Devonshire Dolly, plump and red, Spoke from the gallery overhead ; — Spoke it out boldly, staring hard : — " Why didn't you shoot then, (iEORGE the Guard ? " Spoke it out bolder, seeing him mute : — " George the Guard, why didn't you shoot ? " Portly John grew pale and red, (John was afraid of her, people said ;) Gasped that " Dolly was surely cracked," (John was afraid of her— that's a fact !) George the Guard grew red and pale, Slowly finished his cjuart of ale : — " Shoot ? Why — Rabbit him ! — didn't he shoot?" Muttered — " The Baggage was far too 'cute ! " " Shoot ? Why he'd flashed the pan in his eye ! " Muttered — " She'd pay for it by and by ! " Further than this made no rei)ly. Nor could a further reply be made. For George was in league with " Beau Brocade "! And John the Host, in his wakefuUest state, Was not — on the whole — immaculate. 22 The Ballad of "Beau Brocade 55 But nobody's virtue was over-nice When Walpole talked of "a man and his price"; And wherever Purity found abode, 'Twas certainly not on a posting road. II "Forty" followed to "Thirty-nine." Glorious days of the Hanover line ! Princes were born, and drums were banged ; Now and then batches of Plighwaymen hanged. " Glorious news ! " — from the Spanish Main; Porto-Bello at last was ta'en. " Glorious news ! " — for the liquor trade ; Nobody dreamed of " Beau Brocade." People were thinking of Spanish Croivns; Money was coming from seaport towns ! Nobody dreamed of " Beau Brocade," (Only Dolly the Chambermaid !) Blessings on Vernon ! Fill up the cans; Money was coming in " Flys " and " VansJ" Possibly John the Host had heard ; Also, certainly, George the Guard. 23 Old-World Idylls And Dolly had possibly tidings, too, That made her rise from her bed anev/, Plump as ever, but stern of eye, With a fixed intention to warn the " Fly." Lingering only at John his door, Just to make sure of a jerky snore; Saddling the gray mare, Dinupling Star; Fetching the pistol out of the bar ; (The old horse-pistol that, they say, Came from the battle of Malplaquci ;) Loading with powder that maids would use, Even in " Forty," to clear the flues ; And a couple of silver buttons, the Squire Gave her, away in Devonshire. These she wadded — for want of better — With the B — sh — p of L — nd— n's "Pastoral Letter " ; Looked to the flint, and hung the whole, Ready to use, at her pocket-hole. Thus equipped and accoutred, Dolly Clattered away to '•^Exciseman's Folly" •, — Such was the name of a ruined abode. Just on the edge of the London road. The Ballad of "Beau Brocade" Thence she thouglit she might safely try, As soon as she saw it, to warn the " Fly." But, as chance fell out, her rein she drew. As the Beau came cantering into the view. By the light of the moon she could see him drest In his famous gold-sprigged tambour vest ; And under his silver-gray surtout, The laced, historical coat of blue, That he wore when he went to London-Spaiv, And robbed Sir Mungo Mucklethraw. Out-spoke Dolly the Chambermaid, (Trembling a little, but not afraid,) " Stand and Deliver, O ' Beau Brocade ' ! " ' ) But the Beau rode nearer, and would not speak, For he saw by the moonlight a rosy cheek ; And a spavined mare with a rusty hide ; And a girl with her hand at her pocket-side. So never a word he spoke as yet, P'or he thought 'twas a freak of Meg or Bet; — A freak of the ''Rose" or the ''Rummer" set. Out-spoke Dolly the Chambermaid, (Tremulous now, and sore afraid,) " Stand and Deliver, ' ]3eau Brocade ' ! " — 25 Old- World Idylls Firing then, out of sheer alarm, Hit the Beau in the bridle-arm. Button the first went none knows where, But it carried away his solitaire ; Button the second a circuit made, Glanced in under the shoulder-blade; — Down from the saddle fell " Beau Brocade " ! Down from the saddle and never stirred ! — Dolly grew white as a Windsor curd. Slipped not less from the mare, and bound Strips of her kirtle about his wound. Then, lest his Worship should rise and flee, Fettered his ankles — tenderly. Jumped on his chestnut, Bet the fleet (Called after Bet of Portugal Street) ; Came like the wind to the old Inn-door; — Roused fat John from a three-fold snore ; — Vowed she'd 'peach if he misbehaved . . . Briefly, the " Plymoiith Fly " was saved ! Staines and Windsor were all on fire : — DoLi.v was wed to a Yorkshire squire ; Went to Town at the K — g's desire ! But whether His M — j — sty saw her or not, HoGARTir jotted her down on the spot; 26 The Ballad of "Beau Brocade" And something of Dolly one still may trace In the fresh contours of his " Milkmaid's " face. George the Guard fled over the sea : John had a fit — of perplexity ; Turned King's evidence, sad to state ; — But John was never immaculate. As for the Beau, he was duly tried, When his wound was healed, at Whitsuntide ; Served — for a day — as the last of " sights," To the world of St. Jameses-Street and '■'■White' s,^'' Went on his way to Tyburn Tree, With a pomp befitting his high degree. Every privilege rank confers : — Bouquet of pinks at St. Sepulchre's; Flagon of ale at Holborn Bar ; Friends (in mourning) to follow his Car — (" t " is omitted where Heroes are !) Every one knows the speech he made ; Swore that he " rather admired the Jade ! "■ — ■ Waved to the crowd with his gold-laced hat : Talked to the Chaplain after that; Turned to the Topsman undismayed . . . This was the finish of " Beau Brocade" ! 27 Old-World Idylls And this is the Ballad that seemed to hide In the leaves of a dusty " Londoner's Guide " ; " Humbly Inscribed [ivith curls and tails) By the Author to Frederick, Prince of Wales :- " Published by P'rancis and Oliver Pine; Ludgatc-Hill, at the Blacknwor Sign. Seventecn-Hundrcd-and-Thirty-Nine.^' 28 Un E Marquise UNE MARQUISE A RHYMED MONOLOGUE IN THE LOUVRE " Belle ATcirquise, vos beaux yeux me font mour'ir (T amour. ^' — MoLlERE. AS you sit there at your ease, -^ O Marquise ! And the men flock round your knees Thick as bees, Mute at every word you utter. Servants to your least frill-flutter, " Belle. Marquise ! "— As you sit there growing prouder. And your ringed hands glance and go, And your iavis frou-frou sounds louder, And your ^^ beaux yeux'' flash and glow;- Ah, you used them on the Painter, As you know, For the Sieur Larose spoke fainter, Bowing low. Thanked Madame and Heaven for Mercy That each sitter was not Circe, Or at least he told you so ; — 29 Old-World Idylls Growing proud, I say, and prouder To the crowd that come and go, Dainty Deity of Powder, Fickle Queen of Fop and Beau, As you sit where lustres strike you. Sure to please, Do we love you most, or like you, " Belle Marquise ? " II You are fair ; O yes, we know it Well, Marquise : For he swore it, your last poet. On his knees; And he called all heaven to witness Of his ballad and its fitness, " Belle Marquise ! "- You were everything in i'rc (With exception of severe), — You were cruclle and rebelle, With the rest of rhymes as well ; You were ^^ Reinc," and '■^ Mere d' Amour " ; You were " l^enus a Cylhcre " ; " Sappho mise en Pompadour" And " Minerve en Parabcre " ; You had every grace of heaven In your most angelic face. With the nameless finer leaven Lent of l)lood and courtly race ; And he added, too, in duty, Ninon's wit and Boufflers' beauty ; 30 Une Marc^uise And La Valli^re's yetix velotde's Followed these; And you liked it, when he said it (On his knees), And you kept it, and you read it, " Belle Marquise ! " III Yet with us your toilet graces Fail to please, And the last of your last faces, And your luise; For we hold you just as real, " Belle Marquise ! " As your Bergers and Bergcrcs, lies d' Amour and Bateliires ; As your pares, and your Versailles, Gardens, grottoes, and rocailles; As your Naiads and your trees ; — Just as near the old ideal Calm and ease. As the Venus there, by Coustou, That a fan would make quite flighty. Is to her the gods were used to, — Is to grand Greek Aphrodite, Sprung from seas. You are just a porcelain trifle, " Belle Marquise ! " Just a thing of puffs and patches, 3^ Old-World Idylls Made for madrigals and catches, Not for heart-wounds, but for scratches, O Marquise ! Just a pinky porcelain trifle, " Belle Marquise I " Wrought in rarest rose-Dubarry, Quick at verbal point and parry, Clever, doubtless ; — but to marry. No, Marquise ! IV For your Cupid, you have clipped him, Rouged and patched him, nipped and snipped him, And with chapeau-hras equipped him, " Belle Marquise ! " Just to arm you through your wife-time. And the languors of your life-time, " Belle Marquise ! " Say, to trim your toilet tapers. Or, — to twist your hair in papers, Or, — to wean you from the vapours ; — As for these, You are worth the love they give you, Till a fairer face outlive you. Or a younger grace shall please ; Till the coming of the crows' feet. And the backward turn of beaux' feet, " Belle Marquise ! " — Till your frothed-out life's commotion Settles down to Ennui's ocean, Or a dainty sham devotion, " Belle Marquise/" 32 Une Marqjjise V No : we neither like nor love you, " Belle Marquise ! " Lesser lights we place above you,— Milder merits better please. We have passed from P hilosophe-doxn Into plainer modern days,— - Grown contented in our oafdom, Giving grace not all the praise ; And, en partaitf, Arsinoc, — ■ Without malice whatsoever, — We shall counsel to our Chloe To be rather good than clever ; For we find it hard to smother Just one little thought. Marquise ! Wittier perhaps than any other, — You were neither Wife nor Mother, ''Belle Marquise!" 33 Old-World Idylls THE STORY OF ROSINA AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF FRANCOIS BOUCHER " On ne hadinc pas a-vec r amour. " Hj^HE scene, a wood. A shepherd tip -toe ■*- creeping, Carries a basket, whence a Ijillet peeps. To lay beside a silk clad Oread sleeping Under an urn ; yet not so sound she sleeps But that she plainly sees his graceful act ; " He thinks she thinks he thinks she sleeps," in fact. One hardly needs the '■'■Pcint par Francois Boucher." All the sham life conies back again, — one sees Alcoves, Riiclks, the Lever, and the Coucher, Patches and Ruffles, Roue's and Marquises; The little great, the infinite small thing 'I'hat ruled the hour when Louis Quinze was king. 34 The Story of Rosina For these were yet the days of halcyon weather,— A " Martin's summer," when the nation swam, Aimless and easy as a wayward feather, Down the full tide of jest and epigram ; — A careless time, when France's bluest blood Beat to the tune of " After us the Flood." Plain Roland still was placidly " inspecting," Not now Camille had stirred the Cafe Foy ; Marat was young, and Guillotin dissecting, Corday unborn, and Lamballe in Savoie ; '^o faubourg yet had heard the Tocsin ring: — This was the summer — when Grasshoppers sing. And far afield were sun-baked savage creatures. Female and male, that tilled the earth, and wrung Want from the soil ; — lean things with livid features. Shape of bent man, and voice that never sung : These were the Ants, for yet to Jacques Bon- homme Tumbrils were not, nor any sound of drum. But Boucher was a Grasshopper, and painted, — Rose-water Raphael, — cii coulcur dc rose, The crowned Caprice, whose sceptre, nowise sainted, Swayed the light realm of ballets and bon- mots ; — Ruled the dim boudoir's demi-jour, or drove Pink-ribboned flocks through some pink-flowered grove. 35 Old-World Idylls A laughing Dame, who sailed a laughing cargo Of flippant loves along the Fleiivc du Tendrc; Whose greatest grace was jnpes a la Cainargo, Whose gentlest merit gcntimcnt se reiidre ; Queen of the rouge-cheeked Hours, whose foot- steps fell To Rameau's notes, in dances by Gardel ; — Her Boucher served, till Nature's self betraying, As Wordsworth sings, the heart that loved her not. Made of his work a land of languid Maying, Filled with false gods and muses misbegot ; — A Versailles Eden of cosmetic youth, Wherein most things went naked, save the Truth. Once, only once, — perhaps the last night's revels Palled in the after-taste, — our Boucher sighed For that first beauty, falsely named the Devil's, Young-lipped, unlessoned, joyous, and clear- eyed; Flung down his palette like a weary man, And sauntered slowly through the Rue Sainte- Anne. Wherefore, we know not ; but, at times, far nearer Things common come, and lineaments half-seen Grow in a moment magically clearer ;— Perhaps, as he walked, the grass he called " too green " Rose and rebuked him, or the earth " ill-lighted " Silently smote him with the charms he slighted. 36 The Story of Rosina But, as he walked, he tired of god and goddess, Nymphs that deny, and shepherds that appeal ; Stale seemed the trick of kerchief and of bodice. Folds that confess, and flutters that reveal ; Then as he grew more sad and disenchanted, Forthwith he spied the very thing he wanted. So, in the Louvre, the passer-by might spy some Arch-looking head, with half-evasive air. Start from behind the fruitage of Van Huysum, Grape-bunch and melon, nectarine and pear : — Here 'twas no Venus of Batavian city, But a French girl, young, piqiiaiitc, bright, and pretty. Graceful she was, as some slim marsh-flower shaken Among the sallows, in the breezy Spring ; Blithe as the first blithe song of birds that waken. Fresh as a fresh young pear-tree blossoming ; Black was her hair as any Ijlackbird's feather ; Just for her mouth, two rose-buds grew together. Sloes were her eyes ; but her soft cheeks were peaches, Hued like an Autumn pippin, where the red Seems to have burned right through the skin, and reaches E'en to the core ; and if you spoke, it spread Up till the blush had vanquished all the brown. And, like two birds, the sudden lids dropped down. 37 Old-World Idylls As Boucher smiled, the l)right black eyes ceased dancing ; As Boucher spoke, the dainty red eclipse Filled all the face from cheek to brow, enhancing Half a shy smile that dawned around the lips. Then a shrill mother rose upon the view ; " Cerises, Afsieii ? Rosine, depechez-vous ! " Deep in the fruit her hands Rosina buries, Soon in the scale the ruby bunches lay. The Painter, watching the suspended cherries. Never had seen such little fingers play ; — As for the arm, no Hebe's could be rounder; Low in his heart a whisper said " I've found her." " Woo first the mother, if you'd win the daughter! " Boucher was charmed, and turned to Madame Mere, Almost with tears of suppliance besought her Leave to immortalize a face so fair ; Praised and cajoled so craftily that straightway Void Rosina, — standing at his gateway. Shy at the first, in time Rosina's laughter Rang through the studio as the girlish face Peeped from some painter's travesty, or after Showed like an Omphale in lion's case ; Gay as a thrush, that from the morning dew Pipes to the light its clear " Rc'vcillcz-vous.^' 38 The Story of Rosina Just a mere child with sudden ebullitions, Flashes of fun, and little bursts of song, Petulant pains, and fleeting pale contritions, Mute little moods of misery and wrong; Only a child, of Nature's rarest making, Wistful and sweet, — and with a heart for breaking ! Day after day the little loving creature Came and returned ; and still the Painter felt. Day after day, the old theatric Nature Fade from his sight, and like a shadow melt Paniers and Powder, Pastoral and Scene, Killed by the simple beauty of Rosine. As for the girl, she turned to her new being, — Came, as a bird that hears its fellow call ; Blessed, as the blind that blesses God for seeing ; Grew, as the flower on which the sun-rays fall; Loved if you will ; she never named it so : Love comes unseen, — we only see it go. There is a figure among Boucher's sketches. Slim, — a child-face, the eyes as black as beads, Head set askance, and hand that shyly stretches Flowers to the passer, with a look that pleads. This was no other than Rosina surely ; — None Boucher knew could else have looked so purely. 39 Old-World Idylls But forth her Story, for I will not tairy : Whether he loved the little " nut-brown maid " ; If, of a truth, he counted this to carry Straight to the end, or just the whim obeyed, Nothing we know, but only that before More had been done, a finger tapped the door. Opened Rosina to the unknown comer. 'Twas a young girl — " urie paiivre fiUc^'' she said, " They had been growing poorer all the summer ; Father was lame, and mother lately dead ; Bread was so dear, and, — oh ! Init want was bitter. Would Monsieur pay to have her for a sitter ? Men called her pretty." Boucher looked a minute: Yes, she was pretty ; and her face beside Shamed her poor clothing by a something in it- Grace, and a presence hard to be denied ; This was no common offer it was certain ; — " Alles, Rosina ! sit behind the curtain." Meanwhile the Painter, with a mixed emotion. Drew and re-drew his ill-disguised Marquise, Passed in due time from praises to devotion ; Last when his sitter left him on his knees. Rose in a maze of passion and surprise, — Rose, and beheld Rosina's saddened eyes. 40 The Story of Rosina Thrice-happy France, whose facile sons inherit Still in the old traditionary way, Power to enjoy— with yet a rarer merit, Power to forget ! Our Boucher rose, I say, With hand still prest to heart, with pulses throl> bing. And blankly stared at poor Rosina sobbing. '' This was no model, M'sicu, but a lady." Boucher was silent, for he knew it true. '■'■ Est-ce que vous Vaimez?''^ Never answer made he! Ah, for the old love fighting with the new ! " Est-cc que vous Paiiiicz ? " sobbed Rosina's sor- row. "Bon!" murmured Boucher; "she will come to-morrow." How like a Hunter thou, O Time, dost harry Us, thine oppressed, and pleasured with the chase, Sparest to strike thy sorely-running quarry. Following not less with unrelenting face. Time, if Love hunt, and Sorrow hunt, with thee. Woe to the Fawn ! There is no way to flee. Woe to Rosina ! By To-morrow stricken, Swift from her life the sun of gold declined. Nothing remained but those gray shades that thicken, Cloud and the cold, — the loneliness — the wind. Only a little by the door she lingers, — Waits, with wrung lip and interwoven fingers. Old- World Idylls No, not a sign. Already with the Painter Grace and the nymphs began recovered reign ; Truth was no more, and Nature, waxing fainter, Paled to the old sick Artifice again. Seeing Rosina going out to die, How should he know what Fame had passed him by? Going to die ! For who shall waste in sadness, Shorn of the sun, the very warmth and light, Miss the green welcome of the sweet earth's gladness. Lose the round life that only Love makes bright : There is no succour if these things are taken. None but Death loves the lips by Love forsaken. So, in a little, when those Two had parted, — Tired of himself, and weary as before, Boucher remembering, sick and sorry-hearted. Stayed for a moment by Rosina's door. " Ah, the poor child ! " the neighbours cry of her, " Morte, M'steu, morte ! On (Ut, — des peines de cceur ! " Just for a second, say, the tidings shocked him ; Say, in his eye a sudden tear-drop shone, — Just for a second, a dull feeling mocked him With a vague sense of something priceless gone; Then, — for at best 'twas but the empty type. The husk of man with which the days were ripe, — 42 The Story of Rosina Then, he forgot her. But, for you that slew her, Vou, her own sister, that with airy ease. Just for a moment's fancy could undo her, Pass on your way. A little while, Marquise, Be the sky silent, be the sea serene ; A pleasant passage — a Sainte Guillotine ! As for Rosina, — for the quiet sleeper. Whether stone hides her, or the happy grass, If the sun quickens, if the dews beweep her. Laid in the Madeleine or Montparnasse, Nothing we know, — but that her heart is cold, Poor beating heart ! And so the Story's told. 43 PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN " Rien en relief .^^ PROLOGUE ASSUME that voc arc friends. Assume A common taste for old costume, — Old pictures, — books. Then dream us sit- ting- — Us two — in some soft-lighted room. Outside, the ivind ; — the " ivays are mire.''^ We, ivith our faces toivard the fire. Finished t lie feast not full but fitting. Watch the light-leaping flames aspire. Silent at first, in time wc gloiv ; Discuss " eclectics.^' high and loiv ; Inspect engravings, 'twixt us passing The fancies of Detroy, Moreau ; "Reveils" and '' Couchers," "Balls" and ''Fetes"; Anon we glide to " crocks " and /'tales, Grotv eloquent on glaze and classing. And half-pathetic over " slates." 47 Proverbs in Porcelain Then I produce my Prize, in truth ; — Six groups in SkwiES, fresh as Youth, And rare as Love. You pause, you wonder, {Pretend to doubt the marks, forsooth .') And so ive fall to ivhy and how The fragile figures smile and boiv ; Divine, at length, t lie fable under . . . Thus greiv the "Scenes" that folloiv noiv. 48 The Ballad a-la-Mode THE BALLAD A-LA-MODE " Tout "vient a point a qui sait atttndre. " Scene. — A Boudoir Louis-Quinze, painted ivith Cupids shooting at Butterflies. The Countess. The Baron (Jier cousin and suitor). The Countess [looking up from her work). "D ARON, you doze. The Baron (closing his book). I, Madame? No, I wait your order — Stay or Go. The Countess. Which means, I tliink, that Go or Stay Affects you nothing, either way. The Baron. Excuse me, — by your favour graced, My inclinations are effaced. 49 D Proverbs in Porcelain The Countess. Or much the same. How keen you grow ! You must be reading Marivaux. The Baron. Nay, — 'twas a song of Sainte-Aulaire. The Countess. Then read me one. We've time to spare If I can catch the clock-face there, 'Tis barely eight. The Baron. What shall it be, — A tale of woe, or perfidy ? The Countess. Not woes, I beg. I doubt your woes : But perfidy, of course, one knows. The Baron {reads). " ' Ah, Phillis ! cruel Phillis ! (/ licard a Shepherd say^ You hold nic ivith your Eyes, and yd You bid me — Go my Way ! ' 50 The Ballad a-la-Mode " ' Ah, Colin .' foolish Colin ! {The Maiden ansivcred 50,) If that be All, the 111 is small, I close them — You may go ! ' " But when her Eyes she opened, (Although the Sun it shone,) She found the Shepherd had not stirred — ' Because the Light was gone ! ' "^/?, Cupid! ivanton Cupid! 'Twas ever thus your Way : When Maids zvould bid you ply your Wings, You find Excuse to stay ! " The Countess. Famous ! He earned whate'er he got : — But there's some sequel, is there not ? The Baron (turning the page). I think not. — No. Unless 'tis this : My fate is far more hard than his ; — In fact, your Eyes — The Countess. Now, that's a breach ! Your bond is — not to make a speech. And we must start — so call Justine. I know exactly what you mean ! — Give me your arm — 51 Proverbs in Porcelain The Baron. If, in return, Countess, I could your hand but earn ! The Countess. I thought as much. This comes, you see, Of sentiment, and Arcady, Where vows are hung on every tree. . . . The Baron (offering his ann, with a low bow). And no one dreams— of Perfidy. 52 The Metamorphosis THE METAMORPHOSIS " On s'enrichit quand on Jort.'^ Scene. — A high stone Seat in an Alley of clipped Lime-trees. The Abbe Tirili. Monsieur L'Etoile. The Abbe {writing). " 'V ^HIS shepherdess Dorine adored — " -* What rhyme is next ? Implored? — ignored? Poiired? — soared? — afford} That facile Dunce, L'Etoile, would cap the line at once. 'Twill come in time. Meanwhile, suppose We take a meditative doze. {Sleeps. By-and-by his paper falls.) M. L'ETOILE {approaching from the back). Some one before me. What ! 'tis you, Monsieur the Scholar ? Sleeping too ! {Picks up the fluttering paper.) More " Tales" of course One can't refuse To chase so fugitive a Muse ! S3 Proverbs in Porcelain Verses are public, too, that fly " Ciun privilegio " — Zcphyri / {Reads.) "Clitander and Dorine." Insane! He fancies he's a La Fontaine ! "/// early Days, the Gods, zve/iiid, Paid casual Visits to Mankind ; — At least, authentic Records say so In Publius Ovidius Naso." (Three names for one. This passes all. 'Tis "furiously" classical!) " No doubt t/icir Purpose oft ivould be Some ' Nodus dignus Vindice ' ; ' On dit,' not less, these earthward Tours Were mainly Matters of Amours. And Woe to him ivhose luckless Flame Impeded that Olympic Game ; Ere he could say an ' Ave ' o'er, They changed him — like a Louis-d'or." (" Aves," and current coinage ! O ! — O shade of Nicola.s Boileau !) " Bird, Beast, or River he became : With Women it was much the same. In Ovid Case to Case succeeds; But Names the Reader never reads." (That is, Monsieur the Abbe feels His quantities are out at heels !) " Suffices that, for this our Tale, There divelt in a Thcssalian Vale, Of Tales like this the frequent Scene, A Shepherdess, by name Dorine. Trim Waist, ripe Lips, bright Eyes, had she;- In short, — the ivholc Artillery. 54 The Metamorphosis Her Beauty made some local Stir ; — Men tnarked it. So did Jupiter. This ShepJicrdess Doriiie adored. . . ." Implored, ignored, and soared, and poured — (He's scrawled them here !) We'll sum m brief His fable on his second leaf. {Writes.) There, they shall know who 'twas that wrote : — " L'Etoile's is but a mock-bird'' s note." \Exit. The Abbe {waking). Implored 's the w^ord, I think. But where, — Where is my paper ? Ah ! 'tis there ! Eh ! what ? (Reads.) The Metamorphosis (not in Ovid). " The Shepherdess Dorine adored The Shepherd-Boy Clitander ; But Jove himselj, Olympus' Lord, The Shepherdess Dorine adored. Our Abbe's Aid the Pair Implored; — And changed to Goose and Gander; The Shepherdess Dorine adored The Shepherd-Boy Clitander!" L'Etoile,— by all the Muses ! Peste ! He's off, post-haste, to tell the rest. No matter. Laugh, Sir Dunce, to-day; Next time 'twill be 7ny turn to play. 55 Proverbs in Porcelain THE SONG OUT OF SEASON ' ' Point (If culte sans mystire. " Scene. — A Corridor in a Chateau, ivith Busts and Venice chandeliers. Monsieur L'Etoile. Two Voices. M. L'Etoile {carrying a Rose). THIS is the place. Mutine said here. " Through the Mancini room, and near The fifth Venetian chandeher. . . ." The fifth ? — She knew there were but four; — Still, here's the busto of the Moor. (Humming.) Tra/a, tra-la ! If Bijou wake. He'll bark, no doubt, and spoil my shake ! I'll tap, I think. One can't mistake; This surely is the door. {Sings softly.) " When Jove, the Sines' Director, First saiv yon sleep of yore, He cried aloud for Nectar, 56 The Song out of Season ' The Nectar quickly pour, — The Nectar, Hebe, pour ! ' " (No sound. I'll tap once more.) (Sings again.) " Then came the Sire Apollo, He passed you where you lay; ' Come, Diau, rise and follow The dappled Hart to slay, — The rapid Hart to slay.' " (A rustling within.) (Coquette! She heard before.) (Sings again.) " And urchin Cupid after Beside the Pillow curled. He whispered you with Laughter, '■Aivake and tvitch the M^orld, — O Venus, witch the World!'" (Now comes the last. 'Tis scarcely worse, I think, than Monsieur I'Abbk's verse.) " So waken, ivakcn, waken, O You, IV horn ive adore; Where Gods can be mistaken. Mere Mortals must be more, — Poor Mortals must be more ! " (That merits an encore.) " So ivaken, ivakcn, xvaken ! O YOU, zvhom ive adore ! " 57 Proverbs in Porcelain (An energetic Voice.) 'Tis thou, Antoine ? Ah, Addle-pate ! Ah, Thief of Valet, always late ! Have I not told thee half-past eight A thousand times ! (Great agitation.) But wait, — hut wait,- M. L'Etoile (stupefied). Just Skies ! What hideous roar ! — What lungs ! The infamous Soubrette ! This is a turn I sha'n't forget : — To make me sing my chansonnette Before old Jourdain's door ! (Retiring sloivly.) And yet, and yet,— it can't be she. They prompted her. Who can it be ? (A second Voice.) It was the Abbe Ti — ri — ei ! (In a mocking falsetto.) " Where Gods can be mistaken, Mere Poets must l)e more, — Bad Poets must be more. 58 . >) The Cap that Fits THE CAP THAT FITS " Q"' -f''""' ('pines n utile dcchaux." Scene. — A Salon ivitli blue and ivliite Panels. Outside, Persons pass and re-pass upon a Terrace. HORTENSE. ArMANDE. MoNSIEUR LoYAL. HORTENSE {behind her fan). IVf OT young, I think, Armande (raising her eye-glass). And fodcd, too ! — Ouile faded ! Monsieur, what say you ? M. Loyal. Nay, — I defer to you. In truth, To me she seems all grace and youth. 59 Proverbs in Porcelain HORTENSE. Graceful ? You think it ? What, with hands That hang Uko this (loilh a gesttin). Armande. And how she stands ! M. Loyal. Nay, — I am wrong again. I thought Her air deUghtfully untaught ! HORTENSE. But you amuse me — M. Loyal. Still her dress, — Her dress at least, you must confess — Armande. Is odious simply ! Jacotot Did not supply that lace, I know; And where, I ask, has mortal seen A hat unfeathered ! HORTENSE. Edged with green ! ! 60 The Cap that Fits M. Loyal. The words remind me. Let me say A Fable that I heard to-day. Have I permission ? Both {with ent/msiasm). Monsieur, pray ! M. Loyal. " Myrtilla {lest a Scandal rise The Lady's Name I thus disguise), Dying of Ennui, once decided — Much on Resource herself she prided — To choose a Hat. Forthivith she flies On that momentous Enterprise. Whether to Petit or Legros, I know not : only this I know; — Head-dresses then, of any Fashion, Bore Names of Quality or Passion. Myrtilla tried them, almost all : * Prudence,'' she felt, was someivhat small; ' Retirement' seemed the Eyes to hide ; ' Content,' at once, she cast aside. ' Simplicity,' — 'twas out of Place; ' Devotion,' for an older Face; Briefly, Selection smaller greiv, ' Vexatious ! ' odious ! — none ivould do ! Then, on a sudden, she espied One that she thought she had not tried : 6i Proverbs in Porcelain Becoming; ratlier,—'- edited ivith green, ^ — Roses ill yclloiv, Thorns between. ^ Quick! Bring me that!' 'Tis brought. '■Complete, Divine, Enchanting, Tasteful, Neat,' In all the Tones. ' And this you call ? ' ' " Ill-Nature," Madame. It fits all.' " HORTENSE. A thousand thanks ! So naively turned ! Armande. So useful too ... to those concerned ! 'Tis yours ? M. Loyal. Ah no, — some cynic wit's ; And called (I think) — {Placing his hat upon his breast), "The Cap that Fits." 62 The Secrets of the Heart THE SECRETS OF THE HEART " Z,c caur mene ou il va." Scene.— ^ Chalet covered with Honeysuckle. Ninette. Ninon. Ninette. T^HIS way— Ninon. No, this way — Ninette. This way, then. {They enter the Chalet.) You are as changing, Child, — as Men. Ninon. But are they ? Is it true, I mean ? Who said it ? Ninette. Sister Seraphine. She was so pious and so good. With such sad eyes beneath her hood, 63 Proverbs in Porcelain And such poor little feet, — all bare ! Her name was Eugi^nie la Fkkk. She used to tell us, — moonlight nights, — When I was at the Carmelites. Ninon. Ah, then it must be right. And yet. Suppose for once — suppose, Ninette — Ninette. But what ? Ninon. Suppose it were not so ? Suppose there were true men, you know ! Ninette. And then ? Ninon. Why, if that could occur. What kind of man should you prefer ? Ninette. What looks, you mean ? Ninon. Looks, voice and all. 64 The Secrets of the Heart Ninette. Well, as to that, he must be tall. Or say, not " tall," — of middle size; And next, he must have laughing eyes, And a hook-nose, — with, underneath, ! what a row of sparkling teeth ! Ninon (^touc/iiug her cheek suspiciously). Has he a scar on this side ? Ninette. Hush! Some one is coming. No ; a thrush : 1 see it swinging there. Ninon. Go on. Ninette. Then he must fence, (ah, look, 'tis gone !) And dance like Monseigneur, and sing " Love was a Shepherd " : — everything That men do. Tell me yours, Ninon. Ninon. Shall I ? Then mine has black, black hair . I mean he should have ; then an air Half sad, half noble ; features thin ; A little royalc on the chin ; And such a pale, high brow. And then. He is a prince of gentlemen ; — 65 E Proverbs in Porcelain He, too, can ride and fence and write Sonnets and madrigals, yet fight No worse for that — NlNF.TTE. 1 know your man. Ninon. And I know yours. But you'll not tell, — Swear it ! Ninette. I swear upon this fan, — My Grandmother's ! Ninon. And I, I swear On this old turquoise reliquaire, — My great — great Grandmother's ! ! — [After a pause.) Ninktte ! I feel so sad. Ninette. I too. But why ? Ninon. Alas, I know not ! ^) Ninette (with a sigh). Nor do I. 66 "Good-Night, Babette! ?5 "GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTE!" " Si vieillesse pou-vait ! — " Scene. — A small neat Room. In a high Voltaire Chair sits a ivhite-haired old Gentleman. Monsieur Vieuxbois. Babette. M. Vieuxbois [turning querulously). T~\ AY of my life ! Where can she get ? J-^ Babette ! I say ! Babette ! — Babette ! Babette {entering hurriedly). Coming, M'sieu' ! If M'sieu' speaks So loud, he won't be well for weeks ! M. Vieuxbois. Where have you been ? Babette. Why, M'sieu' knows : — April ! . . . Ville d'Avray ! . . . Ma'am'selle Rose ! 67 Proverbs in Porcelain M. ViEUXBOIS. Ah ! I am old, — and I forget. Was the place growing green, Babette ? Babette. But of a greenness ! — yes, M'sieu' ! And then the sky so blue !— so blue ! And when I dropped my immortelle^ How the l)irds sang ! {^Lifting her apron to her eyes^ This poor Ma'am'selle ! M. ViEUXBOIS. You're a good girl, Babette, but she, — She was an Angel, verily. Sometimes I think I see her yet Stand smiling by the cabinet ; And once, T know, she peeped and laughed Betwixt the curtains . . . Where's the draught ? {She gives him a cup.) Now T shall sleep, I think, Babette ; — Sing me your Norman clinnsnnucttc. Babette {sings). " Once at the Angehis {Ere I ivas dead), 68 "Good-Night, Babette!" Angels all glorious Came to my Bed ; Angels in blue and ivhite Croivned on the Head." M. ViEUXBOis {drowsily). " She was an Angel " . . . " Once she laughed "... What, was I dreaming ? Where's the draught ? Babette {shoiving the empty cup). The draught, M'sieu' ? M. ViEUXBOIS. How I forget ! I am so old ! But sing, Babette ! Babette (sings). " One was the Friend I left Stark in the Snoiv ; One was the IVife that died Long, — long ago; One was the Love I lost ... Hoiv could she know ? " M. ViEUXBOIS (murmuring). Ah, Paul ! ... old Paul ! . . . Eulalie too ! And Rose . . . And O ! " the sky so blue ! " 69 Proverbs in Porcelain Babette (sings). " One had my Mother's eyes, Wistful and mild ; One had my Father-' s face; One was a Child : All of them bent to me, — Bent down and smiled ! " (He is asleep !) M. ViEUXBOis {almost inaudibly). " How I forget ! " " I am so old ! " . . . " Good-night, Babette ! " 70 Epilogue EPILOGUE HEIGHO ! how chill the evenings get! Gootl^night, Ninon \— good-night, Ninette ! Your little Play is played and finished ; — Go back, then, to your Cabinet ! Loyal, L'Etoile ! no more to-day! Alas ! they heed not what we say : They smile with ardour undiminished ; But we, — we are not ahvays gay ! 71 VIGNETTES IN RHYME " Suns ptser, — sans restur " THE DRAMA OF THE DOCTOR'S WINDOW IN THREE ACTS, WITH A PROLOGUE ' A tedious brief scene of young Pyramiis^ And his love Thisbe ; iiery tragical mirth. " — Midsummer-Night's Dre.im. Prologue WELL, I must wait ! " The Doctor's room. Where I used this expression. Wore the severe official gloom Attached to that profession ; Rendered severer by a bald And skinless Gladiator, Whose raw robustness first appalled The entering spectator. No one would call " The Lancet " gay,- Few could avoid confessing That Jones, " On Muscular Decay," Is — as a rule — depressing : 75 Vignettes in Rhyme So, leaving bolh, to change the scene, I turned toward the shutter, And peered out vacantly between A water-butt and gutter. Below, the Doctor's garden lay, If thus imagination May dignify a square of clay Unused to vegetation. Filled with a dismal-looking swing — That brought to mind a gallows — An empty kennel, mouldering, And two dyspeptic aloes. No sparrow chirped, no daisy sprung, About the place deserted ; Only across the swing-board hung A battered doll, inverted. Which sadly seemed to disconcert The vagrant cat that scanned it, Sniffed doubtfully around the skirt, Rut failed to understand it. A dreary spot ! And yet, I own, Half hoping that, perchance, it Might, in some unknown way, atone For Jones and for " The Lancet," I watched ; and by especial grace, ^\'ithin this stage contracted, Saw presently before my face A classic story acted. 76 Drama of the Doctor's Window Ah, World of ours, are you so gray And weary, World, of spinning. That you repeat the tales to-day You told at the beginning ? For lo ! the same old myths that made The early " stage successes," Still " hold the boards," and still are played, " With new effects and dresses." Small, lonely " three- pair-backs " behold, To-day, Alcestis dying; To-day, in farthest Polar cold, Ulysses' bones are lying ; Still in one's morning " Times " one reads How fell an Indian Hector; Still clubs discuss Achilles' steeds, Briseis' next protector ; — Still Menelaus brings, we see, His oft-remanded case on ; Still somewhere sad Hypsipyle Bewails a faithless Jason ; And here, the Doctor's sill beside. Do I not now discover A Thisbe, whom the walls divide From Pyramus, her lover ? Act the First. Act I. began. Some noise had scared The cat, that like an arrow Shot up the wall and disappeared ; And then, across the narrow, 77 Vignettes in Rhyme Unweeded path, a small dark thing, Hid by a garden-bonnet. Passed wearily towards the swing, Paused, turned, and climbed upon it. A child of five, with eyes that were At least a decade older, A mournful moulh, and tangled hair Flung careless round her shoulder, Dressed in a stiff ill-fitting frock, Whose black, uncomely rigour Sardonically seemed to mock The plaintive, slender figure. What was it ? Something in the dress That told the girl unmothered ; Or was it that the merciless Black garb of mourning smothered Life and all light : — but rocking so. In the dull garden-corner. The lonely swinger seemed to grow More piteous and forlorner. Then, as I looked, across the wall Of " next- door's " garden, that is— To speak correctly — through its tall Surmounting fence of lattice. Peeped a boy's face, with curling hair. Ripe lips, half drawn asunder. And round, bright eyes, that wore a stare Of frankest childish wonder. 7b Drama of the Doctor's Window Rounder they grew by slow degrees, Until the swinger, swerving. Made, all at once, alive to these Intentest orbs observing, Gave just one brief, half-uttered cry. And, — as with gathered kirtle. Nymphs fly from Pan's head suddenly Thrust through the budding myrtle,— Fled in dismay. A moment's space. The eyes looked almost tragic ; Then, when they caught my watching face. Vanished as if by magic ; And, like some sombre thing beguiled To strange, unwonted laughter. The gloomy garden, having smiled, Became the gloomier after. Act the Second. Yes : they were gone, the stage was bare,- Blank as before ; and therefore, Sinking within the patient's chair, Half vexed, I knew not wherefore, I dozed ; till, startled by some call, A glance sufficed to show me, The boy again above the wall, The girl erect below me. The boy, it seemed, to add a force To words found unavailing. Had pushed a striped and spotted horse Half through the blistered paling, 79 Vignettes in Rhyme \\'here now it stuck, stiff-legged and straight, While he, in exultation, Chattered some half-articulate Excited explanation. Meanwhile, the girl, with upturned face, Stood motionless, and listened ; The ill-cut frock had gained a grace. The pale hair almost glistened ; The figure looked alert and bright, Buoyant as though some power Had lifted it, as rain at night Uplifts a drooping flower. The eyes had lost their listless way, — The old life, tired and faded, Had slipped down with the doll that lay Before her feet, degraded ; vShe only, yearning upward, found In those bright eyes above her The ghost of some enchanted ground Where even Nurse would love her. Ah, tyrant Time ! you hold the book. We, sick and sad, begin it ; Vou close it fast, if we but look Pleased for a meagre minute ; You closed it now, for, out of sight, Some warning finger Ix'ckoned ; Exeunt both to left and right ; — Thus ended Act the Second. 80 Drama of the Doctor's Window Act the Third. Or so it proved. For while I still Believed them gone for ever, Half raised above the window sill, I saw the lattice quiver ; And lo, once more appeared the head, Flushed, while the round mouth pouted ; " Give Tom a kiss," the red lips said. In style the most undoubted. The girl came back without a thought ; Dear Muse of Mayfair, pardon, If more restraint had not been taught In this neglected garden ; For these your code was all too stiff". So, seeing none dissented, Their unfeigned faces met as if Manners were not invented. Then on the scene, — by happy fate, When lip from lip had parted. And, therefore, just two seconds late, — A sharp-faced nurse-maid darted ; Swooped on the boy, as swoops a kite Upon a rover chicken. And bore him sourly off, despite His well-directed kicking. The girl stood silent, with a look Too subtle to unravel. Then, with a sudden gesture took The torn doll from the gravel ; 8j f VioNETTEs IN Rhyme Hid the whole face, with one caress, Under the garden-bonnet, And, passing in, I saw her press Kiss after kiss upon it. Exeunt omnes. End of play. It made the dull room brighter, The Gladiator almost gay. And e'en " The Lancet " lighter. 82 An Autumn Idyll AN AUTUMN IDYLL " Siveet Tkemmes ! runne softly, till I end my song. " — Spenser. Lawrence. Frank. Jack. Lawrence. HERE, where the beech-nuts drop among the grasses, Push the boat in, and throw the rope ashore. Jack, hand me out the claret and the glasses ; Here let us sit. We landed here before. Frank. Jack's undecided. Say, formose puer, Bent in a dream above the " water wan," Shall we row higher, for the reeds are fewer, There by the pollards, where you see the swan ? Jack. Hist ! That's a pike. Look — nose against the river, Gaunt as a wolf, — the sly old privateer ! Enter a gudgeon. Snap, — a gulp, a shiver ; — Exit the gudgeon. Let us anchor here. 83 Vignettes in Rhyme Frank {in the grass). Jove, what a day ! Black Care upon the crupper Nods at his post, and slumbers in the sun ; Half of Theocritus, with a touch of Tupper, Churns in my head. The frenzy has begun ! Lawrence. Sing to us then. Damoetas in a choker, Much out of tune, will edify the rooks. Frank. Sing you again. So musical a croaker Surely will draw the fish upon the hooks. Jack. Sing while you may. The beard of manhood still is Faint on your cheeks, but I, alas ! am old. Doubtless you yet believe in Amaryllis ; — Sing me of Her, whose name may not be told. Frank. Listen, O Thames ! His budding beard is riper. Say — by a week. Well, Lawrence, shall we sing? Lawrence, Yes, if you will. But ere I play the piper, Let him declare the prize he has to bring. 84 An Autumn Idyll Jack. Here then, my Shepherds. Lo, to him accounted First in the song, a Pipe I will impart ; — This, my Beloved, marvellously mounted. Amber and foam, — a miracle of art. Lawrence. Lordly the gift. O Muse of many numbers, Grant me a soft alliterative song ! Frank. Me too, O Muse ! And when the Umpire slumbers, Sting him with gnats a summer evening long. Lawrence. Not in a cot, begarlanded of spiders. Not where the brook traditionally " purls," — No, in the Row, supreme among the riders, Seek I the gem, — the paragon of girls. Frank. Not in the waste of column and of coping. Not in the sham and stucco of a square, — No, on a June-lawn, to the water sloping. Stands she I honour, beautifully fair. 85 Vignettes in Rhyme Lawrence. Dark-haired is mine, with splendid tresses plaited Back from the brows, imperially curled ; Calm as a grand, far-looking Caryatid, Holding the roof that covers in a world. Frank. Dark-haired is mine, with breezy ripples swinging Loose as a vine-branch blowing in the morn ; Eyes like the morning, mouth for ever singing, Blithe as a bird new risen from the corn. Lawrence. Best is the song with the music interwoven : Mine's a musician, — musical at heart, — Throbs to the gathered grieving of Beethoven, Sways to the light coquetting of Mozart. Frank. Best ? You should hear mine trilling out a ballad. Queen at a picnic, leader of the glees, Not too divine to toss you up a salad. Great in Sir Roger danced among the trees. Lawrence. Ah, when the thick night flares with dropping torches, Ah, when the crush-room empties of the swarm, Pleasant the hand that, in the gusty porches. Light as a snow flake, settles on your arm. 86 An Autumn Idyll Frank. Better the twilight and the cheery chatting, — Better the dim, forgotten garden-seat. Where one may lie, and watch the fingers tatting. Lounging with Bran or Bevis at her feet. Lawrence. All worship mine. Her purity doth hedge her Round with so delicate divinity, that men Stained to the soul with money-bag and ledger. Bend to the goddess, manifest again. Frank. None worship mine. But some, I fancy, love her, — Cynics to boot. I know the children run. Seeing her come, for naught that I discover, Save that she brings the summer and the sun. Lawrence. Mine is a Lady, beautiful and queenly. Crowned with a sweet, continual control, Grandly forbearing, lifting life serenely E'en to her ow^n nobility of soul. Frank. Mine is a Woman, kindly beyond measure, Fearless in praising, faltering in blame : Simply devoted to other people's pleasure, — Jack's sister Florence, — now you know her name. 87 Vignettes in Rhy Lawrence. ME " Jack's sister Florence ! " Never, Francis, never. Jack, do you hear ? Why, it was she I meant. She like the country ! Ah, she's far too clever Frank. There you are wrong. I know her down in Kent. Lawrence. You'll get a sunstroke, standing with your head bare. Sorry to differ. Jack, — the word's with you. Frank. How is it. Umpire ? Though the motto's thread- bare, " Coelum, non animwn " — is, I take it, true. Jack. " Souvent femme varie" as a rule, is truer; Flattered, I'm sure, — but both of you romance. Happy to further suit of either wooer, Merely observing — you haven't got a chance. 88 An Autumn Idyll Lawrence. Yes. But the Pipe — Frank. The Pipe is what we care for,- Jack. Well, in this case, I scarcely need explain. Judgment of mine were indiscreet, and therefore,- Peace to you both. The Pipe I shall retain. 89 Vignettes in Rhyme A GARDEN IDYLL A Lady. A Poet. The Lady. SIR Poet, ere you crossed the lawn (If it was wrong to watch you, pardon), Behind this weeping birch withdrawn, I watched you saunter round the garden. I saw you bend beside the phlox, Pluck, as you passed, a sprig of myrtle. Review my well-ranged hollyhocks, Smile at the fountain's slender spurtle; You paused beneath the cherry-tree, Where my marauder thrush was singing, Peered at the bee-hives curiously. And narrowly escaped a stinging ; And then — you see I watched — you passed Down the espalier walk that reaches Out to the western wall, and last Dropped on the seat before the peaches. What was your thought ? You waited long. Sublime or graceful, — grave, — satiric? A Morris Greek-and-Gothic song ? A tender Tennysonian lyric ? 90 A Garden Idyll Tell me. That garden-seat shall be, So long as speech renown disperses, Illustrious as the spot where he — The gifted Blank — composed his verses. The Poet. Madam, — whose uncensorious eye Grows gracious over certain pages, Wherein the Jester's maxims lie, It may be, thicker than the Sage's — I hear but to obey, and could Mere wish of mine the pleasure do you, Some verse as whimsical as Hood, — As gay as Praed, — should answer to you. But, though the common voice proclaims Our only serious vocation Confined to giving nothings names And dreams a " local habitation " ; BeUeve me there are tuneless days. When neither marble, brass, nor vellum. Would profit much by any lays That haunt the poet's cerebellum. More empty things, I fear, than rhymes. More idle things than songs, absorb it ; The " finely-frenzied " eye, at times. Reposes mildly in its orbit ; And — painful truth — at times, to him, Whose jog-trot thought is nowise restive, " A primrose by a river's brim " Is absolutely unsuggestive. 91 Vignettes in Rhyme The fickle Muse ! As ladies will, She sometimes wearies of her wooer ; A goddess, yet a woman still, She flies the more that we pursue her ; In short, with worst as well as best, Five months in six, your hapless poet Is just as prosy as the rest. But cannot comfortably show it. You thought, no doubt, the garden scent Brings back some brief-winged bright sensation Of love that came and love that went, — Some fragrance of a lost flirtation, Born when the cuckoo changes song, Dead ere the apple's red is on it, That should have been an epic long. Yet scarcely served to fill a sonnet. Or else you thought,— the murmuring noon. He turns it to a lyric sweeter. With birds that gossip in the tune, And windy bough-swing in the metre ; Or else the zigzag fruit-tree arms Recall some dream of harp-prest bosoms. Round singing mouths, and chanted charms. And mediaeval orchard blossoms, — Quite a la viode. Alas for prose ! — My vagrant fancies only rambled Back to the red-walled Rectory close. Where first my graceless boyhood gamboled, 92 A Garden Idyll Climbed on the dial, teased the fish, And chased the kitten round the beeches. Till widening instincts made me wish For certain slowly-ripening peaches. Three peaches. Not the Graces three Had more equality of beauty : I would not look, yet went to see ; I wrestled with Desire and Duty ; 1 felt the pangs of those who feel The Laws of Property beset them ; The conflict made my reason reel. And, half-abstractedly, I ate them ; — Or Two of them. Forthwith Despair — More keen that one of these was rotten — Moved me to seek some forest lair Where I might hide and dwell forgotten, Attired in skins, by berries stained. Absolved from brushes and ablution ; — But, ere my sylvan haunt was gained, Fate gave me up to execution. I saw it all but now. The grin That gnarled old Gardener Sandy's features ; My father, scholar-like and thin, Unroused, the tenderest of creatures ; I saw — ah me — I saw again My dear and deprecating mother ; And then, remembering the cane. Regretted— that Fd left the Other. 93 Vignettes in Rhyme TU QUOQUE AN IDYLL IN THE CONSERVATORY " — romprons-nous, Ou ne romprons-nous pas ? — Le Depit Amoureux. Nellie. IF I were you, when ladies at the play, sir, Beckon and nod, a melodrama through, I would not turn abstractedly away, sir, If I were you ! Frank. If I were you, when persons I affected, Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew, I would, at least, pretend I recollected, If I were you ! Nellie. If I were you, when ladies are so lavish, Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two, I would not dance with odious Miss M'Tavish, If I were you ! 94 Tu (^UOQUE Frank. If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer Whiff of the best, — the mildest " honey-dew," I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer, If I were you ! Nellie. If I were you, I would not, sir, be bitter, Even to write the " Cynical Review " ; — Frank. No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter, If I were you ! Nellie. Really ! You would ? Why, Frank, you're quite delightful, — Hot as Othello, and as black of hue ; Borrow my fan. I would not look so frightful, If I were you ! Frank. " It is the cause." I mean your chaperon is Bringing some well-curled juvenile. Adieu ! / shall retire. I'd spare that poor Adonis, If I were you ! 95 Vignettes in Rhyme Nellie. Go, if you will. At once ! And by express, sir ! Where shall it be ? To China — or Peru ? Go. I should leave inquirers my address, sir. If I were you ! Frank. No, — I remain. To stay and fight a duel Seems, on the whole, the proper thing to do ; — Ah, you are strong, — I would not then be cruel, If I were you ! Nellie. One does not like one's feelings to be doubted, — Frank. One does not like one's friends to misconstrue, — Nellie. If I confess that I a wee-bit pouted ? — Frank. I should admit that I was pique, too. Nellie. Ask me to dance ! I'd say no more about it, If I were you ! [Waltz — Exeunt. 96 A Dialogue from Plato A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO " Le temps U inieux employe est celiii quan perd. " — Claude Tilher. I'D " read " three hours. Both notes and text Were fast a mist becoming ; In bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed, And filled the room with humming, Then out. The casement's leafage sways. And, parted light, discloses Miss Di., with hat and book, — a maze Of muslin mixed \vith roses. "You're reading Greek?" " I am — and you?" " O, mine's a mere romancer ! " " So Plato is." " Then read him — do ; And I'll read mine in answer." I read. " My Plato (Plato, too, — That wisdom thus should harden !) Declares ' blue eyes look doubly blue Beneath a Dolly Varden.' " She smiled. " My book in turn avers (No author's name is stated) That sometimes those Philosophers Are sadly mis-translated." 97 G Vignettes in Rhyme " But hear, — the next's in stronger style : The Cynic School asserted That two red lips which part and smile May not be controverted ! " She smiled once more — " My book, I find, Observes some modern doctors Would make the Cynics out a kind Of album-verse concoctors." Then I — " Why not ? ' Ephesian law, No less than time's tradition, Enjoined fair speech on all who saw Diana's apparition.' " She blushed — this time. " If Plato's page No wiser precept teaches, Then I'd renounce that doubtful sage, And walk to Burnham-beeches." " Agreed," I said. " For Socrates (I find he too is talking) Thinks Learning can't remain at ease While Beauty goes a- walking." She read no more. I leapt the sill : The sequel's scarce essential — Nay, more than this, I hold it still Profoundly confidential. 98 The Romaunt of the Rose THE ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE POOR Rose ! I lift you from the street- Far better I should own you, Than you should lie for random feet, Where careless hands have thrown you ! Poor pinky petals, crushed and torn ! Did heartless Mayfair use you, Then cast you forth to lie forlorn, For chariot wheels to bruise you ? I saw you last in Edith's hair. Rose, you would scarce discover That I she passed upon the stair Was Edith's favoured lover, A month — " a little month " — ago — O theme for moral writer ! — 'Twixt you and me, my Rose, you know, She might have been politer ; But let that pass. She gave you then — Behind the oleander — To one, perhaps, of all the men, Who best could understand her, — 99 Vignettes in Rhyme Cyril that, duly flattered, took, As only Cyril's able, With just the same Arcadian look He used, last night, for Mabel; Then, having waltzed till every star Had paled away in morning, Lit up his cynical cigar, And tossed you downward, scorning. Kismet, my Rose ! Revenge is sweet, — She made my heart-strings quiver ; And yet — you sha'n't lie in the street, I'll drop you in the River. lOO Love in Winter LOVE IN WINTER BETWEEN the berried holly-bush The Blackbird whistled to the Thrush : " Which way did bright-eyed Bella go ? Look, Speckle-breast, across the snow, — Are those her dainty tracks I see, That wind beside the shrubbery ? " The Throstle pecked the berries still. " No need for looking, Yellow-bill ; Young Frank was there an hour ago, Half frozen, waiting in the snow ; His callow beard was white with rime, — 'Tchuck, — 'tis a merry pairing-time ! " " What would you ? " twittered in the Wren ; " These are the reckless ways of men. I watched them bill and coo as though They thought the sign of Spring was snow ; If men but timed their loves as we, 'Twould save this inconsistency." " Nay, Gossip," chirped the Robin, " nay ; I like their unreflective way. Besides, I heard enough to show Their love is proof against the snow : — ' Why wait,' he said, ' why wait for May, When love can warm a winter's day ? ' " lOl Vignettes in Rhyme POT-POURRI ' ' Si jeunesse savait ? — I PLUNGE my hand among the leaves : (An alien touch but dust perceives, Nought else supposes ;) For me those fragrant ruins raise Clear memory of the vanished days When they were roses. " If youth but knew ! " Ah, " if," in truth ? — I can recall with what gay youth, To what light chorus, Unsobered yet by time or change. We roamed the many-gabled Grange, All life before us ; Braved the old clock-tower's dust and damp, To catch the dim Arthurian camp In misty distance ; Peered at the still-room's sacred stores, Or rapped at walls for sliding doors Of feigned existence. What need had we for thoughts or cares ! The hot sun parched the old parterres And " flowerful closes " ; I02 POT-POU RRI We roused the rooks with rounds and glees, Played hide-and-seek behind the trees, — Then plucked these roses. Louise was one — light, glib Louise, So freshly freed from school decrees You scarce could stop her ; And Bell, the Beauty, unsurprised At fallen locks that scandalised Our dear " Miss Proper " ; — Shy Ruth, all heart and tenderness. Who wept — like Chaucer's Prioress, When Dash was smitten ; Who blushed before the mildest men, Yet waxed a very Corday when You teased her kitten. I loved them all. Bell first and best ; Louise the next — for days of jest Or madcap masking; And Ruth, I thought, — why, failing these, When my High- Mightiness should please, She'd come for asking. Louise was grave when last we met ; Bell's beauty, like a sun, has set ; And Ruth, Heaven bless her, Ruth that I wooed, — and wooed in vain, — Has gone where neither grief nor pain Can now distress her. 103 Vignettes in Rhy ME DOROTHY A REVERIE SUGGESTED BY THE NAME UPON A PANE OHE then must once have looked, as I ^ Look now, across the level rye, — Past Church and Manor-house, and seen. As now I see, the village green. The bridge, and Walton's river — she Whose old-world name was " Dorothy." The swallows must have twittered, too, Above her head ; the roses blew Below, no doubt, — and, sure, the South Crept up the wall and kissed her mouth, — That wistful mouth, which comes to me Linked with her name of Dorothy. What was she like ? I picture her Unmeet for uncouth worshipper; — Soft, — pensive, — far too subtly graced To suit the blunt bucolic taste, 104 Dorothy Whose crude perception could but see " Ma'am Fine-airs " in " Miss Dorothy." How not ? She loved, maybe, perfume, Soft textures, lace, a half-lit room ; — Perchance too candidly preferred " Clarissa " to a gossip's word ; — And, for the rest, would seem to be Or proud, or dull — this Dorothy. Poor child !— with heart the down-lined nest Of warmest instincts unconfest, Soft, callow things that vaguely felt The breeze caress, the sunlight melt, But yet, by some obscure decree, Unwinged from birth ;■ — poor Dorothy ! Not less I dream her mute desire To acred churl and booby squire. Now pale, with timorous eyes that filled At " twice-told tales " of foxes killed ; — Now trembling when slow tongues grew free 'Twixt sport, and Port — and Dorothy ! 'Twas then she'd seek this nook, and find Its evening landscape balmy-kind ; And here, where still her gentle name Lives on the old green glass, would frame Fond dreams of unfound harmony 'Twixt heart and heart. Poor Dorothy ! 105 Vignettes in Rhyme l'envoi. These last I spoke. Then Florence said, Below me, — " Dreams ? Delusions, Fred ! " Next, with a pause, — she bent the while Over a rose, with roguish smile — " But how disgusted, Sir, you'll be To hear / scrawled that ' Dorothy.' " 1 06 AviCE AVICE " On serait tente de lui dire, Bonjour, Mademoiselle la Berge- ronnette. " — ViCTOR HuGO. THOUGH the voice of modern schools Has demurred, By the dreamy Asian creed 'Tis averred, That the souls of men, released From their bodies when deceased, Sometimes enter in a beast, — Or a bird. I have watched you long, Avice, — Watched you so, I have found your secret out ; And I know That the restless ribboned things. Where your slope of shoulder springs. Are but undeveloped wings That will grow. &' When you enter in a room. It is stirred With the wayward, flashing flight Of a bird ; 107 Vignettes in Rhyme And you speak — and bring with you Leaf and sun-ray, bud and blue, And the wind-breath and the dew. At a word. When you called to me my name, Then again When I heard your single cry In the lane. All the sound was as the " sweet " Which the birds to birds repeat In their thank-song to the heat After rain. When you sang the Schivalbenlied, 'Twas absurd, — But it seemed no human note That I heard ; For your strain had all the trills. All the little shakes and stills, Of the over-song that rills From a bird. You have just their eager, quick " Airs de tete," All their flush and fever-heat When elate; Every bird-like nod and beck. And a bird's own curve of neck When she gives a little peck To her mate. 1 08 AviCE When you left me, only now, In that furred, Puffed, and feathered Polish dress, I was spurred Just to catch you, O my Sweet, By the bodice trim and neat, — Just to feel your heart a-beat. Like a bird. Yet, alas ! Love's light you deign But to wear As the dew upon your plumes, And you care Not a whit for rest or hush ; But the leaves, the lyric gush, And the wing-power, and the rush Of the air. So I dare not woo you, Sweet, For a day. Lest I lose you in a flash. As I may; Did I tell you tender things, You would shake your sudden wings ;- You would start from him who sings. And away. 109 Vignettes in Rhyme THE LOVE-LETTER " J'ai -vu les maurs de man terns, et fai public cette lettre/ — La Nouvelle HeloYse. IF this should fail, why then I scarcely know What could succeed. Here's brilliancy (and banter), Byron ad lib., a chapter of Rousseau ; — If this should fail, then tcwpora mutantur ; Style's out of date, and love, as a profession, Acquires no aid from beauty of expression. " The men who think as I, I fear, are few," (Cynics would say twere well if they were fewer) ; " I am not what I seem," — (indeed, 'tis true ; Though, as a sentiment, it might be newer) ; " Mine is a soul whose deeper feelings lie More deep than words " — (as these exemplify). " I will not say when first your beauty's sun Illumed my life," — (it needs imagination) ; " For me to see you and to love were one," — (This will account for some precipitation) ; " Let it suffice that worship more devoted Ne'er throbbed," et ccetera. The rest is quoted. I ID The Love-Letter " If Love can look with all-prophetic eye," — (Ah, if he could, how many would be single !) " If truly spirit unto spirit cry," — (The ears of some most terribly must tingle !) " Then I have dreamed you will not turn your face." This next, I think, is more than commonplace. " Why should we speak, if Love, interpreting, Forestall the speech with favour found before ? Why should we plead ? — it were an idle thing. If Love himself be Love's ambassador ! " Blot, as I live ! Shall we erase it ? No ; — 'Twill show we write currente calanio. " My fate, — my fortune, I commit to you," — (In point of fact, the latter's not extensive) ; " Without you I am poor indeed," — (strike through, 'Tis true but crude — 'twould make her appre- hensive) ; " My life is yours — I lay it at your feet," (Having no choice but Hymen or the Fleet). " Give me the right to stand within the shrine, Where never yet my faltering feet intruded ; Give me the right to call you wholly mine," — (That is. Consols and Three-per-Cents in- cluded) ; " To guard your rest from every care that cankers, — To keep your life, — (and balance at your banker's). Ill Vignettes in Rhyme " Compel me not to long for your reply ; Suspense makes havoc with the mind — (and muscles) ; " Winged Hope takes flight," — (which means that I must fly, Default of funds, to Paris or to Brussels) ; " I cannot wait ! My own, my queen — Priscilla! Write by return." And iioiv for a Manilla ! " Miss Blank," at " Blank." Jemima, let it go ; And I, meanwhile, will idle with " Sir Walter "; Stay, let me keep the first rough copy, though — 'Twill serve again. There's but the name to alter ; And Love, — that starves, — must knock at every portal, In forma pauperis. We are but mortal ! ?12 The Misogynist THE MISOGYNIST " // diait un jeune homme cCun hien beatt passe." WHEN first he sought our haunts, he wore His locks in Hamlet-style ; His brow with thought was " sicklied o'er," — We rarely saw him smile ; And, e'en when none was looking on, His air was always woe-begone. He kept, I think, his bosom bare To imitate Jean Paul ; His solitary topics were Esthetics, Fate, and Soul ; — Although at times, but not for long, Ele bowed his Intellect to song. He served, he said, a Muse of Tears : I know his verses breathed A fine funereal air of biers. And objects cypress-wreathed ; — Indeed, his tried acquaintance fled An ode he named " The Sheeted Dead." 113 H Vignettes in Rhyme In these light mooJs, I call to mind, He darkly would allude To some dread sorrow undefined, — Some passion unsubdued ; Then break into a ghastly laugh, And talk of Keats his epitaph. He railed at women's faith as Cant ; We thought him grandest when He named them Siren-shapes that '* chant On blanching bones of Men " ; — Alas, not e'en the great go free From that insidious minstrelsy ! His lot, he oft would gravely urge, Lay on a lone Rock where Around Time-beaten bases surge The Billows of Despair. We dreamed it true. ^Ve never knew \Vhat 2;entler ears he told it to. &^ We, bound with him in common care, One-minded, celibate. Resolved to Thought and Diet spare Our lives to dedicate ; — We, truly, in no common sense, Deserved his closest confidence ! But soon, and yet, though soon, too late. We, sorrowing, sighed to find A gradual softness enervate That all superior mind, 114 The Misogynist Until, — in full assembly met, He dared to speak of Etiquette.. The verse that we severe had known, Assumed a wanton air, — A fond effeminate monotone Of eyebrows, lips, and hair ; Not t]^os stirred him now or vovs, He read " The Angel in the House " ! Nay worse. He, once sublime to chaff. Grew ludicrously sore If we but named a photograph We found him simpering o'er ; Or told how in his chambers lurked A watch-guard intricately worked. Then worse again. He tried to dress ; He trimmed his tragic mane ; Announced at length (to our distress) He had not " lived in vain " ; — Thenceforth his one prevailing mood Became a base beatitude. And O Jean Paul, and Fate, and Soul ! We met him last, grown stout, His throat with wedlock's triple roll, " All wool," enwound about ; His very hat had changed its brim ; — Our course was clear, — we banished him ! 115 Vignettes in Rhyme A VIRTUOSO BE seated, pray. " A grave appeal " ? The sufferers by the war, of course; Ah, what a sight for us who feel, — This monstrous uiclodramc of Force ! We, Sir, we connoisseurs, should know, On whom its heaviest burden falls ; Collections shattered at a blow, Museums turned to hospitals ! " And worse," you say ; " the wide distress ! " Alas, 'tis true distress exists, Though, let me add, our worthy Press Have no mean skill as colour is ts ; Speaking of colour, next your seat There hangs a sketch from Vernet's hand ; Some Moscow fancy, incomplete. Yet not indifferently planned ; Note specially the gray old Guard, Who tears his tattered coat to wrap A closer bandage round the scarred And frozen comrade in his lap ; — ii6 A Virtuoso But, as regards the present war, — Now don't you think our pride of pence Goes — may I say it? — somewhat far For objects of benevolence ? You hesitate. For my part, I — Though ranking Paris next to Rome, ^sthetically — still reply That " Charity begins at Home." The words remind me. Did you catch My so-named " Hunt " ? The girl's a gem ; And look how those lean rascals snatch The pile of scraps she brings to them ! " But your appeal's for home," — you say, — For home, and English poor ! Indeed ! I thought Philanthropy to-day Was blind to mere domestic need — However sore — Yet though one grants That home should have the foremost claims. At least these Continental wants Assume intelligil)le names ; While here with us — Ah ! who could hope To verify the varied pleas, Or from liis private means to cope With all our shrill necessities ! Impossible ! One might as well Attempt comparison of creeds ; Or fill that huge Malayan shell With these half-dozen Indian beads. 117 Vignettes in Rhyme Moreover, add that every one So well exalts his pet distress, 'Tis — Give to all, or give to none, If you'd avoid invidiousness. Your case, I feel, is sad as A.'s, The same applies to B.'s and C.'s ; By my selection I should raise An alphabet of rivalries ; And life is short, — I see you look At yonder dish, a priceless bit ; You'll find it etched in Jacquemart's book, They say that Raphael painted it ; — And life is short, you understand; So, if I only hold you out An open though an empty hand. Why, you'll forgive me, I've no doubt. Nay, do not rise. You seem amused ; One can but be consistent. Sir ! 'Twas on these grounds 1 just refused Some gushing lady-almoner, — Believe me, on these very grounds. Good-bye, then. Ah, a rarity ! That cost me quite three hundred pounds, - That Diirer figure,—" Charity." n8 Laissez Faire LAISSEZ FAIRE " Prophete r edits, Prophete links. Das Weltkind in der Mitten. " — Goethe's Bine zu Coblenx. 'T^O left, here's B., half-Communist, ^ Who talks a chastened treason, And C, a something-else in " ist," Harangues, to right, on Reason. B., from his " tribune," fulminates At Throne and Constitution, Nay — with the walnuts — advocates Reform by revolution ; While C.'s peculiar coterie Have now in full rehearsal Some patent new Philosophy To make doubt universal. And yet — why not ? If zealots burn, Their zeal has not affected My taste for salmon and Sauterne, Or I might have objected : — 119 Vignettes in Rhyme Friend B., the argument you choose Has been by France refuted ; And C, inon chcr, your novel views Are just Tom Paine, diluted ; There's but one creed, — that's Laissez faire. Behold its mild apostle ! My dear, declamatory pair, Although you shout and jostle, Not your ejihemeral hands, nor mine. Time's Gordian knots shall sunder, — Will laid three casks of this old wine : Who'll drink the last, I wonder ? 1 20 To q^ H. F. TO Q. H. F. SUGGESTED BY A CHAPTER IN SIR THEODORE martin's " HORACE " ('' ANCIENT CLASSICS FOR ENGLISH READERS " ) TTORATIUS FLACCUS, b.c. 8," ^ -*- There's not a doubt about the date,— You're dead and buried : As you observed, the seasons roll ; And 'cross the Styx full many a soul Has Charon ferried, Since, mourned of men and Muses nine, They laid you on the Esquiline. And that was centuries ago ! You'd think we'd learned enough, T know, To help refine us. Since last you trod the Sacred Street, And tacked from mortal fear to meet The bore Crispinus ; Or, by your cold Digentia, set The web of winter birding-net. 121 Vignettes in Rhyme Ours is so far-advanced an age ! Sensation tales, a classic stage, Commodious villas ! We boast high art, an Albert Hall, Australian meats, and men who call Their sires gorillas ! We have a thousand things, you see, Not dreamt in your philosophy. And yet, how strange ! Our " world," to-day. Tried in the scale, would scarce outweigh Your Roman cronies ; Walk in the Park — you'll seldom fail To find a Sybaris on the rail By Lydia's ponies, Or hap on Barrus, wigged and stayed, Ogling some unsuspecting maid. The great Gargilius, then, behold ! His " long-bow " hunting tales of old Are now but duller ; Fair Neobule too ! Is not One Hebrus here — from Aldershot ? Aha, you colour ! Be wise. There old Canidia sits ; No doubt she's tearing you to bits. And look, dyspeptic, brave, and kind, Comes dear Maecenas, half behind Terentia's skirting ; 122 To (^ H. F. Here's Pyrrha, " golden-haired " at will ; Prig Damasippus, preaching still ; Asterie flirting, — Radiant, of course. We'll make her black, - Ask her when Gyges' ship comes back. So with the rest. Who will may trace Behind the new each elder face Defined as clearly ; Science proceeds, and man stands still ; Our " world " to-day's as good or ill, — As cultured (nearly), — As yours was, Horace ! You alone. Unmatched, unmet, we have not known. 123 Vignettes in Rhyme TO "LYDIA LANGUISH" " // mefaut dcs emotions. " — Blanche Amory. YOU ask me, Lydia, " whether I, If you refuse my suit, shall die." (Now pray don't let this hurt you !) Although the time be out of joint, I should not think a bodkin's point The sole resource of virtue ; Nor shall I, though your mood endure, Attempt a final Water-cure Except against my wishes ; For I respectfully decline To dignify the Serpentine, And make hors-d'oriivrcs for fishes ; But if you ask me whether I Composedly can go. Without a look, without a sigh, Why, then T answer — No. " You are assured," you sadly say (If in this most considerate way To treat my suit your will is), That I shall " tpickly find as fair Some new Neaira's tangled hair — Some easier Amaryllis." 124 To *^'Lydia Languish •>■) I cannot promise to be cold If smiles are kind as yours of old On lips of later beauties ; Nor can I, if I would, forget The homage that is Nature's debt, While man has social duties ; But if you ask shall I prefer To you I honour so, A somewhat visionary Her, I answer truly — No. You fear, you frankly add, " to find In me too late the altered mind That altering Time estranges." To this I make response that we (As physiologists agree) Must have septennial changes ; This is a thing beyond control, And it were best upon the whole To try and find out whether We could not, by some means, arrange This not-to-be-avoided change So as to change together : But, had you asked me to allow That you could ever grow Less amiable than you are now, — Emphatically — No. But — to be serious — if you care To know how I shall really bear This much-discussed rejection, 135 Vignettes in Rhyme I answer you. As feeling men Behave, in best romances, when You outrage their affection ; — With that gesticulatory woe. By which, as melodramas show, Despair is indicated ; Enforced by all the liquid grief Which hugest pocket-handkerchief Has ever simulated ; And when, arrived so far, you say In tragic accents " Go," Then, Lydia, then ... I still shall stay, And firmly answer — No. 126 A Gage d'Amour A GAGE D'AMOUR (Horace, hi. 8) ' ' Martiis Calebs quid agam Kalendh CHARLES, — for it seems you wish to know, — You wonder what could scare me so. And why, in this long-locked bureau, With trembUng fingers, — With tragic air, I now replace This ancient web of yellow lace, Among whose faded folds the trace Of perfume lingers. Friend of my youth, severe as true, I guess the train your thoughts pursue ; But this my state is nowise due To indigestion ; I had forgotten it was there, A scarf that Some-one used to wear. Hinc nice lacrimal, — so spare Your cynic question. 127 Vignettes in Rhyme Some-one who is not girlish now, And wed long since. We meet and bow ; I don't suppose our broken vow Affects us keenly ; Yet, trifling though my act ai)pears, Your Sternes would make it ground for tears ;- One can't disturb the dust of years, And smile serenely. " My golden locks " are gray and chill. For hers, — let them be sacred still; But yet, I own, a boyish thrill Went dancing through me, Charles, when I held yon yellow lace ; For, from its dusty hiding-place, Peeped out an arch, ingenuous face That beckoned to me. We shut our heart up, nowadays. Like some old music-box that plays Unfashionable airs that raise Derisive pity; Alas, — a nothing starts the spring ; And lo, the sentimental thing At once commences quavering Its lover's ditty. Laugh, if you like. The boy in me, — The boy that was, — revived to see The fresh young smile that shone when she, Of old, was tender. 128 A Gage d'Amour Once more we trod the Golden Way, — That mother you saw yesterday, — And I, whom none can well portray. As young, or slender. She twirled the flimsy scarf about Her pretty head, and stepping out Slipped arm in mine, with half a pout Of childish pleasure. Where we were bound no mortal knows, For then you plunged in Ireland's woes. And brought me blankly back to prose And Gladstone's measure. Well, well, the wisest bend to Fate. My brown old books around me wait, My pipe still holds, unconfiscate. Its wonted station. Pass me the wine. To Those that keep The bachelor's secluded sleep Peaceful, inviolate, and deep, I pour libation ! 129 Vignettes in Rhyme CUPID'S ALLEY A MORALITY 0, Love's hut a dance. Where Time plays the fiddle ! See the couples advance, — 0, IjOiie's but a dance/ A ivhisper, a glance, — " Shall zue tivirl doivn the middle F " 0, Lovers but a dance. Where Time plays the fiddle ! TT runs (so saith my Chronicler) ^ Across a smoky City ; — A Babel filled with buzz and whirr, Huge, gloomy, black and gritty; Dark-louring looks the hill-side near, Dark-yawning looks the valley, — But here 'tis always fresh and clear, For here — is " Cupid's Alley." And, from an Arbour cool and green. With aspect down the middle, An ancient Fiddler, gray and lean, Scrapes on an ancient fiddle ; Alert he seems, but aged enow To punt the Stygian galley ; — With wisp of forelock on his brow, He plays — in " Cupid's Alley." 130 Cupid's Alley All day he plays, — a single tune ! — But, by the oddest chances, Gavotte, or Brawl, or Rigadoon, It suits all kinds of dances ; My Lord may walk a pas de Coin- To Jenny's pas dc Chalet ; — The folks who ne'er have danced before. Can dance — in " Cupid's Alley." And here, for ages yet untold, Long, long before my ditty, Came high and low, and young and old. From out the crowded City ; And still to-day they come, they go. And just as fancies tally, They foot it quick, they foot it slow. All day— in " Cupid's Alley." Strange Dance ! 'Tis free to Rank and Rags ; Here no distinction flatters. Here Riches shakes its money-bags, And Poverty its tatters ; Church, Army, Navy, Physic, Law ; — Maid, Mistress, Master, Valet ; Long locks, gray hairs, bald heads, and a', — They bob— in " Cupid's Alley." Strange pairs ! To laughing, light Fifteen Here capers Prudence thrifty ; Here Prodigal leads down the green A blushing Maid of fifty ; 131 Vignettes in Rhyme Some treat it as a serious thing, And some but shilly-shally; And some have danced without the ring (Ah me !) — in " Cupid's Alley." And sometimes one to one will dance, And think of one behind her ; And one by one will stand, perchance. Yet look all ways to find her ; Some seek a partner with a sigh, Some win him with a sally ; And some, they know not how nor why, Strange fate ! — of " Cupid's Alley." And some will dance an age or so Who came for half a minute ; And some, who like the game, will go Before they well begin it ; And some will vow they're " danced to death," Who (somehow) always rally; Strange cures are wrought (mine Author saith), Strange cures ! — in " Cupid's Alley." It may be one will dance to-day. And dance no more to-morrow ; It may be one will steal away And nurse a life-long sorrow ; What then ? The rest advance, evade. Unite, dispart, and dally, Re-set, coquet, and gallopade. Not less — in " Cupid's Alley." 132 Cupid's Alley For till that City's wheel-work vast And shuddering beams shall crumble ;- And till that Fiddler lean at last From off his seat shall tumble ; — Till then (the Civic records say), This quaint, fantastic ballet Of Go and Stay, of Yea and Nay, Must last — in " Cupid's Alley." 133 Vignettes in Rhyme T THE IDYLL OF THE CARP (The Scene is in a garden, — where you please, So that it lie in France, and have withal Its gray-stoned pond beneath the arching trees. And Triton huge, with moss for coronal. A Princess, ^ — feeding fish. To her Denise. ) The Princess. HESE, Denise, are my Suitors ! Denise. Where ? The Princess. These fish, I feed them daily here at morn and night With crumbs of favour, — scraps of graciousncss, Not meant, indeed, to mean the thing they wish. But serving just to edge an appetite. (Throwing bread.) Make haste. Messieurs ! Make haste, then ! Hurry. See, — See how they swim ! Would you not say, confess, Some crowd of Courtiers in the audience hall, When the King comes ? Denise. You're jesting ! 134 The Idyll of the Carp The Princess. Not at all. Watch but the great one yonder ! There's the Uuke ; — Those gill-marks mean his Order of St. Luke ; Those old skin-stains his boasted quarterings. Look what a swirl and roll of tide he brings ; Have you not marked him thus, with crest in air, Breathing disdain, descend the palace-stair ? You surely have, Denise. Denise. I think I have. But there's another, older and more grave, — The one that wears the round patch on the throat, And swims with such slow fins. Is he of note ? The Princess. Why that's my good chamhdlan — with his seal. A kind old man ! — he carves me orange-peel In quaint devices at refection-hours, Equips my sweet -pouch, brings me morning flowers, Or chirrups madrigals with old, sweet words, Such as men loved when people wooed like birds And spoke the true note first. No suitor he. Yet loves me too, — though in a graybeard's key. Vignettes in Rhyme Denise. Look, Madam, look ! — a fish without a stain ! O speckless, flcckless fish ! Who is it, pray, That bears him so discreetly ? The Princess. fontenay. You know him not ? My prince of shining locks ! My pearl ! — my Phoenix ! — my pomander-box ! He loves not Me, alas ! The man's too vain ! He loves his doublet better than my suit, — His graces than my favours. Still his sash Sits not amiss, and he can touch the lute Not wholly out of tune — Denise. Ai ! what a splash ! Who is it comes with such a sudden dash Plump i' the midst, and leaps the others clear ? The Princess. Ho ! for a trumpet ! Let the bells be rung ! Baron of Sans-terre, Lord of Pre's-en-Ciewc, Vidame of Vol-au-Vent — '■'■ et aultres lieitx!" Bah ! How I hate his Gasconading tongue ! Why, that's my bragging Bravo-Musketeer — My carpet cut-throat, valiant by a scar Got in a brawl that stands for Spanish war : — His very life's a splash ! 136 The Idyll of the Carp Denise. I'd rather wear E'en such a patched and melancholy air, As his, — that motley one, — who keeps the wall, And hugs his own lean thoughts for carnival. The Princess. My frankest wooer ! Thus his love he tells To mournful moving of his cap and bells. He loves me (so he saith) as Slaves the Free,— As Cowards War, — as young Maids Constancy. Item, he loves me as the Hawk the Dove ; He loves me as the Inquisition Thought; — Denise. " He loves ? — he loves ? " Why all this loving's naught ! The Princess. And " Naught (quoth Jacquot) makes the sum of Love ! " Denise. The cynic knave ! How call you this one here ? — This small shy-looking fish, that hovers near. And circles, like a cat around a cage, To snatch the surplus. 137 Vignettes in Rhyme The Princess. Cherubin, the page. 'Tis but a child, yet with that roguish smile, And those sly looks, the child will make hearts ache Not five years hence, I prophesy. Meanwhile, He lives to plague the swans upon the lake. To steal my comfits, and the monkey's cake. Denise. And these — that swim aside — who may these be? The Princess. Those — are two gentlemen of Picardy. Equal in blood, — of equal bravery : — D'Aurelles and Maufrk;nac. They hunt in pair; I mete them morsels with an equal care. Lest they should eat each other, — or eat Me. Denise. And that — and that — and that ? The Princess. I name them not. Those are the crowd who merely think their lot The lighter by my land. 138 The Idyll of the Carp Denise. And is there none More prized than most ? There surely must be one, — A Carp of carps ! The Princess. Ah me ! — he will not come ! He swims at large, — looks shyly on, — is dumb. Sometimes, indeed, I think he fain would nibble, But while he stays with doubts and fears to quibble, Some gilded fop, or mincing courtier-fribble, SUps smartly in, — and gets the proffered crumb. He should have all my crumbs — if he'd but ask ; Nay, an he would, it were no hopeless task To gain a something more. But though he's brave, He's far too proud to be a dangling slave ; And then — he's modest ! So ... he will not come ! ^39 Vignettes in Rhyme THE SUNDIAL 'HpIS an old dial, dark with many a stain; -^ In summer crowned with drifting orchard bloom, Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain. And white in winter like a marble tomb ; And round about its gray, time-eaten brow Lean letters speak — a worn and shattered row : J am a 'Sbatic : a SijaUotoe too arte t{)oii : 31 marfec ti)e ®imc: jea^c, Gossip, Dost tfjou jsoe? Here would the ringdoves linger, head to head ; And here the snail a silver course would run, Beating old Time ; and here the peacock spread His gold-green glory, shutting out the sun. The tardy shade moved forward to the noon ; Betwixt the paths a dainty Beauty stept, That swung a flower, and, smiUng, hummed a tune, — Before whose feet a barking spaniel leapt. 140 The Sundial O'er her blue dress an endless blossom strayed ; About her tendril-curls the sunlight shone ; And round her train the tiger-lilies swayed, Like courtiers bowing till the queen be gone. She leaned upon the slab a little while, Then drew a jewelled pencil from her zone, Scribbled a something with a frolic smile, Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the stone. The shade slipped on, no swifter than the snail ; There came a second lady to the place, Dove-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and pale — An inner beauty shining from her face. She, as if listless with a lonely love. Straying among the alleys with a book, — Herrick or Herbert, — watched the circling dove, And spied the tiny letter in the nook. Then, like to one who confirmation found Of some dread secret half-accounted true, — Who knew what hands and hearts the letter bound, And argued loving commerce 'twixt the two, — She bent her fair young forehead on the stone ; The dark shade gloomed an instant on her head; And 'twixt her taper-fingers pearled and shone The single tear that tear-worn eyes will shed. 141 Vignettes in Rhyme The shade shpped onward to the falHng gloom ; There came a soldier gallant in her stead, Swinging a beaver with a swaling plume, A ribboned love-lock rippling from his head ; Blue-eyed, frank-faced, with clear and open brow, Scar-seamed a little, as the women love ; So kindly fronted that you marvel how The frequent sword-hilt had so frayed his glove ; Who switched at Psyche plunging in the sun ; Uncrowned three lilies with a backward swinge ; And standing somewhat widely, like to one More used to " Boot and Saddle " than to cringe As courtiers do, but gentleman withal, Took out the note ; held it as one who feared The fragile thing he held would slip and fall ; Read and re-read, pulling his tawny beard; Kissed it, I think, and hid it in his breast ; Laughed softly in a flattered happy way, Arranged the broidered iialdrick on his chest. And sauntered past, singing a roundelay. The shade crept forward through the dying glow ; There came no more nor dame nor cavalier; But for a little time the brass will show A small gray spot — the record of a tear. 142 An Unfinished Song AN UNFINISHED SONG " Cant.it Deo qui vivit Deo. YES, he was well-nigh gone and near his rest, The year could not renew him ; nor the cry Of building nightingales about the nest ; Nor that soft freshness of the May-wind's sigh, That fell before the garden scents, and died Between the ampler leafage of the trees : All these he knew not, lying open-eyed, Deep in a dream that was not pain nor ease, But death not yet. Outside a woman talked — His wife she was — whose clicking needles sped To faded phrases of complaint that balked My rising words of comfort. Overhead, A cage that hung amid the jasmine stars Trembled a httle, and a blossom dropped. Then notes came pouring through the wicker bars, Climbed half a rapid arc of song, and stopped. H3 Vignettes in Rhyme " Is it a thrush ? " I asked. " A thrush," she said. "That was Will's tune. Will taught him that before He left the doorway settle for his bed, Sick as you see, and couldn't teach him more. " He'd bring his Bible here o' nights, would Will, Following the light, and whiles when it was dark And days were warm, he'd sit there whistUng still. Teaching the bird. He whistled like a lark." " Jack ! Jack ! " A joyous flutter stirred the cage, Shaking the blossoms down. The bird began ; The woman turned again to want and wage. And in the inner chamber sighed the man. How clear the song was ! Musing as I heard. My fancies wandered from the droning wife To sad comparison of man and bird, — The broken song, the uncompleted life. That seemed a broken song ; and of the two. My thought a moment deemed the bird more blest. That, when the sun shone, sang the notes it knew, Without desire or knowledge of the rest. Nay, happier man. For him futurity Still hides a hope that this his earthly praise Finds heavenly end, for surely will not He, Solver of all, above his Flower of Days, 144 An Unfinished Song Teach him the song that no one Uving knows ? Let the man die, with that half-chant of his, — What Now discovers not Hereafter shows, And God will surely teach him more than this. Again the Bird. I turned, and passed along ; But Time and Death, Eternity and Change, Talked with me ever, and the climbing song Rose in my hearing, beautiful and strange. 145 K Vignettes in Rhyme THE CHILD-MUSICIAN HE had played for his lordship's levee, He had played for her ladyship's whim, Till the poor little head was heavy, And the poor little brain would swim. And the face grew peaked and eerie. And the large eyes strange and bright, And they said — too late — " He is weary ! He shall rest for, at least, To-night ! " But at dawn, when the birds were waking, As they watched in the silent room, With the sound of a strained cord l)reaking, A something snapped in the gloom. 'Twas a string of his violoncello, And they heard him stir in his bed : — " Make room for a tired little fellow, Kind God ! — " was the last that he said. 146 The Cradle THE CRADLE HOW steadfastly she'd worked at it How lovingly had drest With all her would-be-mother's wit That little rosy nest ! How longingly she'd hung on it ! — It sometimes seemed, she said, There lay beneath its coverlet A little sleeping head. He came at last, the tiny guest. Ere bleak December fled ; That rosy nest he never prest . Her cofifin was his bed. 147 Vignettes in Rhyme BEFORE SEDAN ' ' Tin- dead hand clasped a letter. " — Special Correspondence. HERE in this leafy place Quiet he lies, Cold, with his sightless face Turned to the skies ; 'Tis but another dead ; All you can say is said. Carry his body hence, — Kings must have slaves ; Kings climb to eminence Over men's graves : So this man's eye is dim ; — Throw the earth over him. What was the white you touched, There, at his side ? Paper his hand had clutched Tight ere he died ; — Message or wish, may be ; — Smooth the folds out and see. 148 Before Sedan Hardly the worst of us Here could have smiled !- Only the tremulous Words of a child ; — Prattle, that has for stops Just a few ruddy drops. Look. She is sad to miss, Morning and night. His — her dead father's — kiss Tries to be bright, Good to mamma, and sweet. That is all. " Marguerite." Ah, if beside the dead Slumbered the pain ! Ah, if the hearts that bled Slept with the slain ! If the grief died ; — But no ;- Death will not have it so. 149 Vignettes in Rhyme THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE A SKETCH IN A CEMETERY OUT from the City's dust and roar, You wandered through the open door; Paused at a plaything pail and spade Across a tiny hillock laid ; Then noted on your dexter side Some moneyed mourner's " love or pride," And so, — beyond a hawthorn-tree, Showering its rain of rosy bloom Alike on low and lofty tomb, — You came upon it — suddenly. How strange ! The very grasses' growth Around it seemed forlorn and loath ; The very ivy seemed to turn Askance that wreathed the neighbour urn. The slab had sunk ; the head declined, And left the rails a wreck behind. No name; you traced a " 6," — a " 7," Part of " aftliction " and of " Heaven " ; And then, in letters sharp and clear, You read — O Irony austere ! — " Tho' lost to Sight, to Mem'ry dear" 150 My Landlady MY LANDLADY A SMALL brisk woman, capped with many a bow ; " Yes," so she says, " and younger, too, than some," Who bids me, bustUng, " God speed," when I go. And gives me, rustling, " Welcome," when I come. " Ay, sir, 'tis cold, — and freezing hard, — they say ; I'd like to give that hulking brute a hit — Beating his horse in such a shameful way ! — Step here, sir, till your fire's blazed up a bit." A musky haunt of lavender and shells, Quaint -figured Chinese monsters, toys, and trays — A life's collection — where each object tells Of fashions gone and half-forgotten ways : — A glossy screen, where wide-mouth dragons ramp ; A vexed inscription in a sampler-frame ; A shade of beads upon a red-capped lamp ; A child's mug graven with a golden name ; 151 Vignettes in Rhyme A pictured ship, with full-blown canvas set ; A card, with sea-weed twisted to a wreath, Circling a silky curl as black as jet, With yellow writing faded underneath. Looking, I sink within the shrouded chair. And note the objects slowly, one by one, And light at last upon a portrait there, — Wide-collared, raven-haired. "Yes, 'tis my son ! " "Where is he?" "Ah, sir, he is dead— my boy ! Nigh ten long years ago — in 'sixty-three ; He's always living in my head — my boy ! He was left drowning in the Southern Sea. " There were two souls washed overboard, they said, And one the waves broucht back ; but he was left. They saw him place the life-buoy o'er his head ; The sea was running wildly ; — he was left. " He was a strong, strong .swimmer. Do you know, When the wind whistled yesternight, I cried. And prayed to God, — though 'twas so long ago,— He did not struggle much before he died. 152 My Landlady " 'Tvvas his third voyage. That's the box he brought, — Or would have brought- — my poor deserted boy ! And these the words the agents sent — they thought That money, perhaps, cou 1 make my loss a joy. " Look, sir, I've something here that I prize more : This is a fragment of the poor lad's coat, — That other clutched him as the wave went o'er. And this stayed in his hand. That's what they wrote. " Well, well, 'tis done. My story's shocking you ; — Grief is for them that have both time and wealth : We can't mourn much, who have much work to do ; — Your fire is bright. Thank God, I have my health ! " •53 Vignettes in Rhyme BEFORE THE CURTAIN MISS PEACOCK 's called." And who demurs ? Not I who write, for certain ; If praise be due, one sure prefers That some such face as fresh as hers Should come before the curtain. And yet, most strange to say, I find (E'en bards are sometimes prosy) Her presence here but brings to mind That undistinguished crowd behind For whom life's not so rosy. The pleased young premier led her on, But where are all the others ? Where is that nimble servant John ? And Where's the comic Uncle gone ? And where that best of Mothers ? Where is " Sir Lumley Leycester, Bart." ? And where the crafty Cousin ? — That man may have a kindly heart, And yet each night ('tis in the part) Must poison half-a-dozen ! 154 Before the Curtain Where is the cool Detective, — he Should surely be applauded ? The Lawyer, who refused the fee ? — The Wedding Guests (in number three) ?- Why are they all defrauded ? The men who worked the cataract ? The plush-clad carpet Ufters ? — Where is the countless host, in fact, Whose cue is not to speak, but act, — The " supers " and the shifters ? Think what a crowd whom none recall. Unsung, — -unpraised,— unpitied ; Women for whom no bouquets fall. And men whose names no galleries bawl,- The Great unBenefit-ed ! Ah, Reader, ere you turn the page, I leave you this for Moral : — Remember those who tread Life's stage With weary feet and scantest wage. And ne'er a leaf for laurel ! 155 Vignettes in Rhyme A NIGHTINGALE IN KENSINGTON GARDENS THEY paused, — the cripple in the chair, More bent with pain than age; The mother with her lines of care ; The many-buttoned page; The noisy, red-cheeked nursery-maid, With straggling train of three ; The Frenchman with his frogs and braid ;- All, curious, paused to see. If possible, the small, dusk bird That from the almond l)ough. Had poured the joyous chant they heard. So suddenly, but now. And one poor Poet stopped and thought- How many a lonely lay That bird had sung ere fortune brought It near the common way, 156 Nightingale in Kensington Gardens Where the crowd hears the note. And then, — What birds must sing the song, To whom that hour of listening men Could ne'er in life belong ! But " Art for Art ! " the Poet said, " 'Tis still the Nightingale, That sings where no men's feet will tread, And praise and audience fail." '57 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS WHEN Spring conies laughing By vale and hill, By wind-flower walking And daffodil, — Sing stars of morning, Sing morning skies, Sing blue of speedwell, — And my Love's eyes. When comes the Summer, Full-leaved and strong. And gay birds gossip The orchard long, — Sing hid, sweet honey That no bee sips ; Sing red, red roses, — And my Love's lips. When Autumn scatters The leaves again, And piled sheaves bury The broad-wheeled wain, — Sing flutes of harvest Where men rejoice ; Sing rounds of reapers, — And my Love's voice. i6i L Miscellaneous Pieces But when comes Winter With hail and storm, And red fire roaring And ingle warm,— Sing first sad going Of friends that part ; Then sing glad meeting, — And my Love's heart. 162 The Paradox of Time THE PARADOX OF TIME (a variation on ronsard) " Le temps s'en -va, le temps s^en va, ma dame! Las ! le temps non : mais NOUS nous en allons / " T^IME goes, you say ? Ah no ! •^ Alas, Time stays, wc go ; Or else, were this not so. What need to chain the hours. For Youth were always ours ? Time goes, you say ? — ah no ! Ours is the eyes' deceit Of men whose flying feet Lead through some landscape low ; We pass, and think we see The earth's fixed surface flee : — Alas, Time stays, — we go ! Once in the days of old, Your locks were curling gold. And mine had shamed the crow. Now, in the self-same stage, We've reached the silver age ; Time goes, you say ? — ah no ! 163 Miscellaneous Pieces Once, when my voice was strong, T filled the woods with song To praise your " rose " and " snow My bird, that sang, is dead ; Where are your roses fled ? Alas, Time stays, — we go ! See, in what traversed ways, What backward Fate delays The hopes we used to know ; Where are our old desires ? — Ah, where those vanished fires ? Time goes, you say ? — ah no ! How far, how far, O Sweet, The past behind our feet Lies in the even-glow ! Now, on the forward way. Let us fold hands, and pray ; Alas, Time stays, — we go ! 164 To A Greek Girl TO A GREEK GIRL WITH breath of thyme and bees that hum, Across the years you seem to come,— Across the years with nymph-like head, And wind-blown brows unfiUeted ; A girlish shape that slips the bud In hnes of unspoiled symmetry ; A girlish shape that stirs the blood With pulse of Spring, Autonoe ! Where'er you pass, — where'er you go, I hear the pebbly rillet flow ; Where'er you go, — where'er you pass. There comes a gladness on the grass ; You bring blithe airs where'er you tread, — Blithe airs that blow from down and sea You wake in me a Pan not dead, — Not wholly dead ! — Autonoe ! How sweet with you on some green sod To wreathe the rustic garden-god ; How sweet beneath the chestnut's shade With you to weave a basket-braid ; 165 Miscellaneous Pieces To watch across the stricken chords Your rosy-twinkhng fingers flee ; To woo you in soft woodland words, With woodland pipe, Autonoe ! In vain, — in vain ! The years divide : Where Thamis rolls a murky tide, I sit and fill my painful reams, And see you only in my dreams ;— A vision, like Alcestis, brought From under-lands of Memory, — A dream of Form in days of Thought,- A dream, — a dream, Autonoe ! 1 66 The Death of Procris THE DEATH OF PROCRIS A VERSION SUGGESTED BY THE SO-NAMED PICTURE OF PIERO DI COSIMO, IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY PROCRIS the nymph had wedded Cephalus : He, till the spring had warmed to slow- winged days Heavy with June, untired and amorous, Named her his love; but now, in unknown ways, His heart was gone ; and evermore his gaze Turned from her own, and ever farther ranged His woodland war ; while she, in dull amaze. Beholding with the hours her husband changed, Sighed for his lost caress, by some hard god estranged. So, on a day, she rose and found him not. Alone, with wet, sad eye, she watched the shade Brighten below a soft- rayed sun that shot Arrows of light through all the deep-leaved glade ; Then, with weak hands, she knotted up the braid 167 Miscellaneous Pieces Of her brown hair, and o'er her shoulders cast Her crimson weed ; with faltering fingers made Her golden girdle's clasp to join, and past Down to the trackless wood, full pale and overcast. And all day long her slight spear devious flew, And harmless swerved her arrows from their aim. For ever, as the ivory bow she drew. Before her ran the still unwounded game. Then, at the last, a hunter's cry there came. And, lo, a hart that panted with the chase ; Thereat her cheek was lightened as with flame, And swift she gat her to a leafy place. Thinking, " I yet may chance unseen to see his face." Leaping he went, this hunter Cephalus, Bent in his hand his cornel bow he bare, Supple he was, round-Umbed and vigorous. Fleet as his dogs, a lean Laconian pair. He, when he spied the brown of Procris' hair Move in the covert, deeming that apart Some fawn lay hidden, loosed an arrow there ; Nor cared to turn and seek the speeded dart, Bounding above the fern, fast following up the hart. But Procris lay among the white wind-flowers. Shot in the throat. From out the little wound The slow blood drained, as drops in autumn showers Drip from the leaves upon the sodden ground. 168 The Death of Procris None saw her die but Lelaps, the swift hound, That watched her dumbly with a wistful fear, Till, at the dawn, the horned woodmen found And bore her gently on a sylvan bier, To lie beside the sea, — with many an uncouth tear. 169 Miscellaneous Pieces THE PRAYER OF THE SWINE TO CIRCE HUDDLING they came, with shag sides caked of mire, — With hoofs fresh suUied from the troughs o'er- turned, — With wrinkHng snouts, — yet eyes in which desire Of some strange thing unutterably burned. Unquenchable ; and still where'er She turned They rose about her, striving each o'er each, With restless, fierce importuning that yearned Through those brute masks some piteous tale to teach, Yet lacked the words thereto, denied the power of speech. For these — Eurylochus alone escaping — In truth, that small exploring band had been. Whom wise Odysseus, dim precaution shaping. Ever at heart, of peril unforeseen, Had sent inland; — whom then the islet-Queen, — The fair disastrous daughter of the Sun, — Had turned to likeness of the beast unclean. With evil wand transforming one by one To shapes of loathly swine, imbruted and undone. 170 The Prayer of the Swine to Circe But " the men's minds remained," and these for ever Made hungry suppliance through the fire-red eyes; Still searching aye, with impotent endeavour, To find, if yet, in any look, there lies A saving hope, or if they might surprise In that cold face soft pity's spark concealed. Which she, still scorning, evermore denies ; Nor was there in her any ruth revealed To whom with such mute speech and dumb words they appealed. IVhat hope is ours — what hope! To find no mercy After much war, and many travails done ? — Ah, kinder far than thy fell philtres, Circe, The ravening Cyclops and the Lcestrigon ! And O, thrice cursed be Laertes^ son. By ivhom, at last, tve watch the days decline With no fair ending of the quest begun. Condemned in sties to weary and to pine. And with men's hearts to beat through this foul front of swine ! For us not now, — for us, alas ! no more The old green glamour of the glancing sea ; For us not now the laughter of the oar, — The strong-ribbed keel ivhcrcin our comrades be ; Not now, at even, any more shall we, 171 MiSCELLANIiOlI S PlECES By loiu-browed banks and reedy river places, Walcli the beast hurry and the tvild foivl Jlee ; Or steering s/ioreiuard, in the upland spaces Have sight of curling smoke and fair-skinned foreign faces. Alas for us / — for whom the columned houses We left afnre-tinie, cheerless must abide ; Cheerless the hearth where now no guest carouses, — No minstrel raises song at eventide; And O, more cheerless than aught else beside, The wistful hearts with heavy loitging full ; — The ivifc that watched us on the zvaning tide, — The sire whose eyes with iveariness are dull, — ■ The mother whose slow tears fall on the carded wool. If swine we he, — if we indeed be swine, Daughter of Perse, make us sivine indeed, Well pleased on litter-straw to lie supine, — Well pleased on mast and acorn-shales to feed. Stirred by all instincts of the bestial breed; But O Unmerciful / O Pitiless ! Leave us not thus ivith sick men's hearts to bleed/ — To 'waste long days in yearning, dumb distress, And memory of things gone, and idler hopelessness ! Leave us at least, if not the things we were. At least consentient to the thing we be ; Not hapless doomed to loathe the forms we bear, And senseful roll in senseless savagery ; For surely cursed above all cursed are ive, 172 The Prayer of the Swine to Circe And surely this the bitterest of ill ; — To feel the old aspirings fair and free, Become blind motions of a powerless will Through swine -like frames dispersed to swine -like issues still. But make us men again, for that thou may^st ! Yea, make us men, Enchantress, and restore These grovelling shapes, degraded and debased, To fair embodiments of men once more ; Yea, by all men that ever woman bore ; Yea, e'en by him hereafter born in pain, Shall draw sustainmcnt from thy bosom's core. O'er whom thy face yet kindly shall remain. And find its like therein, — make thou us men again ! Make thou its men again, — if men but groping That dark Hereafter zvhich th' Olympians keep ; Make thou us men again, — if men bid hoping Behind death's doors security of sleep ; — For yet to laugh is somewhat, and to weep ; — To feel delight of living, and to plough The salt-blown acres of the shoreless deep; Better, — yea better far all these than bow Foul faces to foul earth, and yearn — as we do now! So they in speech unsyllabled. But She, The fair-tressed Goddess, born to be their bane. Uplifting straight her wand of ivory. Compelled them groaning to the sties again ; 173 Miscellaneous Pieces Where they in hopeless bitterness were fain To rend the oaken woodwork as before, And tear the troughs in impotence of pain, — Not knowing, they, that even at the door Divine Odysseus stood, — as Hermes told of yore. '74 A Case of Cameos A CASE OF CAMEOS AGATE. {The Power of Love.) "C^IRST, in an Agate-stone, a Centaur strong, -•- With square man-breasts and hide of dapple dun. His brown arms bound behind him with a thong. On strained croup strove to free himself from one, — A bolder rider than Bellerophon. For, on his back, by some strange power of art, There sat a laughing Boy with bow and dart, Who drave him where he would, and driving him, With that barbed toy would make him rear and start. To this was writ " World-victor " on the rim. CHALCEDONY. {The Thefts of Mercury.) The next in legend bade " Beware of show ! " 'Twas graven this on pale Chalcedony. Here great Apollo, with unbended bow. His quiver hard by on a laurel tree. For some new theft was rating Mercury. 175 Miscellaneous Pieces Who stood with downcast eyes, and feigned distress, As daring not, for utter guiltiness. To meet that angry voice and aspect joined. His very heel-wings drooped ; but yet, not less, His backward hand the Sun-God's shafts purloined. SARDONYX. [The Song of Orpheus.) Then, on a Sardonyx, the man of Thrace, The voice supreme that through Hell's portals stole. With carved white lyre and glorious song-lit face, (Too soon, alas ! on Hebrus' wave to roll !) Played to the beasts, from a great elm-tree bole. And lo ! with half-shut eyes the leopard spread His lissome length ; and deer with gentle tread Came through the trees ; and, from a nearer spring. The prick-eared rabbit paused ; while overhead The stock-dove drifted downward, fluttering. AMETHYST. {The Crowning of Silenus.) Next came an Amethyst, — the grape in hue. On a mock throne, by fresh excess disgraced. With heavy head, and thyrsus held askew. The Youths, in scorn, had dull Silenus placed. And o'er him " King of Topers " they had traced. 176 A Case of Cameos Yet but a King of Sleep he seemed at best, With wine-bag cheeks that bulged upon his breast, And vat-like paunch distent from his carouse. Meanwhile, his ass, by no respect represt. Munched at the wreath upon her Master's brows. BERYL. {Tlic Sirens.) Lastly, with " Pleasure " was a Beryl graven, Clear-hued, divine. Thereon the Sirens sung. What time, beneath, by rough rock-bases caven, And jaw-like rifts where many a green bone clung, The strong flood-tide, in-rushing, coiled and swung. Then, — in the offing, — on the lift of the sea, A tall ship drawing shoreward — helplessly. For, from the prow, e'en now the rowers leap Headlong, nor seek from that sweet fate to flee . . . Ah me, those Women-witches of the Deep ! 177 M MiSCKLL ANHOU S PlECES LOVF'S QUEST (for a mural tainting) WHI':NAS the watches of the night had grown To that deep lonehncss where dreams begin, I saw how Love, with visage worn and thin, — With wings close-bound, went through a town alone. Death-pale he showed, and inly seemed to moan With sore desire some dolorous place to win ; Sharp brambles passed had streaked his dazzling skin, — His bright feet eke were gashed with many a stone. And, as he went, I, sad for piteousness, Might see how men from door and gate would move To stay his steps ; or womankind would press. With wistful eyes, to balconies above, And l)i(l him enter in. But Love not less, Mournful, kept on his way. Ah ! hapless Love ! 178 The Sick Man and the Birds THE SICK MAN AND THE BIRDS vEgrotus. SPRING, — art thou come, O Spring ! I am too sick for words ; How hast thou lieart to sing, O Spring, with all thy birds ? Merula. I sing for joy to see again The merry leaves along the lane, The little bud grown ripe ; And look, my love upon the bough Hark, how she calleth to me now,— " Pipe ! pipe ! " tEgrotus. Ah ! weary is the sun : Love is an idle thing ; But, Bird, thou restless one, What ails thee, wandering ? 179 Miscellaneous Pieces HiRUNDO. By shore and sea I come and go To seek I know not what ; and lo ! On no man's eaves T sit, But voices bid me rise once more, To flit again by sea and shore, — FHt! flit! ^GROTUS. This is Earth's bitter cup : — Only to seek, not know. But Thou, that strivest up, Why dost thou carol so ? Alauda. A secret Spirit gifteth me With song, and wing that lifteth me,- A Spirit for whose sake. Striving amain to reach the sky, Still to the old dark earth I cry, — "Wake! wake! ^GROTUS. My hope hath lost its wing. Thou, that to Night dost call, How hast thou heart to sing Thy tears made musical ? 1 80 The Sick Man and the Birds Philomela. Alas for me ! a dry desire Is all my song, — a waste of fire That will not fade nor fail ; To me, dim shapes of ancient crime Moan through the windy ways of time, "Wail! wail!" ^GROTUS. This is the sick man's song, — Mournful, in sooth, and fit ; Unrest that cries " How long ! " — And the Night answers it. i8i Miscellaneous Pieces A FLOWER SONG OF ANGIOLA T^OVVN where the garden grows, -L^ Gay as a banner, vSpake to her mate the Rose After this manner : — " We are the first of flowers, Plain-land or hilly, All reds and whites are ours, Are they not, Lily ? " Then to the flowers I spake, — " Watch ye my Lady Gone to the leafy hrake. Silent and shady ; When I am near to her, Lily, she knows J How I am dear to her Look to it, Rose." Straightway the Blue-bell stooped, Paler for pride, Down where the Violet drooped, Shy, at her side : — 182 A Flower Song of Angiola " Sweetheart, save me and you, Where has the summer kist Flowers of as fair a hue,— Turkis or Amethyst ? " Therewith I laughed aloud, Spake on this wise, " O little flowers so proud, Have ye seen eyes Change througl: the blue in them, — Change till the mere Loving that grew in them Turned to a tear ? " Flowers, ye are bright of hue. Delicate, sweet ; Flowers, and the sight of you Lightens men's feet ; Yea, but her worth to me, Flowerets, even, Sweetening the earth to me, Sweeteneth heaven. " This, then, O Flowers, I sing ; God, when Me made ye. Made yet a fairer thing Making my Lady ; — Fashioned her tenderly, diving all weal to her ; — Girdle ye slenderly. Go to her, kneel to her, — 183 Miscellaneous Pieces " Saying, ' He sendeth us, lie the most dutiful, Meetly be endeth us, Maiden most beautiful ! Let us get rest of you, Sweet, in your breast; — Die, being prest of you, Die, being blest.' " i8. A Song of Angiola in Heaven A SONG OF ANGIOLA IN HEAVEN " Val, unka/" FLOWERS, — that have died upon my Sweet, Lulled by the rhythmic dancing beat Of her young bosom under you, — Now will I show you such a thing As never, through thick buds of Spring, Betwixt the daylight and the dew, The Bird whose being no man knows — The voice that waketh all night th rough- Tells to the Rose. For lo, — a garden-place I found. Well filled of leaves, and stilled of sound. Well flowered, with red fruit marvellous ; And 'twixt the shining trunks would flit Tall knights and silken maids, or sit With faces bent and amorous; — There, in the heart thereof, and crowned With woodbine and amaracus, My Love I found. Alone she walked, ~-ah, well I wis, My heart leapt u]) for joy of this ! — Then when I called to her her name, — 185 Miscellaneous Pieces The name, that Hke a pleasant thing Men's Hps remember, murmuring, At once across the sward she came, — I'\ill fain she seemed, my own dear maid, And asked ever as she came, " Where hast thou stayed ? " " Where liast ihou stayed ? " — she asked as though The long years were an hour ago ; But I s[)ake not, nor answered, For, looking in her eyes, I saw, A light not lit of mortal law ; And in her clear cheek's changeless red, And sweet, unshaken speaking found That in this place the Hours were dead, And Hmc was bound. " This is well done," — she said, — " in thee, O Love, that thou art come to me. To this green garden glorious ; Now truly shall our life be sped In joyance and all goodlihed. For here all things are fair to us. And none with burden is oppressed. And none is poor or piteous, — For here is Rest. " No formless Future blurs the sky ; Men mourn not here, with dull dead eye, By shrouded shapes of Yesterday ; i86 A Song of Angiola in Heaven Betwixt the Coming and the Past The flawless life hangs fixen fast In one unwearying To-Day, That darkens not ; for Sin is shriven, Death from the doors is thrust away, And here is Heaven." At " Heaven " she ceased ; — and lifted up Her fair head like a flower-cup, With rounded mouth, and eyes aglow ; Then set I lips to hers, and felt, — Ah, God, — the hard pain fade and melt. And past things change to painted show; The song of quiring birds outbroke ; The lit leaves laughed, — sky shook, and lo, I swooned, — and woke. And now, O Flowers, — Ye that indeed are dead, — • Now for all waiting hours. Well am I comforted ; For of a surety, now, I see, That, without dim distress Of tears, or weariness, My Lady, verily, awaiteth me ; So that until with Her I be, P'or my dear Lady's sake I am right fain to make Out from my pain a pillow, and to take 187 MlSc'liLLANEOUS PlECES Grief for a golden garment unto me ; Knowing that 1, at last, shall stand In that green garden-land, And, in the holding of my dear Love's hand, Forget the grieving and the misery. i88 Andre le Chapelain ANDRE LE CHAPELAIN (Cleri of Love, I 1 70) HIS PLAINT TO VENUS OF THE COMINO YEARS Plus lie silts ce que fay este Et ne Ic sfiiurois jamais estre ; Miin beau printcmps et mon este Out fait le saiit par la fenestre. " QUEEN VENUS, round whose feet, To tend thy sacred fire, With service bitter-sweet Nor youths nor maidens tire ; — Goddess, whose bounties be Large as the un-oared sea ; — Mother, whose eldest born First 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 : — 189 Miscellaneous Pieces 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 May Ballad and virelay ? Shall the youths jeer and jape, " Behold his verse doth dote, — Leave thou Love's lute to scrape, And tune thy wTinkled throat 'I'o 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 minstrelsy 'To sing us snow in J une ! " Shall they too laugh, and fleet Far in the sun-warmed street ? But Thou, whose beauty bright, Upon thy wooded hill. With ineffectual light The 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 resign For Love's mere broken meats; 190 Andre le Chapelain And suit for alms prefer That was thine Almoner ? Must T, as bondsman, kneel That, in full many a cause, Have scrolled thy just appeal ? Have I not writ thy Laws ? That none from Love shall take Save bid for Lovers sweet sake ;- That none shall aufiht refuse To Love of Love's fair dues; — That none dear Love shall scoff Or deem foul shame thereof; — That none shall traitor he To Lovers oivn secrecy ; — Avert, — avert it. Queen ! Debarred thy listed sports, Let me at least be seen An usher in thy courts, Outworn, but still indued With 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 be Of Love's blithe company ; — 191 Miscellaneous Pieces When I no more may sit Within thine own pleasancc, To weave, in sentence fit, Thy golden dalliance ; When other hands than these Record thy soft decrees ; — Leave me at least to sing About thine outer wall, To tell thy pleasuring, Thy mirth, thy festival ; Yea, let my swan-song be Thy grace, thy sanctity. [Hr?r ctuied Andrews ivords : Bill One, that zvritcth, saitli — Betwixt his stricken chords He heard the Wheels of Death ; And knew t/ic fruits Love bare But Dead-Sea apples wercJ^ I()2 The Dying of Tanneguy du Bois THE DYING OF TANNEGUY DU BOIS En los niJos i!e aritano No hay pa'jaros hogano. — Spanish Pkoverd. YEA, I am passed away, I think, from this ; Nor helps me herb, nor any leechcraft here. But lift me hither the sweet cross to kiss, And witness ye, I go without a fear. Yea, I am sped, and never more shall see. As once T dreamed, the show of shield and crest. Gone southward to the fighting by the sea ; — There is no bird in any last year's nest ! Yea, with me now all dreams are done, I ween. Grown faint and unremembered ; voices call High up, hke misty warders dimly seen Moving at morn on some Burgundian wall ; And all things swim — as when the charger stands Quivering between the knees, and East and West Are filled with flash of scarves and waving hands ; — There is no bird in any last year's nest ! •93 N MiSCKLLANEUUS PlECES Is she a dream I left in Aquitaine ? — My wife Giselle, — who never spoke a word, Although I knew her mouth was drawn with pain, Her eyelids hung with tears ; and though 1 heard The strong sob shake her throat, and saw the cord Her necklace made about it; — she that prest To watch me trotting till I reached the ford; — There is no bird in any last year's nesl ! Ah ! I had hoped, God wot, — had longed that she Should watch me from the little lit tourelle. Me, coming riding by the windy lea— Me, coming back again to her, Giselle; Yea, I had lioped once more to hear him call. The curly-pate, who, rushen lance in rest, Stormed at the lilies by the orch;i.rd wall ;— ^ There is no bird in any hist yca)^s nest .' But how, my Masters, ye are wrapt in gloom ! This Death will come, and whom he loves he cleaves Sheer through the steel and Jeatlier ; hating whom He smites in shameful wise behind the gre .ves. 'Tis a fair time with Dennis and the Saints, And weary work to age, and want for rest, When harness groweth heavy, and one faints, With no bird left in any last year's nest ! 194 The Dying of Tanneguy du Bois Give ye good hap, then, all. For me, I lie Broken in Christ's sweet hand, with whom shall rest To keep me living, now that I must die ; — There is no bird in any last year's nest ! 195 Miscellaneous Pieces PALOMYDES T T IM best in all Ihc dim Arthuriad, -■-J- Of lovers of fair women, him I prize,- The Pagan Palomydes. Never glad Was 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, Melhinks, am come unto so high a place, That though from hence I can but vainly yearn For that averted favour of your face, I shall not turn. No, I am couie too high. Whalc'er betide, To find du' doubtful ihiiig tli;it fights with me, Towartls the mountain toi)S 1 still shall ride, And cry your name in my extremity, As Palomyde, 196 Palomydes Until the issue come. Will it disclose No 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? 197 Miscellaneous Pieces THE MOSQUE OF THE CALIPH UNTO Seyd the vizier spake the Cahph Ab- dullah :— " Now hearken and hear, I am weary, by Allah ! ■ I am faint with the mere over-runninu of leisure ; I will rouse me and rear up a palace to Pleasure ! " To Abdallah the Caliph spake Seyd the vizier : " All faces grow pale if my Lord draweth near ; And the breath of his mouth not a mortal shall scoff it ; — - They must benrl and obey, by the beard of the Prophet ! " Then the Caliph that heard, with becoming se- dateness, Drew his hand down his beard as he thought of his greatness ; Drained out the last bead of the wine in the chalice : " I have spoken, O Seyd ; I will build it, my palace ! 198 The Mosque of the Caliph " As a drop from the wine where the wine-cup hath spilled it, As a gem from the mine, O my Seyd, I will build it; Without price, without flaw, it shall stand for a token That the word is a law which the Caliph hath spoken ! " Yet again to the Caliph bent Seyd the vizier : " Who shall reason or rail if my Lord speaketh clear ? Who shall strive with his might ? Let my Lord live for ever ! He shall choose him a site by the side of the river." Then the Caliph sent forth unto Kiir, unto Yemen, — To the South, to the North, — for the skilfuUest freemen ; And soon, in a close, where the river breeze fanned it, The basement uprose, as the Caliph had planned it. Now the courses were laid and the corner-piece fitted ; And the hutments and set-stones were shapen and knitted, When lo ! on a sudden the Caliph heard frowning, That the river had swelled, and the workmen were drowning. '99 MlSCELLANIIOTIS PlHCRS Tlicn llic (Inlii)li was stirred, and he flushed in his ire as He sent forth his word from Teheran to Shiraz ; And the workmen came new, and the palace, built faster, From the bases up-grew unto arch and pilaster. And the groinings were traced, and the arch-heads were chasen. When lo ! in hot haste there en me flying a mason, For a cupola fallen had whelmed half the work- men ; And Hanicl the rliief had been slain by the Turc'- nu'n. Tiien the Calipli's beard curled, and he foamed in his rage as Once more his scouts whirled from the Tell to the Hedjaz ; "Is my word not mv word?" cried the (Jali])h Abdallali ; "I 7i77/ iiuilil it u]i yet . . . I>y llir aiding of Allah!'' 'J'hough he spoke in his hnsle like King David before liini, Yet he fell as he spoke that a something stole o'er him ; Antl his soul grew as glass, anil his anger passed from it As the vapours that pass from the I'ool of Ma- homet. 200 The Mosque of the Caliph And the doom seemed to hang on the palace no longer, Like a fountain it sprang when the sources feed stronger ; Shaft, turret, and spire leaped upward, diminished. Like the flames of a fire, — till the palace was finished ! Without price, without flaw. And it lay on the azure Like a diadem dropped from an emperor's treasure; And the dome of pearl white and the pinnacles fleckless. Flashed back to the light, like the gems in a necklace. So the Caliph looked forth on the turret-tops gilded ; And he said in his pride, " Is my palace not huilded ? Who is more great than I that his word can avail if My will is my will,". — said Abdallah the Caliph. But lo ! with the light he repented his scorning, For an earth(|uake had shattered the whole ere the morning ; Of the pearl-coloured dome there was left but a ruin,— But an arch as a home for the ring-dove to coo in. 20I Miscellaneous Pieces Shaft, turret, and spire — all were tumbled and crumbled ; And the soul of the Caliph within him was humbled ; And he bowed in the dust : — " There is none great liut Allah ! I will build Ilim a Mosque," — said the Caliph Abdallah. And the Caliph has gone to his fathers for ever, 15ut the Mosfjue that he builded shines still by the river ; And the jiilgrims up-stream to this day slacken sail if They catch the first gleam of the " Mosque of the Caliph." Z02 In the Belfr IN THE BELFRY WRITTEN UNDER RETHEL'S " DEATH, THE FRIEND " n^OLL ! Is it night, or daylight yet ? -*- Somewhere the birds seem singing- still, Though surely now the sun has set. Toll ! But who tolls the Bell once more ? He must have climbed the parapet. Did I not bar the belfry door ? Who can it be ? — the Bernardine, That wont to pray with me of yore ? No, — for the monk was not so lean. This must be He who, legend saith, Comes sometimes with a kindlier mien And tolls a knell.— This shape is Death ! Good-bye, old Bell ! So let it be. How strangely now I draw my breath ! What is this haze of light I see ? . . . In manus tuas, Domine ! 203 Miscr.LLANiiOus Pieces ARS VICTRIX (imitated from thi<:ophile gautier) "V/ES; when the ways oppose — -■- When the hard means rebel, Fairer the work out-grows, — More potent far the spell. O PoKT, then, forbear The loosely sandalled verse, Choose rather thou to wear The buskin — strait and terse; Leave to the lyro's hand The limp and shapeless style; See that thy form demand The labour of tlie file. Sculptor, do thou discard The yielding clay, — consign To Paros marble hard The ix'auty of thy line ; — 204 A R s V 1 c r R I X Model thy Satyr's face For bronze of Syracuse ; In the veined agate trace The profile of thy Muse. Painter, that still must mix But transient tints anew, Thou in the furnace fix The firm enaniel's hue ; Let the smooth tile receive Thy dove-drawn Erycine ; Thy Sirens blue at eve Coiled in a wash of wine. All passes. Art alone Enduring stays to us ; The Bust outlasts the throne, - The Coin, Tiberius ; Even the gods must go ; Only the lofty Rhyme Not countless years o'erthrow,- Not long array of time. Paint, chisel, then, or write; J-Jut, that the work surpass. With the hard fashion fight, — With the resisting mass. 205 AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE " Autuni ici quailleurs '' ' ' At the Sign of tic Lyre, " (Jood Uidk, IV e present you With the l>lcL iif uur quire — And ive hiipe lo content you ! Here be Ballad and Sung, The fruits of our leisure, Some short and some long, — Afay they all give you pleasure / But if, ivhcn i/ou read, They should fail to restore you, luireivell, and God-speed — The ivorld is brfure you ! THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN " PJiijllhIa iinio ante iil'ias." — VlRG. nPHE ladies of St. James's -*■ Go swinging to the play; Their footmen run before them, With a " Stand by ! Clear the way ! " But Phyllida, my Phyllida ! She takes her buckled shoon, When we go out a-courting Beneath the harvest moon. The ladies of St. James's Wear satin on their backs ; They sit all night at Ombre, With candles all of wax : But Phyllida, my Phyllida ! She dons her russet gown. And runs to gather May dew Before the world is down. The ladies of St. James's ! They are so fine and fair, You'd think a box of essences Was broken in the air : 209 o At the Sign of the Lyre But Phyllida, my Phyllida ! The breath of heath and furze, \Vhen breezes blow at morning, Is not so fresh as hers. The ladies of St. James's ! 'J'hey're painted to the eyes ; Their white it stays for ever, Their red it never dies : But Phyllida, my Phyllida ! Her colour comes and goes ; It trembles to a lily, — It wavers to a rose. The ladies of St. James's ! You scarce can understand The half of all their speeches, Their phrases are so grand : But Phyllida, my Phyllida ! Her shy and simple words Are clear as after rain-drops The music of the birds. The ladies of St. James's ! They have their fits and freaks ; They smile on you — for seconds ; They frown on you — for weeks : But Phyllida, my Phyllida ! Come either storm or shine. From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide, Is always true — and mine. 2IO The Ladies of St. James's My Phyllida ! my Phyllida ! I care not though they heap The hearts of all St. James's, And give me all to keep ; I care not whose the beauties Of all the world may be, For Phyllida— for Phyllida Is all the world to me ! 21 I At the Sign of the Lyre THE OLD SEDAN CHAIR " What's not destroy' d hy Time's dtvourin^ Hand? Where's Troy, and luhere's the May-Fole in the Strand? " — Bramston's "Art of Pouticks." T T stands in the stable-yard, under the eaves, -^ rroi)ped up by a broom-stick and covered with leaves : It once was the pride of the gay and the fair, But now 'tis a ruin, — that old Sedan chair 1 It is battered and tattered, — it little avails That once it was lacquered, and glistened with nails ; For its leather is cracked into lozenge and square. Like a canvas by Wilkie, — that old Sedan chair ! See, — here came the bearing-straps ; here were the holes For the poles of the bearers — when once there were poles ; It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded with hair. As the birds have discovered, — that old Sedan chair ! 212 The Old Sedan Chair " Where's Troy ? " says the poet ! Look, — under the seat, Is a nest with four eggs, — 'tis the favoured retreat Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear, Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan chair ! And yet — Can't you fancy a face in the frame Of the window, — some high-headed damsel or dame, Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by the stair. While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan chair ! Can't you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he stands, With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands. With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire, As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan chair ? Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many a league It has trotted 'twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague ; Stout fellows ! — but prone, on a question of fare. To brandish the poles of that old Sedan chair ! It has waited by portals where Garrick has played ; It has waited by Heidegger's "Grand Masquerade"; For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair, It has waited — and waited, that old Sedan chair ! Oh, the scandals it knows ! Oh, the tales it could tell Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle, — Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare !) Of Fete-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan chair ! 213 At the Sign of the Lyre " Hcu ! (junntmn nuitata,^' I say as I go. It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though ! We must furbish it up, and dispatch it, — " With Care,"— To a Fine-Art Museum — that old Sedan chair ! 214 To AN Intrusive Butterfly TO AN INTRUSIVE BUTTERFLY ' ' Kill not — for Pity's suic — a/tJ lest ye slay The meanest thing upon its upivard ivay. " — Five Rules of Buddha. I WATCH you through the garden walks, I watch you float between The avenues of dahha stalks, And flicker on the green ; You hover round the garden seat. You mount, you waver. Why, — Why storm us in our still retreat, safi'ron Butterfly ! Across the room in loops of flight 1 watch you wayward go ; Dance down a shaft of glancing light, Review my books a-row ; Before the bust you flaunt and flit Of " blind Mseonides " — Ah, trifler, on his lips there lit Not butterflies, but bees ! You pause, you poise, you circle up Among my old Japan ; You find a comrade on a cup, A friend upon a fan ; 215 At the Si on of the Lyre You wind anon, a hroathing-while, Around Amanda's brow; — Dost dream her then, O Volatile ! E'en such an one as tliou ? Away ! Her thoughts are not as thine. A sterner purjjose fills Her steadfast soul with deep design Of baby bows and frills ; What care hath she for worlds without, AVHiat heed for yellow sun, Whose endless hopes revolve about A planet, cvtat One ! Away ! Tempt not the best of wives ; Let not thy garish wing Come fluttering our Autumn lives With truant dreams of Spring ! Away ! Reseek thy " Flowery Land "; Be Buddha's law obeyed ; Lest Betty's undiscerning hand Should slay ... a future Praed ! 216 The Cure's Progress THE CURE'S PROGRESS MONSIEUR the Cure down the street Comes with his kind old face, — With his coat worn bare, and his straggUng hair, And his green umbrella-case. You may see him pass by the little " Grande Place" And the tiny '' H6tel-de-Ville" ; He smiles, as he goes, to \he. fleuriste Rose, And the pompier The'ophile. He turns, as a rule, through the '■^ Marchc" cool. Where the noisy fish-wives call ; And his compliment pays to the " BcHc Therese^^ As she knits in her dusky stall. There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop. And Toto, the locksmith's niece. Has jubilant hopes, for the Cure gropes In his tails for a pain d'epice. There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit. Who is said to Ix' heterodox. That will ended be with a "■ Ma foi, oiti!" And a pinch from the Cure's box. 217 At the Sign of the Lyre There is also a word that no one heard To the furrier's daughter Lou.; i\nd a i)ale cheek fed with a flickering red, And a " Don Dieu garde M'sieti ! " But a grander way for the Sous-Pre/ei, And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne ; And a mock " off-hat " to the Notary's cat, And a nod to the Sacristan : — P'or ever through hfe the Curi^ goes With a smile on his kind old face — With his coat worn hare, and his straggling hair, And his green umbrella-case. 218 The Masque of the Months THE MASQUE OF THE MONTHS (for a fresco) FIRSTLY thou, churl son of Janus, Rough for cold, in drugget clad, Com'st with rack and rheum to pain us ;— Firstly thou, churl son of Janus. Caverned now is old Sylvanus ; Numb and chill are maid and lad. After thee thy dripping l)rother. Dank his weeds around him cling ; Fogs his footsteps swathe and smother,— After thee thy dripping brother. Hearth-set couples hush each other. Listening for the cry of Spring. Hark ! for March thereto doth follow, Blithe, — a herald tabarded; O'er him flies the shifting swallow, — Hark ! for March thereto doth follow. Swift his horn, by holt and hollow. Wakes the flowers in winter dead. Thou then, 'April, Iris' daughter. Born between the storm and sun ; Coy as nymph ere Pan hath caught her,— 219 At the Sign of the Lyre Thou tlien, April, Iris' daughter. Now are light, and rustling water ; Now are mirth, and nests begun. May the jocund cometh after, Month of all the Loves (and mine) ; Month of mock and cuckoo-laughter, — May the jocund cometh after. Beaks are gay on roof and rafter ; Luckless lovers peak and pine. June the next, with roses scented. Languid from a slumber-spell ; J une in shade of leafage tented ; — June the next, with roses scented. Now her Itys, still lamented, Sings the mournful Philomel. Hot July thereafter rages, Dog-star smitten, wild with heat ; Fierce as pard the hunter cages, — Hot July thereafter rages. Traffic now no more engages ; Tongues are still in stall and street. August next, with cider mellow, Laughs from out the poppied corn; Hook at back, a lusty fellow, — August next, with cider mellow. Now in wains the sheafage yellow 'Twixt the hedges slow is borne. 220 The Masque of the Months Laden deep with fruity cluster, Then September, ripe and hale ; Bees about his basket fluster, — Laden deep with fruity cluster. Skies have now a softer lustre ; Barns resound to flap of flail. Thou then, too, of woodlands lover. Dusk October, berry-stained ; Wailed about of parting plover, — Thou then, too, of woodlands lover. Fading now are copse and cover ; Forests now are sere and waned. Next November, limping, battered, Blinded in a whirl of leaf, Worn of want and travel-tattered, — Next November, limping, battered. Now the goodly ships are shattered, Far at sea, on rock and reef. Last of all the shrunk December Cowled for age, in ashen gray; Fading like a fading ember, — Last of all the shrunk December. Him regarding, men remember Life and joy must pass away. 221 At the Sign of the Lyre TWO SERMONS r) I'ri'WIiEN the rail of woven brass, ^ That hides the " Strangers' Pew," I hear the gray-haired Vicar pass From Section One to Two. And somewhere on my left I see — Whene'er I chance to look — A soft-eyed, girl St. Cecily, Who notes them — in a book. Ah, worthy Goodman, — sound divine ! Shall I your wrath incur. If I admit these thoughts of mine Will sometimes stray — to her? T know your theme, and I revere; I hear your i)recepts tried ; Must I confess I also hear A sermon at my side ? Or how explain this need I feel, — This impulse prompting me Within my secret .self to kneel To Faith, — to Purity! 222 "Au Revoir :>•> "AU REVOIR" A Dramatic Vignette Scene, — T/ie Fountain in the Garden of the Luxem- bourg. It is surrounded by Promenaders. Monsieur Jolicceur. A Lady (unknoivn). M. Jolicceur. "HP IS she, no doubt. Brunette, — and tall : -*- A charming figure, above all ! This promises. — Ahem ! The Lady. Monsieur ? Ah ! it is three. Then Monsieur's name Is Jolicceur ? . . . M. Jolicceur. Madame, the same. 223 At the Sign of the Lyre The Lady. And Monsieur's goodness has to say ? Your note ? . . . M. JOLICCEUR. Your note. The Lady. Forgive me. — Nay. (Reads) " // Madame [I omit] ivi// be Beside the Fountain-rail at Three, Then Madame — possibly — may hear Nezvs of her Spaniel. Jolicoeur." Monsieur denies his note ? M. JoLicoajR. I do. Now let me read the one from you. " 1/ Monsieur Jolicoeur will be Beside the Fountain-rail at Three, Then Monsieur — possibly — may meet An old Acquaintance. * Iivdlsckeet.' " The Lady (scandalized). Ah, what a folly ! 'Tis not true. I never met Monsieur. And you ? 224 "Au Revoir" M. JOLICCEUR [with gallantry). Have lived in vain till now. But see We are observed. The Lady {looking round). I comprehend . . . {/ifter a pause.) Monsieur, malicious brains combine For your discomfiture, and mine. Let us defeat that ill design. If Monsieur but . . . [hesitating). M. JoLiccEUR {bovcing). Rely on me. The Ladv {still Iiesitating). Monsieur, I know, will understand . . M. JOLICCEUR. Madame, I wait i)ut your command. The Lady. You are too good. Then condescend At once to be a new-found Friend ! 225 p At the Sign of the Lyre M. JOLiC(EUR (entering upon the part forthwith). How ? I am charmed, — enchanted. Ah ! What ages since we met ... at Spa ? The Lady (o little disconcerted). At Ems, I think. Monsieur, maybe, Will recollect the Orangery ? M. JOLICCEUR. At F.nis, of course. But Madame's face Might make one well forget a place. TiiK Lady. It seems so. Still, Monsieur recalls The Kiirhaus, and the concert- balls ? M. JOLIC(EUR. Assuredly. Though there again 'Tis Madame's image I retain. Thk Lady, Monsieur is skilled in . . . repartee. (How do they take it? — Can you see?) M. JOLICCEUR. Nay, — Madame furnishes the wit. (They don't know w-hat to make of it !) 226 "Au Revoir" The Lady. And Monsieur's friend who sometimes came ? . . . That clever ... I forget the name. M. JOLICCEUR. The Baron ? ... It escapes me, too. 'Twas doubtless he that Madame knew ? The Lady {archly). Precisely. But, my carriage waits. Monsieur will see me to the gates ? M. JOLICOEUR {offering his arm). I shall be charmed. (Your stratagem Bids fair, I think, to conquer them.) {Aside) (Who is she? I must find that out.) — And Madame's husband thrives, no doubt ? The Lady {off her guard). Monsieur de Beau — ? . . . He died at Z>d/e .' M. JOLICrEUR. Truly. How sad ! {Aside.) (Yet, on the whole, How fortunate! Beau-Zt^'.^ — '&¥..w-vau? Which can it be ? Ah, there they go !) — Madame, your enemies retreat With all the honours of . . . defeat. 227 At the Sign of thk Lyre The Lady. Thanks to Monsieur. Monsieur has shown A skill Previij.k could not disown. M. JOLICCEUR. You flatter me. We need no skill To act so nearly what we will. Nay, — what may come to pass, if Fate And Madame bid me cultivate . . . Thk Lady {anticipating). Alas ! — no farther than the gate. Monsieur, besides, is too polite To profit by a jest so slight. M. JOLICCEUR. Distinctly. Still, I did but glance At possibilities ... of Chance. Thk Lady. Which must not serve Monsieur, I fear. Beyond the little grating here. M. JoLicrEUR (aside). (She's perfect. One may push too far, Piano, sano.) {They reach the gates.) Here we are. 228 "Au Revoir i? Permit me, then . . . {Placing her in the carriage.) And Madame goes ? . . . Your coachman ? . . . Can I ? . . . The Lady {smiling). Thanks ! he knows. Thanks ! Thanks ! M. JoLiccEUR (insif/iously). And shall we not renew Our ..." Ems acquaintanceship " ? The Lady (sfi// smiling). Adieu ! My thanks instead ! M. JOLICQEUR {with pathos). It is too hard ! {Laying his hand on the grating.) To find one's Paradise is barred ! ! The Lady. Nay. — " Virtue is her own Reward ! " ^Exit. M. JOLICCEUR {solus). 'QKW-vau ? — Beau-wj/Zow ? — Beau-wa'wo/V ? — But that's a detail ! {JVaj'ing his hand after the carriage.) Au Revoir ! 229 At the Sign of the Lyre THE CARVER AND THE CALIPH ( T/f/^^ ^f^y our story in the East. '^ ^ Because 'tis Eastern ? Not the least. We place it there because we fear To bring its parable too near, And seem to touch with impious hand Our dear, confiding native land.) Haroun Alraschid, in the days He went about his vagrant ways, And prowled at eve for good or bad In lanes and alleys of Bagdad, Once found, at edge of the bazaar. E'en where the poorest workers are, A Carver. Fair his work and fine With mysteries of inlaced design, And shapes of shut significance To aught but an anointed glance, — The dreams and visions that grow plain In darkened chambers of the brain. And all day busily he wrought From dawn to eve, but no one bought ; — 230 The Carver and the Caliph Save when some Jew with look askant, Or keen-eyed Greek from the Levant, Would pause awhile, — depreciate, — Then buy a month's work by the weight, Bearing it swiftly over seas To garnish rich men's treasuries. And now for long none bought at all, So lay he sullen in his stall. Him thus withdrawn the Caliph found, And smote his staff upon the ground — " Ho, there, within ? Hast wares to sell ? Or slumber'st, having dined too well ? " " ' Dined,' " quoth the man, with sullen eyes, " How should I dine when no one buys ? " " Nay," said the other, answering low, — " Nay, I but jested. Is it so ? Take then this coin, . . . but take beside A counsel, friend, thou hast not tried. This craft of thine, the mart to suit, Is too refined, — remote, — minute ; These small conceptions can but fail ; 'Twere best to work on larger scale. And rather choose such themes as wear More of the earth and less of air : The fisherman that hauls his net, — The merchants in the market set, — • The couriers posting in the street, — The gossips as they pass and greet, — These — these are clear to all men's eyes. Therefore with these they sympathize. Further (neglect not this advice!) Be sure to ask three times the price." 231 At the Sign of the Lyre The Carver sadly shook his head ; He knew 'twas truth the Cahph said. From that day forth his work was planned So that the world might understand. He carved it deeper, and more plain ; He carved it thrice as large again ; He sold it, too, for thrice the cost ; — Ah, but the Artist that was lost ! 232 To AN Unknown Bust TO AN UNKNOWN BUST IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM " Sermons in stones,'" WHO were you once ? Could we but guess, We might perchance more boldly Define the patient weariness That sets your lips so coldly ; You " lived," we know, for blame and fame ; But sure, to friend or foeman, You bore some more distinctive name Than mere " B. C," — and " Roman " ? Your pedestal should help us much. Thereon your acts, your title, (Secure from cold Oblivion's touch !) Had doubtless due recital; Vain hope ! — not even deeds can last ! That stone, of which you're minus, Maybe with all your virtues past Endows ... a Tigellinus ! We seek it not ; we should not find. But still, it needs no magic To tell you wore, like most mankind. Your comic mask and tragic ; 233 At the Sign of the Lyre And held that things were false and true, Felt angry or forgiving, As step by step you stumbled through This life-long task ... of living ! You tried the ni!-de-sar of Thought ; Tlie nio)itag)te Ritssc of Pleasure ; You found the best Ambition brought Was strangely short of measure ; You watched, at last, the fleet days fly. Till — drowsier and colder — You felt Mkrcurius loitering by To touch you on the shoulder. 'Twas then (why not ?) the whim would come That howso Time should garble Those deeds of yours when you were dumb, At least you'd live — in Marble; You smiled to think that after days, At least, in Bust or Statue, (We all have sick-bed dreams !) would gaze. Not quite incurious, at you. We gaze ; ivc pity you, be sure ! In truth, Death's worst inaction Must l)e less tedious to endure Than nameless petrifaction ; Far better, in some nook unknown, To sleep for once — and soundly — Than still survive in wistful stone. Forgotten more profoundly ! 234 Molly Trefusis MOLLY TREFUSIS " Nozu the Graces are four and the Venuses tivo. And ten is the number (if Muses ; For a Muse and a Grace and a F'enus are you, — My dear little Molly Trefusis ! " SO he wrote, the old bard of an "old Magazine": As a study it not without use is, If we wonder a moment who she may have been, This same " little Molly Trefusis ! " She was Cornish. We know that at once by the " Tre " ; Then of guessing it scarce an abuse is If we say that where Bude bellows back to the sea Was the birthplace of Molly Trefusis. And she lived in the era of patches and bows, Not knowing what rouge or ceruse is ; For they needed (I trust) but her natural rose, The lilies of Molly Trefusis. And I somehow connect her (I frankly admit That the evidence hard to produce is) With Bath in its hey-day of Fashion and Wit, — This dangerous Molly Trefusis. 235 At the Sign of the Lyre I fancy her, radiant in ribbon and knot, (How charming that old-fashioned puce is !) All blooming in laces, fal-lals, and what not. At the Pump Room, — Miss Molly Trefusis. T fancy her reigning, — a Beauty, — a Toast, — Where Bladud's medicinal cruse is ; And we know that at least of one Bard it could boast, — The Court of Queen Molly Trefusis. He says she was " Vknus." I doubt it. Beside, (Your rhymer so hopelessly loose is !) Mis "little" cf)uld scarce be to Venus applied, If fitly to Molly Trefusis. No, no. It was Hichk lie had in his mind; And fresh as the handmaid of Zeus is, And rosy, and rounded, and dimpled — you'll find — Was certainly Molly Trefusis ! Then he calls her " a Muse." To the charge I reply That we all of us kncnv what a Muse is ; It is something too awful, — too acid, — too dry, — For sunny-eyed Molly Trefusis. liut "a Grace." There I grant he was probably right ; (The rest but a verse-making ruse is) It was all that was graceful, — intangible, — light, — The beauty of Molly Trefusis ! 236 Molly Trefusis Was she wooed ? Who can hesitate much about that Assuredly more than obtuse is ; For how could the poet have written so pat " My dear little Molly Trefusis ! " And was wed ? That I think we must plainly infer, Since of suitors the common excuse is To take to them Wives. So it happened to her, Of course,— " little Molly Trefusis ! " To the Bard ? 'Tis unlikely. Apollo, you see. In practical matters a goose is ; — 'Twas a Knight of the Shire, and a hunting J. P., Who carried off Molly Trefusis ! And you'll find, I conclude, in the " Gentlcitian^s Mag.;' At the end, where the pick of the news is, " On the (blank), at ' the Bath; to Sir Hilary Bragg, With a Fortune, Miss Molly Trefusis." Thereupon . . . But no farther the student may pry Love's temple is dark as Eleusis ; So here, at the threshold we part, you and T, From " dear little Molly Trefusis." 237 Av THE Sign of the Lyre AT THE CONVENT GATE WISTARIA blossoms trail and fall Above the length of barrier wall ; And softly, now and then, The shy, staid-breasted doves will flit From roof to gateway-top, and sit And watch the ways of men. The gate's ajar. If one might peep ! Ah, what a haunt of rest and sleep The shadowy garden seems ! And note how dimly to and fro The grave, gray-hooded Sisters go. Like figures seen in dreams. Look, there is one that tells her beads ; And yonder one apart that reads A tiny missal's i)age ; And see, beside the well, the two That, kneeling, strive to lure anew The magpie to its cage! Not beautiful — not all ! But each With that mild grace, outlying speech. Which comes of even mood ; — 238 At the Convent Gate The Veil unseen that women wear With heart-whole thought, and quiet care, And hope of higher good. " A placid life — a peaceful life ! What need to these the name of Wife ? What gentler task (I said) — What worthier — e'en your arts among — Than tend the sick, and teach the young, And give the hungry bread ? " " No worthier task ! " re-echoes She, Who (closelier clinging) turns with me To face the road again : — And yet, in that warm heart of hers, She means the doves', for she prefers To " watch the ways of men." 239 At the Sign of the Lyre THE MILKMAID A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE ACROSS the grass I see her pass ; She comes with tripping pace,— A maid I know, — and March winds blow Her hair across her face ; — \Vith a hey, Dolly ! ho, Dolly ! Dolly sliall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine. The March winds blow. I watch her go : Her eye is brown and clear ; Her cheek is brown, and soft as down, (To those who see it near !) — With a hey, Dolly ! ho, Dolly ! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white witli May, Or blooms the eglantine. What has she not that those have got, — The dames that walk in silk ! If she undo her 'kerchief blue, Her neck is white as milk. 2 40 The Milkmaid With a hey, Dolly ! ho, Dolly ! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with Maj , Or blooms the eglantine. Let those who will be proud and chill ! For me, from June to June, My Dolly's words are sweet as curds — Her laugh is like a tune ; — With a hey, Dolly ! ho, Dolly ! Dolly shall be mine. Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine. Break, break to hear, O crocus-spear ! O tall Lent-lilies flame ! There'll be a bride at Easter-tide, And Dolly is her name. With a hey, Dolly ! ho, Dolly ! Dolly shall be mine. Before the spray is white with May, Or blooms the eglantine. 241 At the Sign of the Lyre AN OLD FISH POND GREEN growths of mosses drop and bead Around the granite brink ; And 'twixt the isles of water-weed The wood-birds dip and drink. Slow efts about the edges sleep ; Swift-darting water-flies Shoot on the surface ; down the deep Fast-following bubbles rise. 't3 Look down. What groves that scarcely sway ! What " wood obscure," profound ! What jungle ! — where some beast of prey Might choose his vantage-ground ! Wlio knows what lurks beneath the tide ?- Who knows what tale? Belike, Those " antres vast " and shadows hide Some patriarchal Pike; — Some tough old tyrant, wrinkle-jawed, To whom the sky, the earth, Have but for aim to look on awed And see him wax in girth ; — 242 An Old Fish Pond Hard ruler there by right of might ; An ageless Autocrat, Whose " good old rule " is " Appetite, And subjects fresh and fat ; " — While they — poor souls ! — in wan despair Still watch for signs in him ; And dying, hand from heir to heir The day undawned and dim, When the pond's terror too must go ; Or creeping in by stealth. Some bolder brood, with common blow. Shall found a Commonwealth. Or say, — perchance the liker this !— That these themselves are gone ; That Amurath /;/ mimuiis, — Still hungry, — lingers on, With dwindling trunk and wolfish jaw Revolving sullen things. But most the blind unequal law That rules the food of Kings ; — The blot that makes the cosmic All A mere time-honoured cheat ; — That bids the Great to eat the Small, Yet lack the Small to eat ! 243 At the Sign of the Lyre Who knows ! Meanwhile the mosses bead Around the granite brink ; And 'twixt the isles of water-weed 'i'he wood-birds dip and drink. 244 An Eastern Apologue AN EASTERN APOLOGUE (to e. h. p.) MELIK the Sultan, tired and wan, Nodded at noon on his divan. Beside the fountain Hngered near jAMfL the bard, and the vizier — Old YusuF, sour and hard to please ; Then jAwfL sang, in words like these. Slim is Biitheina — slim is she As boughs of the Ardka tree ! " Nay," quoth the other, teeth between, "Lean, if you will, — I call her lean." Sweet is Butheina — siveet as ivine, With smiles that like red bubbles shine ! " True, — by the Prophet ! " Yusuf said. " She makes men wander in the head ! " 245 At the Sign of the Lyre Dear is Buthema — ah ! more dear Than all Ihc maidens of Kashnicer ! " Dear," came the answer, quick as thought, " Dear . . and yet always to be bought." So Jam/l ceased. But still Life's page Shows diverse unto Youth and Age : And — be the song of ghouls or gods — Time, like the Sultan, sits . . and nods. 246 To A Missal TO A MISSAL OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY MISSAL of the Gothic age, Missal with the blazoned page, Whence, O Missal, hither come, From what dim scriptorium ? Whose the name that wrought thee thus, Ambrose or Theophilus, Bending, through the waning light. O'er thy vellum scraped and white ; Weaving 'twixt thy rubric lines Sprays and leaves and quaint designs ; Setting round thy border scrolled Buds of purple and of gold ? Ah ! — a wondering brotherhood, Doubtless, by that artist stood, Raising o'er his careful ways Little choruses of praise ; Glad when his deft hand would paint Strife of Sathanas and Saint, Or in secret coign entwist Jest of cloister humourist, 247 At thc Sign of the Lyre Well thc worker earned his wage, Bending o'er the blazoned page ! Tired the hand and tired the wit Ere the final Explicit! Not as ours the books of old — Things that steam can stamp and fold ; Not as ours the books of yore — Rows of type, and nothing more. Then a book was still a Book, Where a wistful man might look, Finding something through the whole, Beating, — like a human soul. In that growth of day by day. When to labour was to pray, Surely something vital passed To the patient page at last ; Something that one still perceives Vaguely present in the leaves ; Something from the worker lent ; Something mute — but eloquent ! 248 A Revolutionary Relic A REVOLUTIONARY RELIC OLD it is, and worn and battered, As I lift it from the stall ; And the leaves are frayed and tattered. And the pendent sides are shattered, Pierced and blackened by a ball. 'Tis the tale of grief and gladness Told by sad St. Pierre of yore, That in front of France's madness Hangs a strange seductive sadness, Grown pathetic evermore. And a perfume round it hovers. Which the pages half reveal, For a folded corner covers, Interlaced, two names of lovers, — A " Savignac " and " Lucile." As I read I marvel whether. In some pleasant old chateau, Once they read this book together, In the scented summer weather, With the shining Loire below ? 249 At the Sign of the Lyre Nookcd — secluded from espial, Did Love slip and snare them so, While the hours danced round the dial To the sound of flute and viol, In that pleasant old chateau ? Did it happen that no single Word of mouth could either speak ? Did the brown and gold hair mingle, Did the shamed skin thrill and tingle To the shock of cheek and cheek ? Did they feel with that first flushing Some new sudden power to feel, Some new inner spring set gushing At the names together rushing Of " Savignac " and " Lucile " ? Did he drop on knee before her — " Son Amour, son Qtur, sa Rcine " — In his high-flown way adore her, Urgent, eloquent implore her, Plead his pleasure and his pain ? Did she turn with sight swift-dimming. And the quivering lip we know, With the full, slow eyelid brimming. With the languorous pupil swimming. Like the love of Mirabeau ? 250 A Revolutionary Relic Stretch her hand from cloudy frilling, For his eager lips to press ; In a flash all fate fulfilling Did he catch her, trembling, thrilling — Crushing life to one caress ? Did they sit in that dim sweetness Of attained love's after-calm, Marking not the world — its meetness, Marking Time not — nor his fleetness. Only happy, palm to palm ? Till at last she, — sunlight smiting Red on wrist and cheek and hair, — Sought the page where love first lighting. Fixed their fate, and, in this writing, Fixed the record of it there. Did they marry midst the smother. Shame and slaughter of it all ? Did she wander like that other Woful, wistful, wife and mother, Round and round his prison wall ;- Wander wailing, as the plover Waileth, wheeleth, desolate. Heedless of the hawk above her, While as yet the rushes cover. Waning fast, her wounded mate ; — 251 At the Sign of the Lyre Wander, till his love's eyes met hers, Fixed and wide in their despair ? Did he Ijurst his prison fetters. Did he write sweet, yearning letters 'M Lticile, — en Auglcterre" ? Letters where the reader, reading, Halts him with a sudden stop. For he feels a man's heart bleeding, Draining out its pain's exceeding — Half a life, at every drop : Letters where Love's iteration Seems to warble and to rave ; Letters where the pent sensation Leaps to lyric exultation, Like a song-bird from a grave. Where, through Passion's wild repeating, Peep the Pagan and the Gaul, Politics and love competing, Abelard and Cato greeting, Rousseau ramping over all. Yet your critic's right — you waive it. Whirled along the fever-flood ; And its touch of truth shall .save it, And its tender rain shall lave it, For at least you read yUiim'i/, Written there in tears of blood. 25: A Revolutionary Relic Did they hunt him to his hiding, Tracking traces in the snow ? Did they tempt him out, confiding, Shoot him ruthless down, deriding, By the ruined old chateau ? Left to lie, with thin lips resting Frozen to a smile of scorn, Just the bitter thought's suggesting, At this excellent new jesting Of the rabble Devil-born. Till some " tiger-monkey," finding These few words the covers bear. Some swift rush of pity blinding. Sent them in the shot-pierced binding "A Lucile, en Ang/eferre." Fancies only ! Nought the covers. Nothing more the leaves reveal. Yet I love it for its lovers, For the dream that round it hovers Of " Savignac " and " Lucile." 253 At the Sign of the Lyre A MADRIGAL BEFORE me, careless lying, Young Love his ware comes crying ; Full soon the elf untrcasures His i)ack of pains and pleasures, — With roguish eye, He bids me buy From out his pack of treasures. His wallet's stuffed with blisses. With true-love-knots and kisses, With rings and rosy fetters, And sugared vows and letters ; — He holds them out With boyish flout. And bids me try the fetters. Nay, Child (I cry), T know them ; There's little need to show them ! Too well for new believing I know their past deceiving, — I am too old (I say), and cold. To-day, for new believing ! 254 A Madrigal But still the wanton presses, With honey-sweet caresses, And still, to my undoing, He wins me, with his wooing, To buy his ware With all its care, Its sorrow and undoing. 255 At the Sign of the Lyre A SONG TO THE LUTE WHEN first I came to Court, Fa la ! When first I came to Court, I deemed Dan Cupid but a boy, And Love an idle sport, A sport whereat a man might toy With Httle hurt and mickle joy — When first I came to Court ! Too soon I found my fault, Fa la ! Too soon I found my fault ; The fairest of the fair brigade Advanced to mine assault. Alas ! against an adverse maid Nor fosse can serve nor palisade — Too soon I found my fault ! When Silvia's eyes assail, Fa la ! When Silvia's eyes assail, No feint the arts of war can show, No counterstroke avail ; Naught skills iiut arms away to throw. And kneel before that lovely foe, When Silvia's eyes assail ! 256 A Song to the Lute Yet is all truce in vain, Fa la ! Yet is all truce in vain, Since she that spares doth still pursue To vanquish once again ; And naught remains for man to do But fight once more, to yield anew, And so all truce is vain ! 257 At the Sign of the Lyre A GARDEN SONG (to w. e. h.) TT ERE, in this sequestered close, -»- -*■ Bloom the hyacinth and rose ; Here beside the modest stock Flaunts the flaring hollyhock ; Here, without a pang, one sees Ranks, conditions, and degrees. All the seasons run their race In this quiet resting place; Peach, and apricot, and fig Here will ripen, and grow big ; Here is store and overplus, — More had not Alcinoiis ! Here, in alleys cool and green, Far ahead the thrush is seen ; Here along the southern wall Keeps the bee his festival ; All is quiet else — afar Sounds of toil and turmoil are. 258 A Garden Song Here be shadows large and long ; Here be spaces meet for song ; Grant, O garden-god, that T, Now that none profane is nigh, — Now that mood and moment please,- Find the fair Pierides ! '59 At the Sign of the Lyre A CHAPTER OF FROISSART (grandpapa loquitur) \7"0U don't know Froissart now, young folks. -*- This age, I think, prefers recitals Of high-spiced crime, with " slang " for jokes, And startling titles; But, in my time, when still some few Loved " old Montaigne," and praised Pope's Homer (Nay, thought to style him " poet " too, Were scarce misnomer). Sir John was less ignored. Indeed, I can recall how Some-one present (Who spoils her grandson, Frank !) would read. And hnd him i)leasant ; For, — by this copy, — hangs a Tale. Long since, in an old house in Surrey, Where men knew more of " morning ale " Than " Lindley Murray," 260 A Chapter of Froissart In a dim-lighted, whip-hung hall, 'Neath Hogarth's " Midnight Conversation," It stood ; and oft 'twixt spring and fall. With fond elation, I turned the brown old leaves. For there All through one hopeful happy summer, At such a page (I well knew where). Some secret comer, Whom I can picture, 'Trix, like you (Though scarcely such a colt unbroken), Would sometimes place for private view A certain token ; — A rose-leaf, meaning " Garden Wall," An ivy-leaf for " Orchard corner," A thorn to say " Don't come at all,"- Unwelcome warner ! — Not that, in truth, our friends gainsaid ; But then Romance required dissembling, (Ann Radcliffe taught us that !) which bred Some genuine trembling ; Though, as a rule, all used to end In such kind confidential parley As may to you kind Fortune send, You long-legged Charlie, 261 At the Sign of the Lyre When your time comes. How years slip on ! We had our crosses like our betters ; Fate sometimes looked askance upon Those floral letters ; And once, for three long days disdained, The dust upon the folio settled ; For some-one, in the right, was pained, And some-one nettled, That sure was in the wrong, but spake Of fixed intent and purpose stony To serve King George, enlist and make Minced-meat of " Boney," Who yet survived — ten years at least. And so, when she I mean came hither, One day that need for letters ceased. She brought this with her ! Here is the leaf-stained Chapter : — How The English King laid siege to Calais; I think Gran, knows it even now, — Go ask her, Alice. 262 To THE Mammoth-Tortoise TO THE MAMMOTH-TORTOISE OF THE MASCARENE ISLANDS " Tuque, Testudo, resonare sept em Callida nervis." — HoR. iii. II. MONSTER Chelonian, you suggest To some, no doubt, the calm, — The torpid ease of islets drest In fan-like fern and palm ; To some your cumbrous ways, perchance, Darwinian dreams recall ; And some your Rip-van-Winkle glance, And ancient youth appal ; So widely varied views dispose : But not so mine, — for me Your vasty vault but simply shows A Lyre immense, per se, A Lyre to which the Muse might chant A truly " Orphic tale," Could she but lind that public want, A Bard — of equal scale ! 263 At the Sign of the Lyre Oh, for a Bard of awful words, And lungs serenely strong. To sweep from your sonorous chords Niagaras of song. Till, dinned by that tremendous strain, The grovelling world aghast, Should leave its paltry greed of gain. And mend its ways ... at last ! 26. A Roman Round-Robin A ROMAN ROUND-ROBIN (" HIS FRIENDS " TO QUINTUS HORATIUS FLACCUS) " H^s sepulchre ! Must I be torn herefrom and thrown With frontispiece and colophon ! With vagrant £"'5, and Fs, and (ys^ The spoil of plunder'd Folios ! With scraps and snippets that to Me Are naught but kitchen company ! Nay, rather, Friend, this favour grant me Tear me at once ; but don't transplant me. Cheltenham, Sept. 31, 1792. 288 The Water of Gold THE WATER OF GOLD " R^^' — "^^'^o'^^ buy?" In the market-place, -L-' Out of the market din and clatter, The quack with his puckered persuasive face Patters 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 gossij) and gorge his fill, Brisk as a burgher over a bottle ! 289 T At the Sign of the Lyre " Here is wealtli 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-places The 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. 290 A Fancy from Fontenelle A FANCY FROM FONTENELLE " De memoires de Roses on ii\7 point vii moitrir le Jardin'ier. " 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 found That 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. 291 At the Sign of the Lyre DON QUIXOTE "O EHIND 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 arc 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 ! 2y2 A Broken Sword A BROKEN SWORD (to a. l.) THE shopman shambled from the doorway out And 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 Paruenyry Whose was it once ? — Who manned it once in hope His fate to gain ? Who was it dreamed his oyster-world should ope To this — in vain ? Maybe with some stout Argonaut it sailed The Western Seas ; Maybe but to some paltry Nym availed For toasting cheese ! 293 At the Sign of the Lyre Or decked by Beauty on some morning lawn With silken knot, Perchance, ere night, for Church and King 'twas drawn — Perchance 'twas not ! Who knows — or cares ? To-day, 'mid foils and gloves Its 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. -94 The Poet's Seat THE POET'S SEAT AN IDYLL OF THE SUBURBS '• Ille tin arum mihi prater omnes Angulus RiDET. " — HoR. ii. 6. IT was an elm-tree root of yore, With lordly trunk, before they lopped it, And weighty, said those five who bore Its bulk across the lawn, and dropped it Not once or twice, before it lay. With two young pear-trees to protect it, Safe where the Poet hoped some day The curious pilgrim would inspect it. He saw him with his Poet's eye. The stately Maori, turned from etching The ruin of St. Paul's, to try Some object better worth the sketching : — He saw him, and it nerved his strength What time he hacked and hewed and scraped it, Until the monster grew at length The 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 ; 295 At the Sign of the Lyre He planted pansies 'round its foot, — " Pansies for thoughts ! " and rose and arum ; The Motto (that lie meant to put) Was " Ilk 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 j)arched, 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 scene Of 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. 296 The Poet's Seat This was the turning of the tide ; His five-act play is still unwritten ; The dreams that now his soul divide Are more of Lubbock than of Lytton ; " Ballades " are " verses vain " to him Whose first ambition is to lecture (So much is man the sport of whim !) On " Insects and their Architecture." 297 At the Sign of the Lyre THE LOST ELIXIR " One drop of ruJch/ humiiii blood puis more lif<; into the veins of a poem than all the d:-lusii>e ' aurtir>! potabile ' that can be distilled out of the choicest library.'" — Lowell. AH, yes, that " drop of human blood !" — - We had it once, may be, When our young song's impetuous flood First poured its ecstasy ; But now the shrunk poetic vein Yields not that priceless drop again. We toil, — as toiled we not of old ; Our patient hands distil The shining spheres of chemic gold With hard-won, fruitless skill ; But that red drop still seems to be Beyond our utmost alchemy. Perchance, but most in later age, Time's after-gift, a tear. Will strike a pathos on the page Beyond all art sincere ; But that " one drop of human blood " Has gone with life's first leaf and bud. 298 MEMORIAL VERSES p A DIALOGUE TO THE MEMORY OF MR. ALEXANDER POPE " A'^oii itijiissa caiw." — VlKG, OET. I sing of Pope — Friend. What, Pope, the Twitnam Bard, Whom Dennis, Cibber, Tibbald push'd so hard ! Pope of the Duuciad ! Pope who dar'd to woo, And then to Hbel, Wortlcy-Montagu ! Pope of the Haui-xvalks story — P. Scandals all ! Scandals that now I care not to recall. Surely a little, in two hundred Years, One may neglect Contemporary Sneers : — Surely allowance for the Man may make That had all Grub Street yelping in his Wake ! And who (I ask you) has been never Mean, When urged by Envy, Anger or the Spleen ? No : I prefer to look on Pope as one Not rightly happy till his Life was done; Whose whole Career, romance it as you please, Was (what he call'd it) but a "long Disease" : Think of his Lot, — his Pilgrimage of Pain, His " crazy Carcass " and his restless Brain ; 301 Memorial Verses Think of his Night-Hours with their Feet of Lead, His dreary Vigil and his aching Head ; Think of all this, and marvel then to find The " crooked Body with a crooked Mind ! " Nay rather, marvel that, in Fate's Despite, You find so much to solace and delight, — So much of Courage, and of Purpose high In that unequal Struggle not to die. I grant you freely that Pope played his Part Sometimes ignobly — but he lov'd his Art ; I grant you freely that he sought his Ends Not always wisely — but he lov'd his Friends ; And who of Friends a nobler Roll could show — Sivift, St. Jo/ui, Batliurst, Marclii)io)it, Pctcrb'ro', Arbulhnot — Fr. Atticus? p. Well (entre nous), Most that he said of Addison was true. Plain Truth, you know — Fr. Is often not polite (So Hamlet thought) — P. And Hanilcl (Sir) was right. But leave Pope's Life. To-day, methinks, we touch The Work too little and the Man too much. Take up the Lock, the Satires, Eloise — What Art supreme, what Elegance, what Ease ! How keen the Irony, the Wit how bright. The Style how rapid, and the Verse how light ! 302 A Dialogue Then read once more, and you shall wonder yet At Skill, at Turn, at Point, at Epithet. " True Wit is Nature to Advantage dress'd " — Was ever Thought so pithily express'd ? "And ten low Words oft creep in one dull Line"- Ah, what a Homily on Yours . . and Mine ! Or take — to choose at Random — take but This- " Ten censure wrong for one that writes amiss." Fr. Pack'd and precise, no Doubt. Yet surely those Are but the Qualities we ask of Prose. Was he a Poet ? P. Yes : if that be what Byron was certainly and Bozvles was not ; Or say you grant him, to come nearer Date, What Dryden had, that was denied to Tate — Fr. Which means, you claim for him the Spark divine. Yet scarce would place him on the highest Line — P. True, there are Classes. Pope was most of all Akin to Horace, Persius, Juvenal; Pope was, like them, the Censor of his Age, An Age more suited to Repose than Rage ; When Rhyming turn'd from Freedom to the Schools, And shock'd with Licence, shudder'd into Rules ; 303 Memorial Verses When Pltaints touch'd the Poet's trembhng Ear With one supreme Comniandnicnt, Be thou Clear ; When Thought meant less to reason than compile, And the Miisc labour'd . . chiefly with the File. Beneath full Wigs no Lyric drew its Breath As in the Days of great Elizabeth ; And to the Bards of Anna was denied The Note that IVordswortJi heard on Dii(idoii-?\dc. But Pope took up his Parable, and knit The Woof of Wisdom Avith the Warp of Wit ; He trimm'd the Measure on its equal Feet, And smooth'd and fitted till the Line was neat ; He taught the Pause with due Effect to fall ; He taught the Epigram to come at Call ; He wrote — Fk. His Iliad! P. \Vell, suppose you own You like your Iliad in the Prose of Bohn, — Tho' if you'd learn in Prose how Homer sang, 'I'were best to learn of Butcher and of Lang, — Suppose you say your Worst of Pope, declare His Jewels Paste, his Nature a Parterre, His Art but Artifice — I ask once more Where have you seen such Artifice before ? Where have you seen a Parterre better grac'd, Or Gems that glitter like his Gems of Paste ? Where can you show, among your Names of Note, So much to copy and so much to riuote? And where, in Fine, in all our English Verse, A Style more trenchant and a Sense more terse ? 304 A Dialogue So I, that love the old Augustan Days Of formal Courtesies and formal Phrase ; That like along the finished Line to feel The Ruffle's Flutter and the Flash of Steel ; That like my Couplet as compact as clear ; That like my Satire sparkling tho' severe, Unmix'd with Bathos and unmarr'd by Trope, I fling my Cap for Polish — and for Pope ! 305 U Mi'MORiAL Verses A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO *• * ESQ. OK * * WITH A LIFE OF THE LATE INGENIOUS MR. WM. HOGARTH TAEAR Cosmopolitan, — I know -L>' I should address you a Rondeau, Or else announce what I've to say At least en Ballade fratrisce ; But No : for once I leave Gymnasticks, And take to simple Hudibrasficks ; Why should T choose another Way, When this was good enough for Gay ? You love, my Friend, with me, I think, That Age of Lustre and of Link ; Of Chelsea China and long " s"es, Of Bag-wigs and of flowered Dresses ; That Age of Folly and of Cards, Of Hackney Chairs and Hackney Bards ; — No H — LTS, no K — G — n P — ls were then Dispensing Competence to Men ; The gentle Trade was left to Churls, Your frowsy Tonsons and your Curlls ; Mere Wolves in Amlnish to attack The Author in a Sheep-skin Back; 306 A Familiar Epistle Then Savage and his Brother-Sinners In Pon-idgc-Island div'd for Dinners ; Or doz'd on Covent Garden Bulks, And Uken'd Letters to the Hulks; — You know that by-gone Time, I say, That aimless, easy-moral'd Day, When rosy Morn found Madam still Wrangling at Ombre or Quadrille; When good Sir John reel'd Home to Bed, From Pontack^s or the Shakcspeaj^s Head ; When Trip cotivey'd his Master's Cloaths, And took his Titles and his Oaths ; While Betty, in a cast Brocade, Ogled My Lord at Masquerade ; When Garrick play'd the guilty Richard, Or mouth'd Macbeth with Mrs. Pritchard ; When FooTE grimac'd his snarling Wit ; When Churchill bullied in the Pit ; When the CuzzoNi sang — But there ! The farther Catalogue I spare. Having no Purpose to eclipse That tedious Tale of Homer's Ships ; — This is the Man that drew it all From Pannier Alley to the Mall, Then turn'd and drew it once again From Bird-Cage Walk to Leivknot^s Lane; — Its Rakes and Fools, its Rogues and Sots ; Its bawling Quacks, its starveling Scots ; Its Ups and Downs, its Rags and Garters, Its Henleys, Lovats, Malcolms, Chartkes; Its Splendour, Squalor, Shame, Disease; Its quicqitid agiint Homines ; — 307 Memorial Verses Nor yet omitted to pourtray Furens quid possit Foemina; — In .short, held up to ev'ry Class Nature's unflatt'ring looking-Glass ; And, from his Canvass, spoke to All The Message of a Juvenal. Take Him. His Merits most aver His weak Point is — his Chronicler ! NovK. I, 1879. 308 Henry Fielding HENRY FIELDING (to JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL) NOT from the ranks of those we call Philosopher or Admiral, — Neither as Locke was, nor as Br,AKE, Is that Great Genius for whose sake We keep this Autumn festival. And yet in one sense, too, was he A soldier — of humanity ; And, surely, philosophic mind Belonged to him whose brain designed That teeming Comic Epos where, As in Cervantes and Moliicre, Jostles the medley of Mankind. Our ENCiLisH Novel's pioneer ! His was the eye that saw first clear How, not in natures half-effaced By cant of Fashion and of Taste, — Not in the circles of the Great, Faint-blooded and exanimate, — 309 Memorial Verses Lay the true field of Jest and Wliim, Which we to-day reap after him. No : — he stepped lower down and took The piebald Peoplk for his Book ! Ah, what a wealth of Life there is In that large-laughing page of his ! What store and stock of Common-Sense, Wit, Wisdom, Books, Experience ! How his keen Satire flashes through, And cuts a sophistry in two ! H(nv his ironic lightning plays Around a rogue and all his ways ! Ah, how he knots his lash to see That ancient cloak. Hypocrisy ! Whose are the characters that give Such round reality ? — that live With such full pulse? Fair Sopiiv yet Sings Bobhiug Joati at the spinet; ^\^e see Amelia cooking still That supper for the recreant Will; We hear Squire Western's headlong tones Bawling " Wut ha ?— wut ha ? " to Jones. Are they not present now to us, — The Parson with his yEsc/iyhts ? Slipslop the frail, and Northerton, Partridge, and Bath, and Harrison? — Are they not breathing, moving, — all I'he motley, merry carnival That Fielding kept, in days agone ? 310 ?1enry Fielding He was the first that dared to draw Mankind the mixture that he saw ; Not wholly good nor ill, but both, With fine intricacies of growth. He pulled the wraps of flesh apart, And showed the working human heart ; He scorned to drape the truthful nude With smooth, decorous platitude ! He was too frank, may be ; and dared Too boldly. Those whose faults he bared, Writhed in the ruthless grasp that brought Into the light their secret thought. Therefore the TARTUFFE-throng who say " Couvres ce sem," and look that way, — Therefore the Priests of Sentiment Rose on him with their garments rent. Therefore the gadfly swarm whose sting Plies ever round some generous thing. Buzzed of old bills and tavern-scores. Old " might-have-beens " and "heretofores " Then, from that garbled record-list, Made him his own Apologist. And was he ? Nay, — let who has known Nor Youth nor Error, cast the stone ! If to have sense of Joy and Pain Too keen, — to rise, to fall again, To live too n\uch, — lie sin, why then, This was no pattern among men. But those who turn that later page, The Journal of his middle-age, 3'i Memorial Verses Watch him serene in either fate, Philanthropist and Magistrate ; Watch him as Husband, Father, Friend, P\aithful, and patient to the end ; Grieving, as e'en the brave may grieve, But for the loved ones he must leave : These will admit — if any can That 'neath the green Estrella trees, No artist merely, but a Man, Wrought on our noblest island-plan. Sleeps with the alien Portuguese. 312 A Postscript to "Retaliation" A POSTSCRIPT TO "RETALIATION" \^After the Fourth Edition of Doctor Goldsmith's Retaliation ivas printed, the Publisher recii-ved a supplementartf Epitupli on the IVit and Punster Caleb Whitefoord. Though it is found appended to the later issues of the Poem, it has been suspected that Whitefoord •wrote it himself. It mar/ be that the folloiving, ivhich has recently come to light, is another forger ij. ] HERE Johnson is laid. Have a care how you walk ; If he stir in his sleep, in his sleep he will talk. Ye gods ! how he talk'd ! What a torrent of sound, His hearers invaded, encompass'd and — drown'd ! What a banquet of memory, fact, illustration, In that innings-for-one that he call'd conversation ! Can't you hear his sonorous " Why no. Sir ! " and " Stay, Sir ! Your premiss is wrong," or " You don't see your way, Sir ! " How he silenc'd a prig, or a slip-shod romancer ! How he pounc'd on a fool with a knock-me-down answer ! But peace to his slumbers ! 'I'ho' rough in the rind, The heart of the giant was gentle and kind : 3'3 Memorial, V r r s k s What signifies now, if in bouts with a friend, When his pistol miss'd fire, he would use the butt-end ? If he trampled your flow'rs, like a bull in a garden, What matter for that ? he was sure to ask pardon ; ^Vnd you felt on the whole, tho' he'd toss'd you and gor'd you, It was something, at least, that he had not ignor'd you. Yes ! the outside was rugged. But test him within. You found he had nought of the bear but the skin; And for bottom and base to his anfmclnosity, A fund of fine feeling, good taste, generosity. He was true to his conscience, his King, and his duty; And he hated the Whigs, and he soften'd to Beauty. 'l\nn now to his Writings. I grant, in his tales, That he made little fishes talk vastly like whales ; I grant that his language was rather emphatic, Nay, even — to put the thing plainly — dogmatic ; But read him for Style, — and dismiss from your thoughts. The crowd of compilers who copied his faults, — Say, where is there English so full and so clear. So weighty, so dignified, manly, sincere ? So strong in expression, conviction, persuasion ? So prompt to take colour from place and occasion ? So widely remov'd from the doubtful, the ten- tative ; So truly — and in the best sense — argumentative ? 3'4 A Postscript to "Retaliation ?i You may talk of your Burkes and your Gibbons so clever, But I hark back to him with a " Johnson for ever ! " And I feel as I muse on his ponderous figure, Tho' he's great in this age, in the next he'll grow bigger ; And still while his . . [Ca'kra Dt'sit/if.~\ 3'5 Memorial Verses HENRY WAUSWORTH LONGFELLOW ' ' Nee turpem sctifciam Degere, nee cithara carentem. " — HoR. i. 31. NOT to be tuneless in old age ! " Ah ! surely blest his pilgrimage, Who, in his Winter's snow, Still sings with note as sweet and clear As in the morning of the year When the first violets blow ! Blest ! — but more blest, whom Summer's heat, Whom Spring's impulsive stir and beat, Have taught no feverish lure ; Whose Muse, benignant and serene. Still keeps his Autumn chaplet green Because his verse is pure ! Lie calm, O white and laureate head ! Lie calm, O Dead, that art not dead, Since from the voiceless grave, Thy voice shall speak to old and young While song yet speaks an English tongue By Charles' or Thamis' wave ! 316 Charles George Gordo N CHARLES GEORGE GORDON " TD ATHER be dead than praised," he said, J-^ That hero, like a hero dead. In this slack-sinewed age endued With more than antique fortitude ! " Rather be dead than praised ! " Shall we. Who loved thee, now that Death sets free Thine eager soul, with word and line Profane that empty house of thine ? Nay, — let us hold, be mute. Our pain Will not be less that we refrain ; And this our silence shall but be A larger monument to thee. 3^7 Memorial Verses VICTOR HUGO HE set the trumpet to his lips, and lo ! The clash of waves, the roar of winds that blow. The strife and stress of Nature's warring things, Rose like a storm-cloud, upon angry wings. He set the reed-pipe to his lips, and lo ! The wreck of landscape took a rosy glow. And Life, and Love, and gladness that I,ove brings Laughed in the music, like a child that sings. Master of each, Arch-Master ! We that still Wait in the verge and outskirt of the Hill, Look upward lonely — lonely to the height Where thou hast climbed, for ever, out of sight ! 3'8 Alfred, Lord Tennyson ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON EMIGRAVIT, OCTOBER VI., MDCCCXCII. GRIEF there will be, and may, When King Apollo's bay Is cut midwise ; Grief that a song is stilled, Grief for the unfulfilled Singer that dies. Not so we mourn thee now, Not so we grieve that thou. Master, art passed, Since thou thy song didst raise, Through the full round of days, E'en to the last. Grief there may be, and will, When that the singer still Sinks in the song ; When that the winge'd rhyme Fails of the promised prime, Ruined and wrong. Memorial Verses Not thus we mourn thee — we- Not thus we grieve for thee, Master and Friend ; Since, Hke a clearing flame, Clearer thy pure song came E'en to the end. Nay — nor for thee we grieve E'en as for those that leave Life without name ; Lost as the stars that set. Empty of men's regret. Empty of fame. Rather we count thee one Who, when his race is run, Layeth him down. Calm — through all coming days, Filled with a nation's praise, Filled with renown. 320 FABLES OF LITERATURE AND ART 321 THE POET AND THE CRITICS I F those who wield the Rod forget, 'Tis truly — Qitis citstodiet? A certain Bard (as Bards will do) Dressed up his Poems for Review. His Type was plain, his Title clear ; His Frontispiece by Fourdrinier. Moreover, he had on the Back A sort of sheepskin Zodiac ; — A Mask, a Harp, an Owl,— in fine, A neat and " classical " Design. But the ///-Side ? — Well, good or bad, The Inside was the best he had : Much Memory, — more Imitation; — Some Accidents of Inspiration ; — Some Essays in that finer Fashion Where Fancy takes the place of Passion; — And some (of course) more roughly wrought To catch the Advocates of Thought. In the less-crowded Age of Annk, Our Bard had been a favoured Man ; Fortune, more chary with the Sickle, Had ranked him next toOARTHorTiCKELL; — He might have even dared to hope A Line's Malignity from Pope ! 323 Fables of Literature and Art But now, when Folks arc liard to please, And Poets are as thick as — Peas, The Fates are not so prone to flatter. Unless, indeed, a Friend .... No Matter. The Book, then, had a minor Credit : The Critics took, and doubtless read it. Said A. — These little Songs display No lyric Gift; but still a Ray, — A Promise. They ivill do no Harm. 'Twas kindly, if not iwry warm. Said B. — The ^litthor may, in Time, Acquire the Rudiments of Rhyme : His Efforts now are scarcely l^crse. This, certainly, could not he worse. Sorely discomfited, our Bard Worked for another ten Years — hard. Meanwhile the World, unmoved, went on ; New Stars shot up, shone out, were gone ; Before his second Volume came His Critics had forgot his Name : And who, forsooth, is bound to know Each Laureate in embryo ! They tried and tested him, no less, — The sworn Assayers of the Press. Said A. — The Author may, in Time .... Or much what B. had said of Rhyme. Then B. — These little Songs display .... And so forth, in the sense of A. Over the Bard I throw a Veil. There is no Mokai. to this Tale. 324 The To YM AN w THE TOYMAN ITPI Verse, is Form the first, or Sense ? Hereon men waste their Eloquence. " Sense (cry the one Side), Sense, of course. How can you lend your Theme its Force ? How can you be direct and clear, Concise, and (best of all) sincere, If you must pen your Strain sublime In Bonds of Measure and of Rhyme ? Who ever heard true Grief relate Its heartfelt Woes in ' six ' and ' eight ' ? Or felt his manly Bosom swell Beneath a French-made ViUanelk? How can your Mens divinior sing Within the Sonnet's scanty Ring, Where she must chant her Orphic Tale In just so many Lines, or fail ? . . ." " Form is the first (the Others bawl) ; If not, why write in Verse at all ? Why not your throI:)lMng Thoughts expose (If Verse be such Restraint) in Prose? For surely if you speak your Soul Most freely where there's least Control, 325 Fables of Literature and Art It follows you must speak it best By Rhyme (or Reason) unreprest. Blest Hour ! be not delayed too long, When Britain frees her Slaves of Song; And barred no more by Lack of Skill, The Mob may crowd Parnassus Hill ! . . ." Just at this Point — for you must know, All this w'as but the l"o-and-fro Of Matt and Dick who played with Thought, And lingered longer than they ought (So pleasant 'tis to tap one's Box And trifle round a Paradox!) — There came — but I forgot to say, 'Twas in the Mall, the Month was May — There came a Fellow where they sat. His Elf-locks peeping through his Hat, Who bore a Basket. Straight his Load He set upon the Ground, and showed His newest Toy — a Card with Strings. On this side was a Bird with Wings, On that, a Cage. You twirled, and lo ! The Twain were one. Said Matt, " E'en so. Here's the Solution in a Word : — Form is the Cage and Sense the Bird. The Poet twirls them in his Mind, And wins the Trick with both combined." 326 The Successful Author THE SUCCESSFUL AUTHOR WHEN Fate presents us with the Bays, We prize the Praiser, not the Praise. We scarcely think our Fame eternal If vouched for by the Farthing Journal ; But when the Craftsntan^s self has spoken, We take it for a certain Token. This an Example best will show. Derived from Dennis Diderot. A hackney Author, who'd essayed All Hazards of the scribbling Trade ; And failed to live by every Mode, From Persian Tale to Birthday Ode ; Embarked at last, thro' pure Starvation, In Theologic Speculation. 'Tis commonly affirmed his Pen Had been most orthodox till then ; But oft, as Socrates has said, The Stomach's stronger than the Head ; And, for a sudden Change of Creed, There is no Jesuit like Need. Then, too, 'twas cheap ; he took it all, By force of Habit, from the Gaul. 327 Fables of Literature and Art He showed (Ihe Trick is nowise new) That Nothing we believe is true ; But chiefly that Mistake is rife Touching the point of After-Life; Here all were wrong from Plato down : His Price (in Boards) was Half-a-Crown. The Thing created quite a Scare : — He got a Letter from Voltaire, Naming him Ami and Confrere ; Besides two most attractive Offers Of Chaplaincies from noted Scoffers. He fell forthwith his Head to lift, To talk of " T and Dr. Sw— ft " ; And brag, at Clubs, as one who spoke, On equal Terms, with Bolingbroke. But, at the last, a Missive came That put the Copestone to his Fame. The Boy who brought it would not wait : It bore a Coveut-Gardcn Date ; — A woful Sheet with doubtful Ink, And Air of Bridewell or the Clink. It ran in this wise: — Learned Sir ! We, ivhose Subscriptions folloiv here, Desire to state our Fellow-feeling In this Religion you! re revealing. You make it plain that if so be We 'scape on Earth from Tyburn Tree, There's nothing left for us to fear In this — or any other Sphere. We offer you our Thanks ; and hope Yoitr Honor, too, may cheat the Rope / With that came all the Names beneath, As Blueskin, Jerry Clinch, Macheath, 328 The Successful Author Bet Careless, and the Rest — a Score Of Rogues and Bona Robas more. This Newgate Calendar he read : 'Tis not recorded what he said. 329 Fables of Literature and Art THE DI LETT ANT THE most oppressive Form of Cant Is that of your Art-IJilettant : — Or rather " was." The Race, I own, To-day is, happily, unknown. A Painter, now by Fame forgot. Had painted — 'tis no matter what ; Enough that he resolved to try The Verdict of a critic Eye. The Friend he sought made no Pretence To more than candid Common-sense, Nor held himself from Fault exempt. He praised, it seems, the whole Attempt. Then, pausing long, showed here and there That Parts required a nicer Care, — A closer Thought. The Artist heard. Expostulated, chafed, demurred. Just then popped in a passing Beau, Half Pertness, half Pulvilio ; — One of those Mushroom Growths that .spring From Grand Tours and from Tailoring ; — And dealing much in terms of Art Picked up at Sale and auction Mart. 330 The Dilettant Straight to the Masterpiece he' ran With hfted Glass, and thus began, MumbHng as fast as he could speak : — " Sublime ! — prodigious ! — truly Greek ! That ' Air of Head ' is just divine ; That contour Guido, every line ; That Forearm, too, has quite the Gusto Of the third Manner of Robusto . . . ." Then, with a Simper and a Cough, He skipped a little farther off: — " The middle Distance, too, is placed Quite in the best Italian Taste ; And Nothing could be more effective Than the Ordonnancc and Perspective . . . . You've sold it ? — No ? — Then take my word, I shall speak of it to Mv Lord. What ! — I insist. Don't stir, I beg. Adieu ! " With that he made a Leg, Offered on either Side his Box, — So took his Virtu off to Cock's. The Critic, with a Shrug, once more Turned to the Canvas as before. " Nay," — said the Painter — " I allow The Worst that you can tell me now. 'Tis plain my Art must go to School, To win such Praises — from a Fool ! " 331 Fables of Litcrature and Art THE TWO PAINTERS T N Art some hold Themselves content -*- If they but compass what they meant ; Otlicrs prefer, their Purpose gained, Still to find Something unattained — Something whereto they vaguely grope Willi no more Aid than that of Hope. Which are the Wiser ? Who shall say ! The prudent Follower of Ga\' Declines to speak for either View, But sets his Fable 'twixt the two. Once — 'twas in good Queen Anna's Time- While yet in this benighted Clime The Gknius of the Arts (now known On mouldy Pediments alone) Protected all the Men of Mark, Two Painters met Her in the Park. Whether She wore the Robe of Air Portrayed by Vkrrio and Laguerre; Or, like Belinda, trod this Earth, Equipped with Hoop of monstrous Girth, And armed at every Point for Slaughter With Essences and Orange-water, I know not : l)ut it seems that tlien, After some talk of Brush ;in(l Pen, — 332 The Two Painters Some chat of Art both High and Low, Of Van's "Goose-Pie" andKNELLER's ''Mot," — The Lady, as a Goddess should. Bade Them ask of Her what They would. "• Then, Madam, my request," says Brisk, Giving his Ramillie a whisk, " Is that your Majesty will crown My humble Efforts with Renown. Let me, I beg it — Thanks to You — Be praised for Everything I do, Whether I paint a Man of Note, Or only plan a Petticoat." " Nay," quoth the other, " I confess " (This One was plainer in his Dress, And even poorly clad), " for me, I scorn Your Popularity. Why should I care to catch at once The Point of View of every Dunce ? Let me do well, indeed, but find The Fancy first, the Work behind ; Nor wholly touch the thing I wanted . . . ." The Goddess both Petitions granted. Each in his Way, achieved Success ; But One grew Great. And which One ? Guess. 333 Fables of Literature and Art THE CLAIMS OF THE MUSE nrOO oft we hide our Frailties' Blame -*- Beneath some simple-sounding Name ! So Folks, who in gilt Coaches ride, Will call Display but Proper Pride; So Spendthrifts, who their Acres lose. Curse not their Folly but \\\^Jews; So Madam, when her Roses faint, Resorts to , . . anything but Paint. An honest Uncle, who had plied His Trade of Mercer in Chcapside, Until his Name on 'Change was found Good for some Thirty Thousand Pound, Was burdened with an Heir inclined To thoughts of quite a different Kind. His Nephew dreamed of Naught but Verse From Morn to Night, and, what was worse, He quitted all at length to follow That " sneaking, whey-faced God, Apollo." In plainer ^Vords, he ran up Kills At Child's, at Batson's, and at Will's; Discussed the Claims of rival Bards At Midnight,— with a Pack of Cards ; Or made excu.se for " t'other Bottle " Over a point in Aristotle. This could not last, and like his Betters 334 The Claims of the Muse He found, too soon, the Cost of Letters. Back to his Uncle's House he flew, Confessing that he'd not a Son. 'Tis true, his Reasons, if sincere, Were more poetical than clear : " Alas ! " he said, " I name no Names : The Muse, dear Sir, the Muse has claims." His Uncle, who, behind his Till, Knew less of Pindiis than Sjioiv-Hill, Looked grave, but thinking (as Men say) That Youth but once can have its Day, Equipped anew his Pride and Hope To frisk it on Parnassus Slope. In one short Month he sought the Door More shorn and ragged than before. This Time he showed but small Contrition, And gloried in his mean Condition. " The greatest of our Race," he said, " Through Asian Cities begged his Bread. The Muse — the Muse delights to see Not Broadcloth but Philosophy ! Who doubts of this her Honour shames. But (as you know) she has her Claims . . . ." " Friend," quoth his Uncle then, " I doubt This scurvy Craft that you're about Will lead your philosophic Feet Either to Bedlam or the Fleet. Still, as I would not have you lack, Go get some Broadcloth to your Back, And — if it please this precious Muse — 'Twere well to purchase decent Shoes. Though harkye, Sir . . . ." The Youth was gone, Before the good Man could go on. 335 Fables of Literature and Art And yet ere long again was seen That Votary of Hippocrcne. As along Cheap his Way he took, His Uncle spied him by a Brook, Not such as Nymphs Castalian pour, — 'Twas but the Kennel, nothing more. His Plight was plain by every Sign Of Idiot Smile and Stains of Wine. He strove to rise, and wagged his Head — " The Muse, dear Sir, the Muse — " he said. " Muse ! " quoth the Other, in a Fury, " The Muse shan't serve you, I assure ye. She's just some wanton, idX^ Jade That makes young Fools forget their Trade, — Who should be whipped, if I'd my \\'\\\, From Charing Cross to Ludgale Hill. She's just . . . ." But he began to stutter. So left Sir Graceless in the Gutter. 336 The 'Squire at Vauxhall THE 'SQUIRE AT VAUXHALL NOTHING so idle as to waste This Life disputing upon Taste; And most — let that sad Truth be written — In this contentious Land of Britain, Where each one holds " it seems to me" Equivalent to Q. E. D., And if you dare to doubt his Word Proclaims you Blockhead and absurd. And then, too often, the Debate Is not 'twixt First and Second-rate, Some narrow Issue, where a Touch Of more or less can't matter much, But, and this makes the Case so sad, Betwixt undoubted Good and Bad. Nay, — there are some so strangely wrought, — So warped and twisted in their Thought, — That, if the Fact be but confest. They like the baser Thing the best. Take Bottom, who for one, 'tis clear. Possessed a " reasonable Ear " ; He might have had at his Command The Symphonies of Fairy-Land ; Well, our immortal Shakespear owns The Oaf preferred the " Tongs and Bones " ! 337 Y Fables of Literature and Art 'Squire Homespun from Clod-Hall rode down, As the Phrase is — " to see the Town " ; (The Town, in those Days, mostly lay Between the Tavern and the Play.) Like all their Worships the J.P.'s, He put up at the Hercules; Then sallied forth on Shanks his Mare, Rather than jolt it in a Chair, — A curst, new-fangled Little-Ease, That knocks your Nose against your Knees. For the good 'Squire was Country-bred, And had strange Notions in his Head, Which made him see in every Cur The starveling Breed of Hanover; He classed your Kickshaws and Ragoos VVith Popery and Wooden Shoes ; Railed at all Foreign Tongues as Lingo, And sighed o'er Chaos Wine for Stingo. Hence, as he wandered to and fro, Nothing could please him, high or low. As Savages at Ships of War He looked unawed on Temple-Bar ; Scarce could conceal his Discontent With Fish-Street and the Monument ; And might (except at Feeding-Hour) Have scorned the Lion in the Tower, But that the Lion's Race was run, And — for the Moment — there was none. At length, blind Fate, that drives us all, Brought him at Even to Vauxhall, 338 The 'Squire at Vauxhall What Time the eager Matron jerks Her slow Spouse to the IVafer-lVorks, And the coy Spinster, half-afraid, Consults the Hermit in the Shade. Dazed with the Din and Crowd, the 'Squire Sank in a Seat before the Choir. The Faustinetta, fair and showy, Warbled an Air from Arsiitoc, Playing her Bosom and her Eyes As Swans do when they agonize. Alas ! to some a Mug of Ale Is better than an Orphic Talc ! The 'Squire grew dull, the 'Squire grew bored ; His chin dropt down ; he slept ; he snored. Then, straying thro' the " poppied Reign," He dreamed him at Clod-Hall again ; He heard once more the well-known Sounds, The Crack of Whip, the Cry of Hounds. He rubbed his Eyes, woke up, and lo ! A Change had come upon the Show. Where late the Singer stood, a Fellow, Clad in a Jockey's Coat of Yellow, Was mimicking a Cock that crew. Then came the Cry of Hounds anew, Yoicks ! Stole Away ! and harking back ; Then Ringwood leading up the Pack. The 'Squire in Transport slapped his Knee At this most hugeous Pleasantry. The sawn Wood followed ; last of all The Man brought something in a Shawl, — Something that struggled, scraped, and squeaked As Porkers do, whose tails are tweaked. 339 Fables of Literature and Art Our honest 'Squire could scarcely sit, So excellent he thought the Wit. But when Sir Wag drew off the Sheath And showed there was no Pig beneath, His pent-up Wonder, Pleasure, Awe, Exploded in a long Guffaw : And, to his dying Day, he'd swear That Naught in Town the Bell could bear From " Jockey wi' the Yellow Coat That had a Farm-Yard in his Throat ! " Moral the First you may discover : The 'Squire was like Titania's lover; He put a squeaking Pig before The Harmony of Clayton's Score. Moral the Second — not so clear ; But still it shall be added here : He praised the Thing he understood ; 'Twere well if every Critic would. 340 The Climacteric THE CLIMACTERIC WHEN do the reasoning Powers decline ? The Ancients said at Forty-Nine. At Forty-Nine behoves it then To quit the Inkhorn and the Pen, Since Aristotle so decreed. Premising thus, we now proceed. In that thrice-favoured Northern Land, Where most the Flowers of Thought expand. And all things nebulous grow clear Through Spectacles and Lager-Beer, There lived, at Dimipclshcim the Lesser, A certain High-Dutch Herr Professor. Than Grotius more alert and quick, More logical than Burgersdyck, His Lectures both so much transcended. That far and wide his Fame extended, Proclaiming him to every clime Within a Mile of Dumpelshcini. But chief he taught, by Day and Night, The Doctrine of the Stagirite, Proving it fixed beyond Dispute, In Ways that none could well refute ; For if by Chance 'twas urged that Men O'er-stepped the Limit now and then, 341 Fables of Literature and Art He'd show unanswerably still Either that all they did was " Nil," Or else 'twas marked by Indication Of grievous mental Degradation : Nay — he could even trace, they say, That Degradation to a Day. The Years rolled on, and as they flew. More famed the Herr Professor grew, His " Locus of the Pineal Gland " (A Masterpiece he long had planned) Had reached the End of Book Eleven, And he was nearing P'orty-Seven. Admirers had not long to wait ; The last Book came at Forty-Eight, And should have been the Heart and Soul — The Crown and Summit — of the whole. But now the oddest Thing ensued ; 'Twas so insufferably crude, So feeble and so poor, 'twas plain The Writer's Mind was on the wane. Nothing could possibly be said ; E'en Friendship's self must hang the head, While jealous Rivals, scarce so civil, Denounced it openly as " Drivel." Never was such Collapse. In brief. The poor Professor died of Grief. With fitting mortuary Rhyme They buried him at Dumpdsheim, And as they sorrowing set about A " Short Memoir," the Truth came out. 342 The Climacteric He had been older than he knew. The Parish Clerk had put a " 2 " In place of " Nought," and made his Date Of Birth a Brace of Years too late. When he had written Book the Last, His true Climacteric had past ! Moral. — To estimate your Worth, Be certain as to date of Birth. .S4 3 TALES IN RHYME THE VIRGIN WITH THE BELLS A /TUCK strange is true. And yet so much ^^■'- Dan Time thereto of doubtful lays He blurs them both beneath his touch : — In this our tale his part he plays. At Florence, so the legend tells, There stood a church that men would praise (Even where Art the most excels) For works of price ; but chief for one They called the " Virgin with the Bells." Gracious she was, and featly done. With crown of gold about the hair. And robe of blue with stars thereon. And sceptre in her hand did bear; And o'er her, in an almond tree, Three little golden bells there were. Writ with Faith, Hope, and Charity. None knew from whence she came of old. Nor whose the sculptor's name should be 347 Tales in Rhyme Of great or small. IJut this they told : — That once from out the blaze of square, And bickering folk that bought and sold, More moved no doubt of heat than prayer. Came to the church an Umbrian, Lord of much gold and champaign fair, But, for all this, a hard, haught man. To whom the priests, in humbleness. At once to beg for alms began, Praying him grant of his excess Such as for poor men's bread might pay, Or give their saint a gala-dress. Thereat with scorn he answered — " Nay, Most Reverend ! Far too well ye know, By guile and wile, the fox's way " To swell the Church's overflow. But ere from me the least carline Ye win, this summer's sky shall snow ; " Or, likelier still, your doll's-eyed queen Shall ring her bells . . but not of craft. By Bacchus ! ye are none too lean " For fasting folk ! " With that he laughed, And so, across the porphyry floor, His hand upon his dagger-haft, 348 The Virgin with the Bells Strode, and of these was seen no more. Nor, of a truth, much marvelled they At those his words, since gear and store Oft dower shrunk souls. But, on a day. While yet again throughout the square, The buyers in their noisy way. Chaffered around the basket ware, It chanced (I but the tale reveal. Nor true nor false therein declare) — It chanced that when the priest would kneel Before the taper's flickering flame. Sudden a httle tremulous peal From out the Virgin's altar came. And they that heard must fain recall The Umbrian, and the words of shame Spoke in his pride, and therewithal Came news how, at that very date And hour of time, was fixed his fall, Who, of the Duke, was banned the State, And all his goods, and lands as well, To Holy Church were confiscate. Such is the tale the Frati tell. 349 Tales in Rhyme A TALK OF POLYPHEME " nr HERE'S nothing new "—Not that I go so far ^ As he who also said " There's nothing true," Since, on the contrary, I hold there are Surviving still a verity or two ; But, as to novelty, in my conviction. There's nothing new, — especially in fiction. Hence, at the outset, I make no apology, If this my story is as old as Time, Being, indeed, that idyll of mythology, — The Cyclops' love, — which, somewhat varied, I'm To tell once more, the adverse Muse permitting. In easy rhyme, and phrases neatly fitting. " Once on a time " — there's nothing new, I said — It may be fifty years ago or more, Beside a lonely posting-road that led Seaward from Town, there used to stand of yore, With low-ljuilt bar and old bow-window shady, An ancient Inn, the " Dragon and the Lady." Say that by chance, wayfaring Reader mine. You cast a shoe, and at this dusty Dragon, Where beast and man were equal on the sign. Inquired at once for Blacksmith and for flagon : 350 A Tale of Polypheme The landlord showed you, while you drank your hops, A road-side break beyond the straggling shops. And so directed, thereupon you led Your halting roadster to a kind of pass ; This you descended with a crumbling tread. And found the sea beneath you like a glass ; And soon, beside a building partly walled — .Half hut, half cave — you raised your voice and called. Then a dog growled ; and straightway there began Tumult within — for, bleating with affright, A goat burst out, escaping from the can ; And, following close, rose slowly into sight — Blind of one eye, and black with toil and tan — An uncouth, limping, heavy-shouldered man. Part smith, part seaman, and part shepherd too : You scarce knew which, as, pausing with the pail Half filled with goat's milk, silently he drew An anvil forth, and reaching shoe and nail, Bared a red forearm, bringing into view Anchors and hearts in shadowy tattoo. And then he lit his fire .... But I dispense Henceforth with you, my Reader, and your horse, As being but a colourable pretence To bring an awkward hero in perforce ; Since this our smith, for reasons never known. To most society preferred his own. Tales in Rhyme Women declared that he'd an " Evil Eye," — This in a sense was true — he had hut one ; Men, on the other hand, alleged him shy : We sometimes say so of the friends we shun ; But, wrong or right, suffices to affirm it — The Cyclops lived a veritable hermit, — Dwelling below the cliff, beside the sea. Caved like an ancient British Troglodyte, Milking his goat at eve, and it may be. Spearing the fish along the flats at night, Until, at last, one April evening mild. Came to the Inn a Lady and a Child. The Lady was a nullity; the Child One of those bright bewitching little creatures, Who, if she once but shyly looked and smiled. Would soften out the ruggedest of features ; Fragile and slight,— a very fay for size, — With pale town-cheeks, and "clear germander eyes." Nurses, no doubt, might name her " .somewhat wild " ; And pedants, possibly, pronounce her "slow"; Or corset-makers add, that for a child. She needed " cultivation " ; — all I know Is that whene'er she spoke, or laughed, or romped, you Felt in each act the beauty of impromptu. 352 A Tale of PolyphemE The Lady was a nullity — a pale, Nerveless and pulseless quasi-invalid, Who, lest the ozone should in aught avail, Remained religiously indoors to read ; So that, in wandering at her will, the Child Did, in reality, run " somewhat wild." At first but peering at the sanded floor And great shark jaw-bone in the cosy bar ; Then watching idly from the dusky door. The noisy advent of a coach or car ; Then steahng out to wonder at the fate Of blistered Ajax by the garden gate, — Some old ship's figure-head — until at last. Straying with each excursion more and more. She reached the limits of the road, and passed, Plucking the pansies, downward to the shore, And so, as you, respected Reader, showed, Came to the smith's " desirable abode." There by the cave the occupant she found. Weaving a crate ; and, with a gladsome cry. The dog frisked out, although the Cyclops frowned With all the terrors of his single eye ; Then from a mound came running, too, the goat, Uttering her plaintive, desultory note. The Child stood wondering at the silent man, Doubtful to go or stay, when presently She felt a plucking, for the goat began To crop the trail of twining briony 353 2 Tales in Rhyme She held behind her ; so that, laughing, she Turned her light steps, retreating, to the sea. But the goat followed her on eager feet, And therewithal an air so grave and mild. Coupled with such a deprecatory bleat Of injured confidence, that soon the Child Filled the lone shore with louder merriment, And e'en the Cyclops' heavy brow unbent. Thus grew acquaintanceship between the pair, The girl and goat ; — for thenceforth, day by day. The Child would bring her four-foot friend such fare As might be gathered on the downward way : — Foxglove or broom, and " yellow cytisus," Dear to all goats since Greek Theocritus. But, for the Cyclops, that misogynist Having, by stress of circumstances, smiled. Felt it at least incumbent to resist Further encroachment, and as one beguiled By adverse fortune, with the half-door shut. Dwelt in the dim seclusion of his hut. And yet not less from thence he still must see That daily coming, and must hear the goat Bleating her welcome ; then, towards the sea. The happy voices of the playmates float ; Until at last, enduring it no more. He took his W(;nted station by the door. 354 A Tale of Polypheme Here was, of course, a pitiful surrender ; For soon the Child, on whom the Evil Eye Seemed to exert an influence but slender. Would run to question him, till, by and by, His moody humour like a cloud dispersing. He found himself uneasily conversing. That was a sow's-ear, that an egg of skate, And this an agate rounded by the wave. Then came inquiries still more intimate About himself, the anvil, and the cave ; And then, at last, the Child, without alarm, Would even spell the letters on his arm. " G — A — L — Galatea." So there grew On his part, like some half-remembered tale. The new-found memory of an icebound crew. And vague garrulities of spouting whale, — Of sea-cow basking upon berg and floe. And Polar light, and stunted Eskimo. Till, in his heart, which hitherto had been Locked as those frozen barriers of the North, There came once more the season of the green, — The tender bud-time and the putting forth ; So that the man, before the new sensation. Felt for the child a kind of adoration ; — Rising by night, to search for shell and flower, To lay in places where she found them first ; Hoarding his cherished goat's milk for the hour When those young lips might feel the summer's thirst ; 355 Tales in Rhyme Holding himself for all devotion paid By that clear laughter of the little maid. Dwelling, alas ! in that fond Paradise Where no to-morrow (juivers in suspense, — Where scarce the changes of the sky suffice To break the soft forgetfulness of sense, — Where dreams become realities ; and where I willingly would leave him — did I dare. Yet for a little space it still endured, Until, upon a day when least of all The softened Cyclops, by his hopes assured, Dreamed the inevitable blow could fall, Came the stern moment that should all destroy, Bringing a pert young cockerel of a Boy. Middy, I think — he'd "Ads" on his box: — A black-eyed, sun-burnt, mischief-making imp. Pet of the mess, — a Puck with curling locks, Who straightwvay travestied the Cyclops' limp, And marvelled how his cousin so could care For such a " one-eyed, melancholy Bear." Thus there was war at once ; not overt yet, For still the Child, unwilling, would not break The new acquaintanceship, nor cjuite forget The pleasant past; while, for his treasure's sake, The boding smith with clumsy efforts tried To win the laughing scorner to his side. 35<^ A Tale of Polypheme There are some sights pathetic ; none I know More sad than this : to watch a slow-wrought mind Humbling itself, for love, to come and go Before some petty tyrant of its kind ; Saddest, ah ! — saddest far, — when it can do Naught to advance the end it has in view. This was at least the Cyclops' case, until, Whether the boy beguiled the Child away, Or whether that limp Matron on the Hill Woke from her novel-reading trance, one day He waited long and wearily in vain, — But, from that hour, they never came again. Yet still he waited, hoping — wondering if They still might come, or dreaming that he heard The sound of far-off voices on the cUff, Or starting strangely when the she-goat stirred ; But nothing broke the silence of the shore, And, from that hour, the Child returned no more. Therefore our Cyclops sorrowed, — not as one Who can command the gamut of despair ; But as a man who feels his days are done, So dead they seem, — so desolately bare ; For, though he'd lived a hermit, 'twas but only Now he discovered that his life was lonely. 357 Tales in Rhyme The very sea seemed altered, and the shore ; The very voices of the air were dumb ; Time was an emptiness that o'er and o'er Ticked with the dull pulsation " Will she come ? " So that he sat " consuming in a dream," Much like his old forerunner Polypheme. Until there came the question, " Is she gone ? " With such sad sick persistence that at last, Urged by the hungry thought which drove him on, Along the steep declivity he passed, And by the summit panting stood, and still, Just as the horn was sounding on the hill. Then, in a dream, beside the " Dragon " door, The smith saw travellers standing in the sun ; Then came the horn again, and three or four Looked idly at him from the roof, but One, — A Child within, — suffused with sudden shame, Thrust forth a hand, and called to him by name. Thus the coach vanished from his sight, but he Limped back with bitter pleasure in his pain ; He was not all forgotten — could it be ? And yet the knowledge made the memory vain ; And then — he felt a pressure in his throat, So, for that night, forgot to milk his goat. 358 A Tale of Polypheme What then might come of silent misery, What new resolvings then might intervene, I know not. Only, with the morning sky, The goat stood tethered on the " Dragon " green, And those who, wondering, questioned thereupon. Found the hut empty, — for the man was gone. 359 Tales in Rhyme A STORY FROM A DICTIONARY ' ' Sic visum Vennri : ciii placet impares Formas atque animos suh ju^a a'enca Sinvo mittcre cum joco." — HoR. i. 33. " T OVE mocks us all " — as Horace said of old : -*--' From sheer perversity, that arch-offender Still yokes unequally the hot and cold, The short and tall, the hardened and the tender ; He bids a Socrates espouse a scold, And makes a Hercules forget his gendei- : — Sic visjim l^etieri ! Lest samples fail, I add a fresh one from the page of Bayle. It was in Athens that Ihe thing occurred, In the last days of Alexander's rule, While yet in Grove or Portico was heard The studious murmur of its learned school ; — Nay, 'tis one favoured of Minerva's bird Who plays therein the hero (or the fool) With a Megarian, who must then have been A maid, and l)eautiful, and just eighteen. I shan't describe her. Beauty is the same In Anno Domini as erst B.C. ; The type is still that witching One who came, Between the furrows, from the i)itter sea; 360 A Story from a Dictionary 'Tis but to shift accessories and frame, And this our heroine in a trice would be, Save that she wore a pcplwn and a chiton. Like any modern on the beach at Brighton. Stay, I forget ! Of course the sequel shows She had some qualities of disposition, To which, in general, her sex are foes, — As strange proclivities to erudition, And lore unfeminine, reserved for those Who nowadays descant on "Woman's Mission," Or tread instead that " primrose path " to know- ledge. That milder Academe — the Girton College. The truth is, she admired ... a learned man. There were no curates in that sunny Greece, For whom the mind emotional could plan Fine-art habiliments in gold and fleece ; (This was ere chasuble or cope began To shake the centres of domestic peace ;) So that "admiring," such as maids give way to. Turned to the ranks of Zeno and of Plato. The " object " here was mildly prepossessing, At least, regarded in a woman's sense ; His /o7Vr, it seems, lay chiefly in expressing Disputed fact in Attic eloquence; His ways were primitive ; and as to dressing, His toilet was a negative pretence ; He kept, besides, the regime of the Stoic ; — In short, was not, by any means, " heroic." 361 Tales in Rhyme Sic visiitn Vcncri ! — The thing is clear. Her friends were furious, her lovers nettled ; 'Tvvas much as though the Lady Vera de Vere On some hedge-schoolmaster her heart had settled. Unheard ! Intolerable ! — a lumbering steer To plod the upland with a mare high-mettled ! — They would, no doubt, with far more pleasure hand her To curled Euphorion or Anaximander. And so they used due discipline, of course. To lead to reason this most erring daughter, Proceeding even to extremes of force, — Confinement (solitary), and bread and water ; Then, having lectured her till they were hoarse, Finding that this to no submission brought her. At last, (unwisely^) to the man they sent, That he might combat her by argument. Being, they fancied, but a bloodless thing ; Or else too well forewarned of that commotion Which poets feign inseparable from Spring To suffer danger from a school-girl notion ; Also they hoped that she might find her king, On close inspection, clumsy and Boeotian : — This was acute enough, and yet, between us, I think they thought too little about Venus. ' "Unwisely," suiily. But 'tis well to mention That this particular is mt invention. 362 A Story from a Dictionary Something, I know, of this sort is related In Garrick's Hfe. However, the man came, And taking first his mission's end as stated, Began at once her sentiments to tame, Working discreetly to the point debated By steps rhetorical I spare to name ; In other words, — he broke the matter gently. Meanwhile, the lady looked at him intently, Wistfully, sadly, — and it put him out. Although he went on steadily, but faster. There were some maladies he'd read about Which seemed, at first, most difficult to master ; They looked intractable at times, no doubt. But all they needed was a little plaster ; This was a thing physicians long had pondered. Considered, weighed . . . and then . . . and then he wandered. ('Tis so embarrassing to have before you A silent auditor, with candid eyes ; With lips that speak no sentence to restore you, And aspect, generally, of pained surprise ; Then, if we add that all these things adore you, Tis really difficult to syllogise : — Of course it mattered not to him a feather, But still he wished . . . they'd not been left together.) " Of one," he said, continuing, " of these The young especially should be suspicious ; Seeing no ailment in Hippocrates Could be at once so tedious and capricious ; 363 Tales in Rhyme No seeming apple of Hespcrides More fatal, deadlier, and more delicious — Pernicious, — he should say, — for all its seem- ing ..." It seemed to him he simply was blaspheming. If she had only turned askance, or uttered Word in reply, or trifled with her brooch, Or sighed, or cried, grown petulant, or fluttered. He might (in metaphor) have " called his coach"; Yet still, while patiently he hemmed and stuttered. She wore her look of wondering reproach ; (And those who read the " Shakespeare of Ro- mances " Know of what stuff a girl's "dynamic glance" is.) " But there was still a cure, the wise insisted, In Love, — or rather, in Philosophy. Philosophy — no. Love — at best existed But as an ill for that to remedy : There was no knot so intricately twisted. There was no riddle but at last should be By Love — he meant Philosophy — resolved . . ." The truth is, he was getting quite involved. O sovran Love ! how far ihy power surpasses Aught tiiat is taught of Logic or the Schools ! Here was a man, " far seen " in all the classes, Strengthened of precej)t, fortified of rules. Mute as the least articulate of asses ; Nay, at an age when every passion cools. Conscious of nothing but a sudden yearning Stronger l)y far than any force of learning ! A Story from a Dictionary Therefore he changed his tone, flung down his wallet, Described his lot, how pitiable and poor ; The hut of mud, — the miserable pallet, — The alms solicited from door to door ; The scanty fare of bitter bread and sallet, — Could she this shame, — this poverty endure ? I scarcely think he knew what he was doing. But that last line had quite a touch of wooing. And so she answered him, — those early Greeks Took little care to keep concealment preying At any length upon their damask cheeks, — She answered him by very simply saying. She could and would: — and said it as one speaks Who takes no course without much careful weighing. . . . Was this, perchance, the answer that he hoped ? It might, or might not be. But they eloped. Sought the free pine-wood and the larger air, — The leafy sanctuaries, remote and inner. Where the great heart of nature, beating bare, Receives benignantly both saint and sinner ; — Leaving propriety to gasp and stare. And shake its head, like Burleigh, after dinner, From pure incompetence to mar or mend them : They fled and wed ; — though, mind, I don't defend them. 365 Tales in Rhyme I don't defend them. 'I'was a serious act, No doubt too much determined by the senses ; (Alas ! when these affinities attract, We lose the future in the present tenses !) Besides, the least establishment's a fact Involving nice adjustment of expenses ; Moreover, too, reflection should reveal That not remote contingent — la famille. Yet these, maybe, were happy in their lot. Milton has said (and surely Milton knows) That, after all, philosophy is " not, — Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose ; " And some, no doubt, for Love's sake have forgot Much that is needful in this world of prose : — Perchance 'twas so with these. But who shall say ? Time has long since swept them and theirs away. 366 The Water-Cure THE WATER-CURE A TALE : IN THE MANNER OF PRIOR " — portentaquc Thessala rides ? " —HOR. " — Thessal'ian portents do you flout ? " CARDENIO'S fortunes ne'er miscarried Until the day Cardenio married. What then ? the Nymph no doubt was young ? She was : but yet — she had a tongue ! Most women have, you seem to say. I grant it — in a different way. 'Tvvas not that organ half-divine, With which. Dear Friend, your spouse or mine, What time we seek our nightly pillows, Rebukes our easy peccadilloes : 'Twas not so tuneful, so composing ; 'Twas louder and less often dozing ; At Ombre, Basset, Loo, Oiiadrille, You heard it resonant and shrill ; You heard it rising, rising yet Beyond Belinda's parroquet ; 367 Tales in Rhyme You heard it rival and outdo The chair-men and the link-boy too ; In short, wherever lungs perform, Like Marlborough, it rode the storm. So uncontrolled it came to be Cardenio feared his cliirc amie (Like Echo by Cephissus shore) Would turn to voice and nothing more. That ('tis conceded) must be cured Which can't by practice be endured. Cardenio, though he loved the maid, Grew daily more and more afraid ; And since advice could not prevail (Reproof but seemed to fan the gale), A prudent man, he cast about To find some fitting nostrum out. What need to say that priceless drug Had not in any mine been dug ? What need to say no skilful leech Could check that plethora of speech ? Sufifice it, that one lucky day Cardenio tried — another way. A Hermit (there were hermits then; The most accessible of men !) Near VaiixhaWs sacred shade resided ; In him, at length, our friend confided. (Simples, for show, he used to sell ; But cast Nativities as well.) Consulted, he looked wondrous wise ; Then undertook the enterprise. 368 The Water-Cure What that might be, the Muse must spare To tell the truth, she was not there. She scorns to patch what she ignores With Similes and Metaphors; And so, in short, to change the scene. She slips a fortnight in between. Behold our pair then (quite by chance !) In VauxhaWs garden of romance, — That paradise of nymphs and grottoes. Of fans, and fiddles, and ridottoes ! What wonder if, the lamps reviewed, The song encored, the maze pursued, No further feat could seem more pat Than seek the Hermit after that ? Who then more keen her fate to see Than this, the new Leuconoe, On fire to learn the lore forbidden In Babylonian numbers hidden ? Forthwith they took the darkling road To Albumazar his abode. Arriving, they beheld the sage Intent on hieroglyphic page, In high Armenian cap arrayed, And girt with engines of his trade ; (As Skeletons, and Spheres, and Cubes; As Amulets and Optic Tubes;) With dusky depths behind revealing Strange shapes that dangled from the ceiling ; While more to palsy the beholder A Black Cat sat upon his shoulder. 369 2 A Tales in Rhyme The Hermit eyed the Lady o'er As one whose face he'd seen before ; And then, with agitated looks, He fell to fumbling at his books. Cardenio felt his spouse was frightened, Her grasp upon his arm had tightened ; Judge then her horror and her dread When " Vox Stellarum " shook his head ; Then darkly spake in phrase forlorn Of Taurus and of Capricorn; Of stars averse, and stars ascendant, And stars entirely independent ; In fact, it seemed that all the Heavens Were set at sixes and at sevens. Portending, in her case, some fate Too fearful to prognosticate. Meanwhile the Dame was well-nigh dead. " But is there naught," Cardenio said, " No sign or token, Sage, to show From whence, or what, this dismal woe ? " The Sage, with circle and with plane. Betook him to his charts again. " It vaguely seems to threaten Speech : No more (he said) the signs can teach." But still Cardenio tried once more : " Is there no potion in your store. No charm by Chaldee mage concerted By which this doom can be averted ? " 370 The Water-Cure The Sage, with motion doubly mystic, Resumed his juggling cabalistic. The aspects here again were various ; But seemed to indicate Aquarius. Thereat portentously he frowned ; Then frowned again, then smiled ; — 'twas found! But 'twas too simple to be tried. " What is it, then ? " at once they cried. " Whene'er by chance you feel incited To speak at length, or uninvited; Whene'er you feel your tones grow shrill (At times, we know, the softest will !), This word oracular, my Daughter, Bids you to fill your mouth with water : Further, to hold it firm and fast, Until the danger be o'erpast." The Dame, by this in part relieved, The prospect of escape perceived. Rebelled a little at the diet. Cardenio said discreetly, " Try it. Try it, my Own. You have no choice. What if you lose your charming voice ! " She tried, it seems. And whether then Some god stepped in, benign to men ; Or Modesty, too long outlawed, Contrived to aid the pious fraud, I know not : — but from that same day She talked in quite a different way. 371 Tales in Rhyme THK NOBLE PATRON " Ce sont Ifs amours Que font les beaux jours." WHAT is a Patron ? Johnson knew, And well that lifelike portrait drew. He is a Patron ivho looks down With careless eye on men ivho drovon ; Bid if they chance to reach the land, Encmnhcrs them ivith helping hand. Ah ! happy we whose artless rhyme No longer now must creep to climb ! Ah ! happy we of later days, Who 'scape those Caudinc Forks of praise ! Whose votive page may dare commend A Brother, or a private Friend ! Not so it fared with scribbling man, As PoPK says, " under my Queen Anne." Dick Dovecot (this was long, be sure, Ere he attained his Wiltshire cure, And settled down, like humbler folks. To cowslip wine and country jokes) Once hoped — as who will not ? — for fame, And dreamed of honours and a Name. A fresh-cheeked lad, he came to Town In homespun hose and russet brown, 372 The Noble Patron But armed at point with every view Enforced in Rapin and Bossu, Besides a stout portfolio ripe For Lintot's or for Tonson's type. He went the rounds, saw all the sights, Dropped in at WilFs and Tom's o' nights ; Heard Burnet preach, saw Bicknell dance, E'en gained from Addison a glance ; Nay, once, to make his bliss complete. He supped with Steele in Bury Street. ('Tis true the feast was half by stealth : Prue was in bed : they drank her health.) By this his purse was running low, And he must either print or go. He went to Tonson. Tonson said — Well ! Tonson hummed and shook his head ; Deplored the times j abused the Town ; But thought — at length — it might go down ; With aid, of course, of Elzevir, And Prologue to a Prince, or Peer. Dick winced at this, for adulation Was scarce that candid youth's vocation : Nor did he deem his rustic lays Required a Coronet for Bays. But there — the choice was that, or none. The Lord was found ; the thing was done. With Horace and with Tooke's Pantheon, He penned his tributary ptean ; Despatched his gift, nor waited long The meed of his ingenuous song. 373 Tales in Rhyme Ere two days passed, a hackney chair Brought a pert spark with languid air, A lace cravat about his throat, — Brocaded gown, — en papilloles, (" My Lord himself," quoth Dick, " at least ! " But no, 'twas that " inferior priest," His Lordship's man.) He held a card : My Lord (it said) would see the Bard. The day arrived ; Dick went, was shown Into an anteroom, alone — A great gilt room with mirrored door. Festoons of flowers and marble floor, Whose lavish splendours made him look More shabby than a sheepskin book. (His own book — by the way — he spied On a far table, toss'd aside.) Dick waited, as they only wait Who haunt the chambers of the Great. He heard the chairmen come and go ; He heard the Porter yawn below ; Beyond him, in the Grand Saloon, He heard the silver stroke of noon, And thought how at this very time The old church clock at home would chime. Dear heart, how plain he saw it all ! The lich-gate and the crumbling wall. The stream, the pathway to the wood, The bridge where they so oft had stood. Then, in a trice, both church and clock Vanished before ... a shuttlecock. 374 The Noble Patron A shuttlecock ! And following slow The zigzag of its to-and-fro, And so intent upon its flight She neither looked to left nor right, Came a tall girl with floating hair, Light as a wood-nymph, and as fair. O Dea ccrtc ! — thought poor Dick, And thereupon his memories quick Ran back to her who flung the ijall In Homer's page, and next to all The dancing maids that bards have sung ; Lastly to One at home, as young. As fresh, as light of foot, and glad, Who, when he went, had seemed so sad. O Dea certe ! (Still, he stirred Nor hand nor foot, nor uttered word.) Meanwhile the shuttlecock in air Went darting gaily here and there ; Now crossed a mirror's face, and next Shot up amidst the sprawled, perplexed Olympus overhead. At last, Jerked sidelong by a random cast. The striker missed it, and it fell Plump on the book Dick knew so well. (If he had thought to speak or bow, Judge if he moved a muscle now !) 375 Tales in Rhyme The player paused, bent down to look, Lifted a cover of the book ; Pished at the Prologue, passed it o'er, ^Vent forward for a page or more {Ascin and Asa : Dick could trace Almost the passage and the place) ; Then for a moment with bent head Rested upon her hand and read. (Dick thought once more how Cousin Cis Used when she read to lean like this ; — " Used when she read," — why, Cis could say All he had written, — any day !) Sudden was heard a hurrying tread ; The great doors creaked. The reader fled. Forth came a crowd with muffled laughter, A waft of Bergamot, and after, His Chaplain smirking at his side. My Lord himself in all his pride — A portly shape in stars and lace, With wine-bag cheeks and vacant face. Dick bowed and smiled. The Great Man stared, With look half puzzled and half scared ; Then seemed to recollect, turned round. And mumbled some imperfect sound : A moment more, his coach of state Dipped on its springs beneath his weight ' And Dick, who followed at his heels, Heard but the din of rolling wheels. 376 The Noble Patro N Away, too, all his dreams had rolled ; And yet they left him half consoled : Fame, after all, he thought, might wait. Would Cis ? Suppose he were too late ! Ten months he'd lost in Town — an age ! Next day he took the Wiltshire Stage. 377 / _/ VERS DE SOCIETE ' ' Apollinca helium puerile pharetnc. " A CITY FLOWER ''■ II y a lies Jleurs ainmC-i's." — Polite Colloquialism. npO and fro in the City I go, -■- Tired of the ceaseless ebb and flow, Sick of the crowded mart ; Tired of the din and rattle of wheels, Sick of the dust as one who feels The dust is over his heart. And again and again, as the sunlight wanes, I think of the lights in the leafy lanes, With the bits of blue between ; And when about Rimmel's the perfumes play, I smell no vapours of " Ess Bouquet," But violets hid in the green ; And I love — how I love — the plants that fill The pots on my dust-dry window-sill, — A sensitive sickly crop, — But a flower that charms me more, I think, Than cowslip, or crocus, or rose, or pink, Blooms — in a milliner's shop. Hazel eyes that wickedly peep. Flash, abash, and suddenly sleep Under the lids drawn in ; 381 Vers de Soci^t^ Ripple of hair that rioteth out, Mouth with a half-born smile and a pout, And a l)aby breadth of chin ; Hands that light as the lighting bird. On the bloom-bent bough, and the bough is stirred With a delicate ecstasy ; Fingers tipped with a roseate flush. Flicking and flirting a feathery brush Over the papery bonnetry ; — Till the gauzy rose begins to glow. And the gauzy hyacinths break and blow. And the dusty grape grows red ; And the flaunting grasses seem to say, " Do we look like ornaments — tell us, we pray — Fit for a lady's head ? " And the butterfly wakes to a wiry life, Like an elderly gentleman taking a wife, Knowing he must be gay ; And all the bonnets nid-noddle about. Like chattering chaperons set at a rout. Quarrelling over their play. How can I otherwise choose than look At the beautiful face like a beautiful book, And learn a tiny part ? So I feel somehow that every day Some flake of the dust is brushed away That had settled over my heart. 382 Incognita INCOGNITA JUST for a space that I met her — Just for a day in the train ! It began when she feared it would wet her, That tiniest spurtle of rain : So we tucked a great rug in the sashes, And carefully padded the pane ; And I sorrow in sackcloth and ashes, Longing to do it again ! Then it grew when she begged me to reach her A dressing-case under the seat ; She was " really so tiny a creature, That she needed a stool for her feet ! " Which was promptly arranged to her order With a care that was even minute. And a glimpse — of an open-work border. And a glance — of the fairyest boot. Then it drooped, and revived at some hovels — " Were they houses for men or for pigs ? " Then it shifted to muscular novels, With a little digression on prigs : She thought "Wives and Daughters" "so jolly"; " Had I read it ? " She knew when I had, Like the rest, I should dote upon " Molly"; And " poor Mrs. Gaskell — how sad ! " 3«3 Vers de Societi^ " Like Browning ? " " But so-so." His proof lay Too deep for her frivolous mood, That preferred your mere metrical souffle To the stronger poetical food ; Yet at times he \vas good — "as a tonic " : Was Tennyson writing just now ? And was this new poet Byronic And clever, and naughty, or how ? Then we trifled with concerts and croquet, Then she daintily dusted her face ; Then she sprinkled herself with " Ess Bouquet," Fished out from the foregoing case ; And we chattered of Gassier and Grisi, And voted Aunt Sally a bore ; Discussed if the tight rope were easy, Or Chopin much harder than Spohr. And oh ! the odd things that she quoted, With the prettiest possible look, And the price of two buns that she noted In the prettiest possible book ; While her talk like a musical rillet Flashed on with the hours that flew ; And the carriage, her smile seemed to fill it With just enough summer — for Two. Till at last in her corner, peeping From a nest of rugs and of furs, With the white shut eyelids sleeping On those dangerous looks of hers, 384 1 N C O G N I T A She seemed like a snow-drop breaking, Not wholly alive nor dead, But with one blind impulse making To the sounds of the spring overhead ; And I watched in the lamplight's swerving The shade of the down-dropt lid, And the lip-line's delicate curving. Where a slumbering smile lay hid, Till I longed that, rather than sever, The train should shriek into space, And carry us onward — for ever, — Me and that beautiful face. But she suddenly woke in a fidget. With fears she was " nearly at home," And talk of a certain Aunt Bridget, Whom I mentally wished — well, at Rome; Got out at the very next station. Looking back with a merry Bon So/r; Adding, too, to my utter vexation, A surplus, unkind Au Revoir. So left me to muse on her graces, To doze and to muse, till I dreamed That we sailed through the sunniest places In a glorified galley, it seemed; But the cabin was made of a carriage. And the ocean was Eau-de-Cologne, And we split on a rock labelled Marriage, And 1 woke, — as cold as a stone. 385 2 B Vers de Soc'iii;ri5: And that's how I lost her — a jewel, Iiicoi^niita — one in a crowd, Not prudent enough to be cruel, Not worldly enough to be proud. It was just a shut lid and its lashes, Just a few hours in a train, And I sorrow in sackcloth and ashes, Longing to see her again. 386 Dora vei^sus Rose DORA FERSUS ROSE " The Case is proceeding.'''' FROM the tragic-est novels at Mudie's- At least, on a practical plan — To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys, One love is enough for a man. But no case that I ever yet met is Like mine : I am equally fond Of Rose, who a charming brunette is, And Dora, a blonde. Each rivals the other in powers — Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints- Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers ; Miss Do., perpendicular saints. In short, to distinguish is folly ; 'Twixt the pair I am come to the pass Of Macheath, between Lucy and Polly, — Or Buridan's ass. If it happens that Rosa I've singled For a soft celebration in rhyme. Then the ringlets of Dora get mingled Somehow with the tune and the time ; 3«7 Vers de SocietIS Or I painfully pen me a sonnet To an eyebrow intended for Do.'s, And behold I am writing upon it The legend " To Rose." Or I try to draw Dora (my blotter Is all overscrawled with her head), If I fancy at last that I've got her, It turns to her rival instead ; Or I find myself placidly adding To the rapturous tresses of Rose Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding, Ineffable nose. Was there ever so sad a dilemma ? For Rose I would perish (^pro Iciii.) ; For Dora I'd willingly stem a — (Whatever might offer to stem) ; But to make the invidious election, — To declare that on either one's side I've a scruple, — a grain, more affection, I cannot decide. And, as either so hopelessly nice is, My sole and my final resource Is to wait some indefinite crisis, — Some feat of molecular force, To solve me this riddle conducive By no means to peace or repose, Since the issue can scarce be inclusive Of Dora and Rose. 388 Dora versus Rose (Afterthought.) But, perhaps, if a third (say a Norah), Not quite so delightful as Rose, — Not wholly so charming as Dora, — Should appear, is it wrong to suppose, — As the claims of the others are equal, — And flight — in the main — is the best, — That I might . . . But no matter, — the sequel Is easily guessed. 389 Vers d e S o c i i'; t fc AD ROSAM ' ' Mitte sectciri, RuSA quo Ivcorum Sera motet iir." — HoR. I, 38. T HAD a vacant dwelling — -•- Where situated, I, As naught can serve the telling, Decline to specify ; — Enough 'twas neither haunted, Entailed, nor out of date ; I put up " Tenant Wanted," And left the rest to Fate. Then, Rose, you passed the window, I see you passing yet, — Ah, what could I within do, When, Rose, our glances met ! You snared me. Rose, with ribbons. Your rose-mouth made me thrall. Brief — briefer far than Gibbon's, Was my " Decline and Fall." I heard the summons spoken 'I'hat all hear — king and clown : You smiled — the ice was broken ; You stopped — the bill was down. 390 Ad Rosam How blind we are ! It never Occurred to me to seek If you had come for ever, Or only for a week. The words your voice neglected, Seemed written in your eyes ; The thought your heart protected. Your cheek told, missal-wise ; — I read the rubric plainly As any Expert could ; In short, we dreamed, — insanely, As only lovers should. I broke the tall (Enone, That then my chambers graced, Because she seemed " too bony," To suit your purist taste ; And you, without vexation. May certainly confess Some graceful approbation. Designed a man adresse. ■o' You liked me then, carina, — You liked me then, I think ; For your sake gall had been a Mere tonic-cup to drink ; For your sake, bonds were trivial, The rack, a tour-dc-force ; And banishment, convivial, — You coming too, of course. 391 Vers de Socii':tk Then, Rose, a word in jest meant Would throw you in a state That no well-timed investment Could quite alleviate ; Beyond a Paris trousseau You prized my smile, I know ; I, yours — ah, more than Rousseau The lip of d'Houdetot. Then, Rose, — But why pursue it ? AVhen Fate begins to frown Best write the final "/?«V," And gulp the physic down. And yet, — and yet, that only. The song should end with this :- You left me, — left me lonely, Rosa mntobilis ! Left me, with Time for Mentor, (A dreary tcte-a-tctc !) To pen my " Last Lament," or Extemporize to Fate, In blankest verse disclosing My bitterness of mind, — Which is, I learn, composing In cases of the kind. No, Rose. Though you refuse me. Culture the pang prevents ; " I am not made "• — excuse me — " Of so slight elements ; " 392 Ad Rosam I leave to common lovers The hemlock or the hood ; My rarer soul recovers In dreams of public good. The Roses of this nation — Or so I understand From careful computation — Exceed the gross demand ; And, therefore, in civility To maids that can't be matched, No man of sensibility Should ling;er unattached. 'o^ So, without further fashion — A modern Curtius, Plunging, from pure compassion. To aid the overplus, — I sit down, sad — not daunted, And, in my weeds, begin A new card — "Tenant Wanted; Particulars within." 393 Vers de Socii';ti5 OUTWARD BOUND (horack, III. 7) " Qiiidjles, Astcfie, quern tibi candidi Prima restituent •uerc Favonii . , . Gygen ? " /^OME, Laura, patience. Time and Spring ^^-^ Your ab-sent Arthur back shall brin In the Royal Academy IN THE ROYAL ACADEMY Hugh {on furlough). Helen {his cousin). Helen. 'T'HEY have not come ! And ten is past, — Unless, by chance, my watch is fast ; — Aunt Mabel surely told us " ten." Hugh, I doubt if she can do it, then. In fact, their train . . . Helen, That is, — you knew. How could you be so treacherous, Hugh ? Hugh. Nay ; — it is scarcely mine, the crime, One can't account for railway-time ! Where shall we sit ? Not here, I vote ;- At least, there's nothing here of note. 397 Vers de Societe Helen. I'hcn here we'll stay, please. Once for all, I bar all artists, — great and small ! From now until we go in June I shall hear nothing but this tune : — Whether I like Long's " Vashti," or Like Leslie's " Naughty Kitty " more ; With all that critics, right or wrong. Have said of Leslie and of Long .... No. If you value my esteem, I beg you'll take another theme ; Paint me some pictures, if you will. But spare nie these, for good and ill ... . Hugh. "Paint you some pictures!" Come, that's kind! You know I'm nearly colour-blind. Helen. Paint then, in words. Vou did before; Scenes at — where was it ? Dustypoor ? You know .... Hugh {with an inspiratioii). I'll try. Helen. 1)UL mind they're pretty, Not "hog hunts." .... In the Royal Academy Hugh. You shall be Committee, And say if they are " out " or " in." Helen. I shall reject them all. Begin. Hugh. Here is the first. An antique Hall (Like Chanticlere) with panelled wall. A boy, or rather lad. A girl, Laughing with all her rows of pearl Before a portrait in a ruff. He meanwhile watches .... Helen. That's enough, It wants '■'■verve, "Z'/w," "breadth, "design," . . Besides, it's English. I decline. Hugh. This is the next. 'Tis finer far : A foaming torrent (say Braemar). A pony grazing by a boulder, Then the same pair, a little older. Left by some lucky chance together. He begs her for a sprig of heather . 399 Vers de Socii^t^ Helen. — " Which she accords with smile seraphic. I know it, — it was in the " Graphic." Declined. Hugh. Once more, and I forego All hopes of hanging, high or low : Behold the hero of the scene, In bungalow and palankeen .... Helen. What ! — all at once ! But that's absurd ;- Unless he's Sir Boyle Roche's bird ! Hugh. Permit me — 'Tis a Panorama, In which the person of the drama, Mid orientals dusk and tawny. Mid warriors drinking brandy pawnee. Mid scorpions, dowagers, and griffins. In morning rides, at noonday tiffins. In every kind of place and weather, Is solaced .... by a sprig of heather. {More seriously.) He puts that faded scrap before The " Rajah," or the " Koh-i-noor "... He would not barter it for all Benares, or the Taj-Mahal . . 400 In the Royal Academy It guides, — directs his every act, And word, and thought — In short — in fact — I mean .... (Opening his locket.) Look, Helen, that's the heather ! (Too late ! Here come both Aunts together.) Helen. What heather, Sir ? {After a pause.) And why . ..." too late ? " — Aunt Dora, how you've made us wait ! Don't you agree that it's a pity Portraits are hung by the Committee ? 401 2 c Vers de SociiiTIl THE LAST DESPATCH HURRAH ! the Season's past at last ; At length we've " done " our pleasure. Dear " Pater," if you only knew How much I've longed for home and you, — Our own green lawn and leisure ! And then the pets ! One half forgets The dear dumb friends — in Babel. I hope my special fish is fed ; — I long to see poor Nigra's head Pushed at me from the stable ! I long to see the cob and " Rob," — Old Bevis and the Collie ; And won't we read in " Traveller's Rest " ! Home readings after all are best ; — None else seem half so "jolly ! " One misses your dear kindly store Of fancies quaint and funny ; One misses, too, your kind hon-mot ; — The Mayfair wit I mostly know Has more of gall than honey ! 402 The Last Despatch How tired one grows of " calls and balls " ! This " toujoiirs perdrix " wearies ; I'm longing, quite, for "Notes on Knox"; (^Apropos, I've the loveliest box For holding Notes and Queries /) A change of place would suit my case. You'll take me ? — on probation ? As " Lady-help," then, let it be ; I feel (as Lavender shall see). That Jams are my vocation ! How's Lavender ? My love to her. Does Briggs still flirt with Flowers ? — Has Hawthorn stubbed the common clear ?- You'll let me give some picnics. Dear, And ask the Vanes and Towers ? I met Belle Vane. " He's " still in Spain ! Sir John won't let them marry. Aunt drove the boys to Brompton Rink ; And Charley, — changing Charley, — think. Is now ail mieux with Carry ! And NO. You know what " No " I mean — There's no one yet at present : The Benedick I have in view Must be a something wholly new, — One's father's far too pleasant. 403 Vers de SociilT^ So hey, I say, for home and you ! Good-bye to Piccadilly ; Balls, beaux, and Bolton-row, adieu ! Expect nie, Dear, at half-past two ; Till then, — your Own Fond — Milly. 404 "Premiers Amours 75 "PREMIERS AMOURS" Old Loves and old dreams. — ' ' Requ'iescant in pace. Hoiu strange nonv it seems, — " Old" Loves and " old'' dreams .' Yet ire once ivrote you reams, Maude, Alice, and Grade/ Old Loves and old dreams, — ' ' Requiescant in pace. " WHEN I called at the " Hollies " to-day, In the room with the cedar-wood presses, Aunt Deb. was just folding away What she calls her " memorial dresses." She'd the frock that she wore at fifteen, — Short-waisted, of course — my abhorrence ; She'd " the loveliest " — something in " een " That she wears in her portrait by Lawrence ; She'd the "jclick" she used — "as a Greek," (!) She'd the habit she got her bad fall in ; She had e'en the blue moire antique That she opened Squire Grasshopper's ball in :— New and old they were all of them there : — Sleek velvet and bombazine stately, — She had hung them each over a chair To the ^' paniers" she's taken to lately 405 Vers du. Socii^Tii (Which she showed me, I think, by mistake). And I conned o'er the forms and the fashions. Till the faded old shapes seemed to wake All the ghosts of my passed-away " passions "; — From the days of love's youthfullest dream, When the height of my shooting idea Was to burn, like a young Polypheme, For a somewhat mature Galatea. There was Lucy, who " tiffed " with her first. And who threw me as soon as her third came ; There was Norah, whose cut was the worst. For she told me to wait till my " herd " came; Pale Blanche, who subsisted on salts ; Blonde Bertha, who doted on Schiller ; Poor Amy, who taught me to waltz; Plain Ann, that I wooed for the " siller " ; — All danced round my head in a ring. Like " The Zephyrs " that somebody painted, All shapes of the feminine thing — Shy, scornful, seductive, and sainted, — To my Wife, in the days she was young . . " How, Sir," says that lady, disgusted, " Do you dare to include Me among Your loves that have faded and rusted ? " 406 "Premiers Amours" " Not at all ! " — I benignly retort. (I was just the least bit in a temper !) " Those, alas ! were the fugitive sort, But you are my — eadcm semper ! " Full stop, — and a Sermon. Yet think, — There was surely good ground for a quarrel,- She had checked me when just on the brink Of — I feel — a remarkable Moral. 407 Vers de Socii^ti^ THE SCREEN IN THE LUMBER ROOM "X/ES, here it is, behind the box, -'- That puzzle wrought so neatly — That paradise of paradox — We once knew so completely ; You see it ? 'Tis the same, I swear, Which stood, that chill September, Beside your Aunt Lavinia's chair The year when . . You remember ? Look, Laura, look ! You must recall This florid " Fairy's Bovver," This wonderful Swiss waterfall, And this old " Leaning Tower " ; And here's the " Maiden of Cashmere," And here is Bewick's " Starling," And here the dandy cuirassier You thought was " such a Darling ! " Your poor dear Aunt ! you know her way, She used to say this figure Reminded her of Count D'Orsay "In all his youthful vigour"; 408 The Screen in the Lumber Room And here's the " cot beside the hill " We chose for habitation, The day that . . But I doubt if still You'd like the situation ! Too damp — by far ! She little knew, Your guileless Aunt Lavinia, Those evenings when she slumbered through " The Prince of Abyssinia," That there were two beside her chair Who both had quite decided To see things in a rosier air Than Rasselas provided ! Ah ! men wore stocks in Britain's land. And maids short waists and tippets, When this old-fashioned screen was planned From hoarded scraps and snippets ; But more — far more, I think — to me Than those who first designed it, Is this — in Eighteen Seventy-Three I kissed you first behind it. 409 Vers de Soci^Tii DAISY'S VALENTINES ALL night through Daisy's sleep, it seems, Have ceaseless " rat-tats " thundered ; All night through Daisy's rosy dreams Have devious Postmen blundered, Delivering letters round her bed, — Mysterious missives, sealed with red, And franked of course with due Queen's-head,- While Daisy lay and wondered. But now, when chirping birds begin, And Day puts off the Quaker, — When Cook renews her morning din, And rates the cheerful baker, — She dreams her dream no dream at all. For, just as pigeons come at call, Winged letters flutter down, and fall Around her head, and wake her. Yes, there they are ! With quirk and twist. And fraudful arts directed ; (Save Grandpapa's dear stiff old " fist," Through all disguise detected ;) But which is his, — her young Lothair's, — Who wooed her on the school-room stairs With three sweet cakes, and two ripe pears, In one neat pile collected ? 410 Daisy's Valentines 'Tis there, be sure. Though truth to speak (If truth may be permitted), I doubt that young " gift-bearing Greek " Is scarce for fealty fitted ; For has he not (I grieve to say) To two loves more, on this same day, In just this same emblazoned way, His transient vows transmitted ? He may be true. Yet, Daisy dear. That even youth grows colder You'll find is no new thing, I fear ; And when you're somewhat older, You'll read of one Dardanian boy Who " wooed with gifts " a maiden coy, — Then took the morning train to Troy, In spite of all he'd told her. But wait. Your time will come. And then, Obliging Fates, please send her The bravest thing you have in men, Sound-hearted, strong, and tender; — The kind of man, dear Fates, you know, That feels how shyly Daisies grow. And what soft things they are, and so Will spare to spoil or mend her. 411 Vers de Socij^t^ IN TOWN " The biuejly sung In the pane." — TeNNYSON. nr OILING in Town now is "horrid," -'- (There is that woman again !) — June in the zenith is torrid, Thought gets dry in the brain. There is that woman again : " Strawberries ! fourpence a pottle ! " Thought gets dry in the brain ; Ink gets dry in the bottle. " Strawberries ! fourpence a pottle ! " Oh for the green of a lane ! — Ink gets dry in the bottle ; " Buzz " goes a fly in the pane ! Oh for the green of a lane. Where one might lie and be lazy ! " Buzz " goes a fly in the pane; Bluebottles drive me crazy ! Where one might lie and be lazy, Careless of Town and all in it ! — Bluebottles drive me crazy : I shall go mad in a minute ! 412 In Town Careless of Town and all in it, With some one to soothe and to still you ;- I shall go mad in a minute ; Bluebottle, then I shall kill you ! With some one to soothe and to still you, As only one's feminine kin do, — Bluebottle, then I shall kill you : There now ! I've broken the window ! As only one's feminine kin do, — Some muslin-clad Mabel or May ! — There now ! I've broken the window ! Bluebottle's off and away ! Some muslin-clad Mabel or May, To dash one with eau de Cologne ; — Bluebottle's off and away ; And why should I stay here alone ! To dash one with eau de Cologne, All over one's eminent forehead ; — And why should I stay here alone! Toiling in Town now is " horrid." 413 Vers de Socii^ti^ A SONNET IN DIALOGUE Frank (o« the Laivn). /^^OME to the Terrace, May, — the sun is low. May {in the House). Thanks, I prefer my Browning here instead. Frank. There are two peaches by the strawberry bed. May. They will be riper if we let them grow. Frank. Then the Park-aloe is in bloom, you know. May. Also, her Majesty Queen Anne is dead. Frank. But surely, May, your pony must be fed. 414 A Sonnet in Dialogue May. And was, and is. I fed him hours ago. 'Tis useless, Frank, you see I shall not stir. Frank. Still, I had something you would like to hear. May. No doubt some new frivolity of men. Frank. Nay, — 'tis a thing the gentler sex deplores Chiefly, I think .^ . May (coming to the windoiv). What is this secret, then ? Frank (mystcrioitsly). There are no eyes more beautiful than yours ! 415 Vers de Societi^ GROWING GRAY '' On a Page dc son ca'ur." — A. d'HoudeTOT. A LITTLE more toward the light ;— Me miserable ! Here's one that's white, And one that's turning ; Adieu to song and " salad days " ; My Muse, let's go at once to Jay's, And order mourning. We must reform our rhymes, my Dear, — Renounce the gay for the severe, — Be grave, not witty ; We have no more the right to find That Pyrrha's hair is neatly twined, — That Chloe's pretty. Young Love's for us a farce that's played ; Light canzonet and serenade No more may tempt us ; Gray hairs but ill accord with dreams ; From aught but sour didactic themes Our years exempt us. Indeed ! you really fancy so ? You think for one white streak we grow At once satiric ? 416 Growing Gray A fiddlestick ! Each hair's a string To which our ancient Muse shall sing A younger lyric. The heart's still sound. Shall " cakes and ale " Grow rare to youth because luc rail At schoolboy dishes ? Perish the thought ! 'Tis ours to chant When neither Time nor Tide can grant Belief with wishes. 417 2 D VARIA THE MALTWORM'S MADRIGAL T DRINK of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of ^ the Ale of Chepe ; At noon I dream on the settle ; at night I cannot sleep ; For my love, my love it groweth ; I waste me all the day ; And when I see sweet Alison, I know not what to say. The sparrow when he spieth his Dear upon the tree, He beateth-to his little wing ; he chirketh lustily ; But when I see sweet Alison, the words begin to fail ; I wot that I shall die of Love — an I die not of Ale. Her lips are like the muscadel; her brows are black as ink ; Her eyes are bright as beryl stones that in the tankard wink ; But when she sees me coming, she shrilleth out — " Te-Hee ! Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin, what lackest thou of me ? " 421 V ARIA " Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin ! Why be thine eyes so small ? Why go thy legs tap-lappetty like men that fear to fall ? Why is thy leathern doublet besmeared with stain and spot ? Go to. Thou art no man (she saith) — thou art a Pottle-pot ! " " No man," i'faith. " No man ! " she saith. And " Pottle-pot " thereto ! " Thou sleepest like our dog all day ; thou drink'st as fishes do." I would that I were Tibb the dog ; he wags at her his tail ; Or would that I were fish, perdy, and all the sea were Ale ! So I drink of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Chepe ; All day I dream in the sunlight ; I dream and eke I weep. But little lore of loving can any flagon teach. For when my tongue is loosed most, then most I lose my speech. 422 An April Pastoral AN APRIL PASTORAL He. TX THITHER away, fair Neat-herdess ? * * She. Shepherd, I go to tend my kine. He. Stay thou, and watch this flock of mine. She. With thee? Nay, that were idleness. j He. Thy kine will pasture none the less. She. Not so : they wait me and my sign. He. I'll pipe to thee beneath the pine. She. Thy pipe will soothe not their distress. He. Dost thou not hear beside the spring How the gay birds are carolling ? She. I hear them. But it may not be. He. Farewell then, .Sweetheart ! Farewell now. She. Shepherd, farewell . . Where goest thou ? He. I go . . to tend thy kine for thee ! 423 Varia A NEW SONG OF THE SPRING GARDENS To the Burden of Rogues All." COME hither ye gallants, come hither ye maids, To the trim gravelled walks, to the shady arcades ; Come hither, come hither, the nightingales call ; — Sing TaiUnrara, — Vauxhall ! Vauxhall ! Come hither, ye cits, from your Lothbury hives ! Come hither, ye husbands, and look to your wives ! For the sparks are as thick as the leaves in the Mall ;— Sing Tantarara, — Vauxhall ! Vauxhall ! Here the 'prentice from Aldgate may ogle a Toast ! Here his Worship must elbow the Knight of the Post ! For the wicket is free to the great and the small ; — Sing Tantarara, — Vauxliall ! Vauxhall ! 424 A New Song of the Spring Gardens Here Betty may flaunt in her mistress's sack ! Here Trip wear his master's brocade on his back ! Here a hussy may ride, and a rogue take the wall ; Sing Tantai'ara, — Vauxhall ! Vauxhall ! Here Beauty may grant, and here Valour may ask ! Here the plainest may pass for a Belle (in a mask) ! Here a domino covers the short and the tall ; — Sing Tantarara^ — Vauxhall ! Vauxliall ! 'Tis a type of the world, with its drums and its din ; 'Tis a type of the world, for when once you come in You are loth to go out ; like the world 'tis a ball ; — Sing Taniarara^ — Vauxhall ! Vauxhall ! 425 Varia A LOVE- SONG (XVIII. CENT.) V\/'HEN first in Celia's ear I poured A yet unpractised pray'r, My trembling tongue sincere ignored The aids of " sweet " and " fair." I only said, as in me lay, I'd strive her " worth " to reach ; She frowned, and turned her eyes away,- So much for truth in speech. Then Delia came. T changed my plan ; I praised her to her face ; I praised her features, — praised her fan, Her lap-dog and her lace ; I swore that not till Time were dead My ]iassion should decay ; She, smiling, gave her hand, and said 'Twill last then — for a Day. 426 Of His Mistress OF HIS MISTRESS {After Anthony Hamilion) TO G. S. SHE that I love is neither brown nor fair, And, in a word her worth to say, There is no maid that with her may Compare. Yet of her charms the count is clear, I ween : There are five hundred things we see. And then five hundred too there be, Not seen. Her wit, her wisdom are direct from Heaven : But the sweet Graces from their store A thousand finer touches more Have given. Her cheek's warm dye what painter's brush could note ? Beside her Flora would be wan And white as whiteness of the swan Her throat. 427 V A R I A Her supple waist, her arm from Venus came, Hebe her nose and lip confess. And, looking in her eyes, you guess Her name. 428 The Nameless Char M THE NAMELESS CHARM {Expanded from an Epigram nf P/ro>i) OTELLA, 'tis not your dainty head, ^ Your artless look, I own ; 'Tis not your dear coquettish tread, Or this, or that, alone ; Nor is it all your gifts combined ; 'Tis something in your face, — The untranslated, undefined, Uncertainty of grace. That taught the Boy on Ida's hill To whom the meed was due ; Aii three have equal charms — but still This one I give it to ! 429 Varia TO PHIDYLE (hor. hi. 23) TNCENSE, and flesh of swine, and this year's J- grain, At the new moon, with supphant hands, bestow, O rustic Phidyle ! So naught shall know Thy crops of blight, thy vine of Afric bane. And hale the nurslings of thy flock remain Through the sick apple-tide. Fit victims grow 'Twixt holm and oak upon the Algid snow, Or Alban grass, that with their necks must stain The Pontiff^s axe : to thee can scarce avail Thy modest gods with much slain to assail, Whom myrtle crowns and rosemary can please. Lay on the altar a hand pure of fault ; More than rich gifts the I'owers it shall appease. Though pious but with meal and crackling salt. 430 To His Book TO HIS BOOK (hor., EP. I. 20) FOR mart and street you seem to pine With restless glances, Book of mine ! Still craving on some stall to stand, Fresh pumiced from the binder's hand. You chafe at locks, and burn to quit Your modest haunt and audience fit For hearers less discriminate. I reared you up for no such fate. Still, if you must be published, go ; But mind, you can't come back, you know ! " What have I done ? " I hear you cry. And writhe beneath some critic's eye ; " What did I want ? " — when, scarce polite, They do but yawn, and roll you tight. And yet methinks, if I may guess (Putting aside your heartlessness In leaving me and this your home), You should find favour, too, at Rome. That is, they'll like you while you're young, When you are old, you'll pass among 431 Varia The Great Unwashed, — then thumbed and sped, Be fretted of slow moths, unread, Or to Ilcrda you'll be sent. Or Utica, for banishment ! And I, whose counsel you disdain, At that your lot shall laugh amain. Wryly, as he who, like a fool. Thrust o'er the cliff his restive mule. Nay ! there is worse behind. In age They e'en may take your babbling page In some remotest " slum " to teach Mere boys their rudiments of speech ! But go. When on warm days you see A chance of listeners, speak of me. Tell them I soared from low estate, A freedman's son, to higher fate (That is, make up to me in worth What you must take in point of birth) ; Then tell them that I won renown In peace and war, and pleased the town ; Paint me as early gray, and one Little of stature, fond of sun. Quick-tempered, too, — but nothing more. Add (if they ask) I'm forty-four, Or was, the year that over us Both Lollius ruled and Lcpidus. 432 For a Copy of Herrick FOR A COPY OF HERRICK MANY days have come and gone, Many suns have set and shone, Herrick, since thou sang'st of Wake, Morris-dance and Barley-break ; — Many men have ceased from care, Many maidens have been fair, Since thou sang'st of Julia's eyes, Julia's lawns and tiffanies ; — Many things are past : but thou, Golden-Mouth, art singing now, Singing clearly as of old, And thy numbers are of gold ! 433 2 E Varia WITH A VOLUME OF VERSE A BOUT the ending of the Ramadan, -^"^ When leanest grows the famished Mussuhnan, A haggard ne'er-do-well, Mahmoud by name, At the tenth hour to Caliph Omar came. " Lord of the Faithful (quoth he), at the last The long moon waneth, and men cease to fast ; Hard then, O hard ! the lot of him must be. Who spares to eat . . . but not for piety ! " " Hast thou no calling. Friend ? " — the Caliph said. " Sir, I make verses for my daily bread." " Verse ! " — answered Omar. " 'Tis a dish, indeed, Whereof but scantily a man may feed. Go. Learn the Tenter's or the Potter's Art, — Verse is a drug not sold in any mart." I know not if that hungry Mahmoud died ; But this I know — he must have versified. For, with his race, from better still to worse, The plague of writing follows like a curse : And men ivill scribble though they fail to dine, Which is the Moral of more Books than mine. 434 For the Avery "Knickerbocker ?5 FOR THE AVERY "KNICKER- BOCKER" (with original drawings by g. h. boughton) SHADE of Herrick, Muse of Locker, Help me sing of Knickerbocker ! Boughton, had you bid me chant Hymns to Peter Stuyvesant ! Had you bid me sing of Wouter, (He ! the Onion-head ! the Doubter !) But to rhyme of this one, — Mocker ! Who shall rhyme to Knickerbocker ? Nay, but where my hand must fail There the more shall yours avail ; You shall take your brush and paint All that ring of figures quaint, — All those Rip-van-Winkle jokers, — All those solid-looking smokers, Pulling at their pipes of amber In the dark-beamed Council-Chamber. Only art like yours can touch Shapes so dignified . . and Dutch ; Only art like yours can show How the pine-logs gleam and glow, 435 Varia Till the fire-light laughs and passes 'Twixt the tankards and the glasses, Touching with responsive graces All those grave Batavian faces, — Making bland and beatific All that session soporific. Then I come and write beneath, BouGHTON, he deserves the wreath ; He can give us form and hue — This the Muse can never do ! 436 To A Pastoral Poet TO A PASTORAL POET (h. e. b.) AMONG my best I put your Book, O Poet of the breeze and brook ! (That breeze and brook which blows and falls More soft to those in city walls) Among my best : and keep it still Till down the fair grass-girdled hill, Where slopes my garden-slip, there goes The wandering wind that wakes the rose, And scares the cohort that explore The broad-faced sun-flower o'er and o'er, Or starts the restless bees that fret The bindweed and the mignonette. Then I shall take your Book, and dream I lie beside some haunted stream ; And watch the crisping waves that pass, And watch the flicker in the grass ; And wait — and wait — and wait to see The Nymph . . . that never comes to me ! 437 Varia TO ONE WHO BIDS ME SING " The straiv is too old to make pipes of" — Don Quixote. \70U ask a " many-winter'd " Bard -»- Where hides his old vocation ? I'll give — the answer is not hard — A classic explanation. " Immortal " though he be, he still, Tithonus-like, grows older, While she, his Muse of Pindus Hill, Still bares a youthful shoulder. Could that too-sprightly Nymph but leave Her ageless grace and beauty, They might, betwixt them both, achieve A hymn de Seneciuk; But She — She can't grow gray ; and so. Her slave, whose hairs are falling. Must e'en his Doric flute forego, And seek some graver calling, — Not ill-content to stand aside, To yield to minstrels fitter His singing-robes, his singing-pride. His fancies sweet — and bitter ! 438 "Sat est Scripsisse" "SAT EST SCRIPSISSE" (to e. g., with a collection of essays) WHEN You and I have wandered beyond the reach of call, And all our Works immortal lie scattered on the Stall, It may be some new Reader, in that remoter age, Will find the present Volume and listless turn the page. For him I speak these verses. And, Sir (I say to him). This Book you see before you,— this masterpiece of Whim, Of Wisdom, Learning, Fancy (if you will, please, attend), — Was written by its Author, who gave it to his Friend. For they had worked together, — been Comrades of the Pen ; They had their points at issue, they differed now and then ; 439 V A R I A But both loved Song and Letters, and each had dose at heart The hopes, the aspirations, the " dear delays " of Art. And much they talked of Measures, and more they talked of Style, Of Form and " lucid Order," of " labour of the File ; " And he who wrote the writing, as sheet by sheet was penned (This all was long ago. Sir !), would read it to his Friend. They knew not, nor cared greatly, if they were spark or star ; They knew to move is somewhat, although the goal be far ; And larger light or lesser, this thing at least is clear. They served the Muses truly, — their service was sincere. This tattered page you see. Sir, this page alone remains (Yes, — fourpence is the lowest !) of all those pleasant i)ains ; And as for him that read it, and as for him that wrote. No Golden Book enrolls them among its " Names of Note." 440 "Sat est Scripsisse 55 And yet they had their office. Though they to- day are passed, They marched in that procession where is no first or last ; Though cold is now their hoping, though they no more aspire, They too had once their ardour — they handed on the fire. 441 PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES PROLOGUE TO ABBEY'S EDITION OF "SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER" IN the year Seventeen Hundred and Seventy and Three, When the Georges were ruling o'er Britain the free, There was played a new play, on a new-fashioned plan, By the Goldsmith who brought out the Good- Natur'd Man. New-fashioned, in truth — for this play, it appears, Dealt largely in laughter, and nothing in tears. While the type of those days, as the learned will tell ye. Was the Cumberland whine or the whimper of Kelly. So the Critics pooh-poohed, and the Actresses pouted, And the Public were cold, and the Manager doubted ; But the Author had friends, and they all went to see it. Shall we join them in fancy? You answer. So be it ! Imagine yourself then, good Sir, in a wig. Either grizzle or bob — never mind, you look big. You've a sword at your side, in your shoes there are buckles. And the folds of fine linen flap over your knuckles. 445 Prologues and Epilogues You have come with Hght heart, and with eyes that are brighter, From a pint of red Port, and a steak at the Mitre ; You have strolled from the Bar and the purlieus of Fleet, And you turn from the Strand into Catherine Street ; Thence climb to the law-loving summits of Bow, Till you stand at the Portal all play-goers know. See, here are the 'prentice lads laughing and pushing, And here are the seamstresses shrinking and blushing. And here are the urchins who, just as to-day. Sir, Buzz at you like flies with their " Bill o' the Play, Sir?" Yet you take one, no less, and you squeeze by the Chairs, With their freights of fine ladies, and mount up the stairs ; So issue at last on the House in its pride. And pack yourself snug in a box at the side. Here awhile let us pause to take breath as we sit, Surveying the humours and pranks of the Pit, — ^Vith its Babel of chatterers buzzing and humming, With its impudent orange-girls going and coming, With its endless surprises of face and of feature. All grinning as one in a gust of good-nature. Then we turn to the Boxes where Trip in his lace Is aping his master, and keeping his place. Do but note how the Puppy flings back with a yawn, Like a 1 )uke at the least, or a Bishop in lawn ! 446 "She Stoops to Conquer 5i Then sniffs at his bouquet, whips round with a smirk, And ogles the ladies at large — like a Turk. But the music comes in, and the blanks are all filling. And Trip must trip up to the seats at a shilling; And spite of the mourning that most of us wear The House takes a gay and a holiday air ; For the fair sex are clever at turning the tables, And seem to catch coquetry even in sables. Moreover, your mourning has ribbons and stars, And is sprinkled about with the red coats of Mars. Look, look, there is Wilkes ! You may tell by the squint ; But he grows every day more and more like the print (Ah! Hogarth could draw \) ; and behind at the back Hugh Kelly, who looks all the blacker in black. That is Cumberland next, and the prim-looking person In the corner, I take it, is Ossian Macpherson. And rolling and blinking, here, too, with the rest, Comes sturdy old Johnson, dressed out in his best ; How he shakes his old noddle ! I'll wager a crown, Whatever the law is, he's laying it down ! Beside him is Reynolds, who's deaf; and the hale Fresh, farmer-like fellow, I fancy, is Tiirale. 447 Prologues and Epilogues There is Burke with George Steevens. And somewhere, no doubt, Is the Author — too nervous just now to come out; He's a queer httle fellow, grave-featured, pock- pitten, Tho' they say, in his cups, he's as gay as a kitten. But where is our play -bill ? Mistakes of a Night ! If the title's prophetic, I pity his plight ! She Stoops. Let us hope she won't fall at full length, For the piece — so 'tis whispered — is wanting in strength. And the humour is " low ! " — you are doubtless aware There's a character, even, that " dances a bear ! " Then the cast is so poor, — neither marrow nor pith ! Why can't they get Woodw^ard or Gentleman Smith ! " Lee Lewes ! " Who's Lewes ? The fellow has played Nothing better, they tell me, than harlequinade ! " DuBELLAMY " — " QuiCK," — these are nobodies. Stay, I Believe I saw Quick once in Beau Mordecai. Yes, Quick is not bad. Mrs. Green, too, is funny; But Shuter, ah ! Shuter's the man for my money ! 448 "She Stoops to Conquer 5? He's the quaintest, the oddest of mortals, is Shuter, And he has but one fault — he's too fond of the pewter. Then there's little Bulkely . . . But here in the middle. From the orchestra comes the first squeak of a fiddle. Then the bass gives a growl, and the horn makes a dash, And the music begins with a flourish and crash, And away to the zenith goes swelling and swaying, While we tap on the box to keep time to the playing. And we hear the old tunes as they follow and mingle. Till at last from the stage comes a ting-a-ting tingle ; And the fans cease to whirr, and the House for a minute Grows still as if naught but wax figures were in it. Then an actor steps out, and the eyes of all glisten. Who is it ? The Prologue. He's sobbing. Hush ! listen. \Thereupon enters Mr. Woodivard in black, with a handkerchief to his eyes, to speak GarricKs Prologue, after which comes the play. In the voIhuic for ivhich the fore- going additional Prologue was written the folloiving Envoi was added. '\ 449 2 F Prologues and Epilogues L'ENVOI GOOD-BYE to you, Kki.lv, your fetters are broken ! Good-bye to you, Cumberland, Goldsmith has spoken ! Good-bye to sham vSentinient, moping and mum- ming, For Goldsmith has spoken and Sheridan's coming ; And the frank Muse of Comedy laughs in free air As she laughed with the Great Ones, with Shakespeare, Molie;re ! 450 Prologue to Abbey's "Quiet Life 55 PROLOGUE TO ABBEY'S "QUIET LIFE" EVEN as one in city pent, Dazed with tine stir and din of town, Drums on the pane in discontent. And sees the dreary rain come down, Yet, through the dimmed and dripping glass, Beholds, in fancy, visions pass Of Spring that breaks with all her leaves, Of birds that build in thatch and eaves, Of woodlands where the throstle calls. Of girls that gather cowslip balls. Of kine that low, and lambs that cry, Of wains that jolt and rumble by, Of l:)rooks that sing by brambly ways. Of sunburned folk that stand at gaze, Of all the dreams with which men cheat The stony sermons of the street, So, in its hour, the artist brain Weary of human ills and woes. Weary of passion and of pain, And vaguely craving for repose, Deserts awhile the stage of strife To draw the even, ordered life, 451 Prologues and Epilogues The easeful days, the dreamless nights, The homely round of plain delights, The calm, the unambitioned mind, Which all men seek, and few men fmd. EPILOGUE. Let the dream pass, the fancy fade ! We clutch a shape, and hold a shade. Is Peace so peaceful ? Nay, — who knows ! There are volcanoes under snows. 452 "Story of Rosina" DEDICATION OF "THE STORY OF ROSINA" (to an ideal reader) T X /"HAT would our modern maids to-day ? ^ ^ I watch, and can't conjecture : A dubious tale ? — an Ibsen play ? — A pessimistic lecture ? I know not. But this, Child, I know You like things sweet and seemly. Old-fashioned flowers, old shapes in Bow, " Auld Robin Gray " (extremely) ; You — with my " Dorothy " ^ — delight In fragrant cedar-presses ; In window corners warm and bright, In lawn, and lilac dresses ; You still can read, at any rate, Charles Lamb and " Evelina; " To you. My Dear, I dedicate This " Story ok Rosina." 1 See ante, p. 104. 453 Prologues and Epilogues PROLOGUE TO "EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY VIGNETTES" (third series) " Vcrsate , . . Quid iniltant humeri." — HoK. Ars Poetica, T T OW shall a Writer change his ways ? -*- J- Read his Reviewers' blame, not praise. In blame, as Boileau said of old, The truth is shadowed, if not told. There ! Let that row of stars extend To hide the faults I mean to mend. Why should the Public need to know The standard that I fall l)elow? Or learn to search for that defect My Critic bids me to correct ? No : in this case the Worldly- Wise Keep their own counsel — and revise. Yet something of my Point of View I may confide, my Friend, to You. I don't pretend to paint the vast And complex picture of the Past : Nor mine the wars of humankind, " The furious troops in battle joined ; " 454 5? "Eighteenth-Century Vignettes Not mine the march, the counter-march, The trmnpets, the triumphal arch. For detail, detail, most I care (Ce supcrflu, si necessaire !) ; I cultivate a private bent For episode, for incident ; I take a page of Some One's life. His quarrel with his friend, his wife, His good or evil hap at Court, " His habit as he lived," his sport, The books he read, the trees he planted, The dinners that he ate — or wanted : As much, in short, as one may hope To cover with a microscope. I don't taboo a touch of scandal. If Gray or Walpole hold the candle ; Nor do I use a lofty tone Where faults are weaknesses alone. In studies of Life's seamy side I own I feel no special pride ; The Fleet, the round-house, and the gibbets Are not among my prize exhil)its ; Nor could I, if I would, outdo What Fielding wrote, or Hogarth drew. Yet much I love to arabesque What Gauticr christened a " Grotesque ; " To take his oddities and " lunes," And drape them neatly with festoons. Until, at length, I chance to get The thing I designate " Vignette." 455 Prologues and Epilogues To sum the matter then : — My aim Is modest. This is all I claim : To paint a part and not the whole, The trappings rather than the soul. The Evolution of the Time, The silent Forces fighting Crime, The Fetishes that fail, and pass. The struggle between Class and Class, The Wealth still adding land to lands. The Crown that falls, the Faith that stands All this I leave to abler hands. 456 " Eighteenth-Century Vignettes " EPILOGUE TO "EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY VIGNETTES" (second series) " TT THAT is it then," — some Reader asks, — VV " What is it that attaches Your fancy so to fans and masks, — To periwigs and patches ? " Is Human Life to-day so poor, — So bloodless, — you disdain it, To ' galvanize ' the Past once more ? — Permit me. I'll explain it. This Age I grant (and grant with pride), Is varied, rich, eventful ; But, if you touch its weaker side Deplorably resentful : Belaud it, and it takes your praise With air of calm conviction ; Condemn it, and at once you raise A storm of contradiction 457 Prologues and Epilogues Whereas with these old Shades of mine, Their ways and dress delight me; And should I trip by word or line, They cannot well indict me. Not that I think to err. I seek To steer 'twixt blame and blindness ; I strive (as some one said in Greek) To speak the truth with kindness : But — should I fear to render clear Their title, rank, or station — I still may sleep secure, nor fear A suit for defamation. 458 ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS " They are a school to win The fair French daughter to learn English in ; And, graced with her song, To make the language sweet upon her tongue." Ben Jon son, UnJerivomh. As, to the pipe, ivith rhxjihm'ic feet In ivindirigs of some old-ivurld dance. The smiling couples cross and meet. Join hands , and then in line advance, So, to these fair old tunes of France, Through all their maze of to and fro, Tlie light-heeled numbers lau\<^iing go, Retreat, return, and ere thei/ flee. On I- moment pause in panting roiv. And seem to say — Vos plaudite ! Rose-Leaves ROSE-LEAVES ' ' Sans pescr. — Sans rester." A KISS. "DOSE kissed me to-day. ■*-^ Will she kiss me to-morrow ? Let it be as it may, Rose kissed me to-day But the pleasure gives way To a savour of sorrow ; — Rose kissed me to-day, — Will she kiss me to-morrow ? CIRCK. In the School of Coquettes Madam Rose is a scholar : — O, they fish with all nets In the School of Coquettes ! When her brooch she forgets 'Tis to show her new collar ; In the School of Coquettes Madam Rose is a scholar ! A TEAR. There's a tear in her eye, — Such a clear little jewel ! What can make her cry ? There's a tear in her eye. 461 Essays in Old French Forms " Puck has killed a big fly, — And it's horribly cruel ; " There's a tear in her eye, — Such a clear little jewel ! A GREEK GIFT. Here's a present for Rose, How pleased she is looking ! Is it verse ? — is it prose ? Here's a present for Rose ! " Plats," " Entrees," and " Rots," — Why, it's " Gouffe on Cooking " ! Hcrc^s a present for Rose, How pleased she is looking ! " URCEUS EXIT." I INTENDED an Odc, And it turned to a Sonnet. It began a la niidc, I intended an Ode ; But Rose crossed the road In her latest new bonnet ; I intended an Ode ; And it turned to a Sonnet. 462 "Persicos Odi" "PERSICOS ODI" "nvAVUS, I detest -L^ Orient display ; Wreaths on linden drest, Davus, I detest. Let the late rose rest Where it fades away : — Davus, I detest Orient display. Naught but myrtle twine Therefore, Boy, for me Sitting 'neath the vine, — Naught but myrtle twine; Fitting to the wine. Not unfitting thee ; Naught but myrtle twine Therefore, Boy, for me. 463 Essays in Old French Forms THE WANDERER T OVE comes back to his vacant dwelling, — ■'-^ The old, old Love that we knew of yore ! We see him stand by the open door. With his great eyes sad, and his bosom swelling. He makes as though in our arms repelling, He fain would lie as he lay before ; — Love comes back to his vacant dwelling, — The old, old Love that we knew of yore ! Ah, who shall help us from over-spelling That sweet forgotten, forbidden lore ! E'en as we doubt in our heart once more, With a rush of tears to our eyelids welling, Love comes back to his vacant dwelling. 464 "Vitas Hinnuleo" "VITAS HINNULEO" "X/OU shun me, Chloe, wild and shy ^ As some stray fawn that seeks its mother Through trackless woods. If spring-winds sigh, It vainly strives its fears to smother ; — Its trembling knees assail each other When lizards stir the bramble dry ; — You shun me, Chloe, wild and shy As some stray fawn that seeks its mother. And yet no Libyan lion I, — No ravening thing to rend another ; Lay by your tears, your tremors by — A Husband's better than a brother ; Nor shun me, Chloe, wild and shy As some stray fawn that seeks its mother. 465 2 a Essays in Old FRr.Ncn Forms "ON LONDON STONES" ON London stones I sometimes sigh For wider green and Ijluer sky ; — Too oft the trembling note is drowned In tliis huge city's varied sound ; — " Pure song is country-born " — I cry. Then comes the spring, — the months go by, The last stray swallows seaward fly ; And I — I too ! — no more am found On London stones ! In vain ! — the woods, the fields deny That clearer strain I fain would try • Mine is an urban Muse, and bound By some strange law to paven ground ; Abroad she pouts ; — she is not shy On London stones ! 466 "Farewell, Renown!" "FAREWELL, RENOWN! T^AREWELL, Renow^i ! Too fleeting flower, ■^ That grows a year to Jast an hour ; — Prize of the race's dust and heat, Too often trodden under feet, — Why should I court your " barren dower " ? Nay ; — had I Dryden's angry power, — The thews of Ben, — the wind of Gower, — Not less my voice should still repeat " Farewell, Renown ! " Farewell ! — Because the Muses' bower Is filled with rival brows that lower ; — Because, howe'er his pipe be sweet. The Bard, that " pays," must please the street ;- But most . . . because the grapes are sour, — Farewell, Renown ! 467 Essays in Old French Forms "MORE POETS YET!" (to j. l. \v.) JYJORE Poets yet ! "—I hear him say, Arming his heavy hand to slay ; — " Despite my skill and ' swashing blow,' They seem to sprout where'er I go ; — I killed a host but yesterday ! " Slash on, O Hercules ! You may. Your task 's, at best, a Hydra-fray ; And though you cut, not less will grow More Poets yet ! Too arrogant ! For who shall stay The first blind motions of the May ? Who shall out-blot the morning glow ? — Or stem the full heart's overflow ? Who? There will rise, till Time decay. More Poets yet ! 468 "With Pipe and Flute" "WITH PIPE AND FLUTE" (to e. g.) T X TITH pipe and flute the rustic Pan ^ ^ Of old made music sweet for man ; And wonder hushed the warbling bird, And closer drew the calm-eyed herd, — The rolling river slowlier ran. Ah ! would,— ah ! would, a little span, Some air of Arcady could fan This age of ours, too seldom stirred With pipe and flute ! But now for gold we plot and plan ; And from Beersheba unto Dan, Apollo's self might pass unheard. Or find the night-jar's note preferred ; — Not so it fared, when time began. With pipe and flute ! 469 Essays in Old F'rench Forms TO A JUNE ROSE (to a. p.) O ROYAL Rose ! the Roman dress'd His feast with thee ; thy petals press'd Augustan brows ; thine odour fine, Mix'd with the three-times-mingled wine, Lent the long Thracian draught its zest. What marvel then, if host and guest, By Song, by Joy, by Thee caress'd, Half-trembled on the half-divine, O royal Rose ! And yet — and yet — I love thee best In our old gardens of the West, Whether about my thatch thou twine, Or Hers, that brown-eyed maid of mine. Who lulls thee on her lawny breast, O royal Rose ! 470 To Daffodils TO DAFFODILS (to a. J. M.) O YELLOW flowers that Herrick sung ! O yellow flowers that danced and swung In Wordsworth's verse, and now to me, Unworthy, from this " pleasant lea," Laugh back, unchanged and ever young ; — Ah, what a text to us o'erstrung, O'erwrought, o'erreaching, hoarse of lung, You teach by that immortal glee, O yellow flowers ! We, by the Age's oestrus stung. Still hunt the New with eager tongue, Vexed ever with the Old, but ye, What ye have been ye still shall be. When we are dust the dust among, O yellow flowers ! 47 i Essays in Old French Forms ON THIZ HURRY OF THIS TIME (to f. g.) "T^ riTH slower pen men used to write, W Qf old, when " letters " were " polite ; " In Anna's, or in George's days, They could afford to turn a phrase. Or trim a straggling theme aright. They knew not steam ; electric light Not yet had dazed their calmer sight ; — They meted out both blame and praise With slower pen. Too swiftly now the Hours take flight ! What's read at morn is dead at night : Scant space have we for Art's delays. Whose breathless thought so briefly stays. We may not work — ah ! would we might !■ — With slower pen. 472 "When Burbadge Played" "WHEN BURBADGE PLAYED" (to l. b.) WHEN Burbadge played, the stage was bare Of fount and temple, tower and stair ; Two backswords eked a battle out; Two supers made a rabble rout ; The Throne of Denmark was a chair ! And yet, no less, the audience there Thrilled through all changes of Despair, Hope, Anger, Fear, Delight, and Doubt When Burbadge played ! This is the Actor's gift ; to share All moods, all passions, nor to care One whit for scene, so he without Can lead men's minds the roundabout, Stirred as of old those hearers were When Burbadge played ! 473 Essays in Old Frrnch Forms A GREETING (to w. c.) "DUT once or twice we met, touched hands. -*-^ To-day between us both expands A waste of tumbling waters wide, — A waste by me as yet untried, Vague with the doubt of unknown lands. Time like a despot speeds his sands : A year he blots, a day he brands; We walked, we talked by Thamis' side But once or twice. What makes a friend ? What filmy strands Are these that turn to iron bands ? What knot is this so firmly tied That naught but Fate can now divide?— Ah, these are things one understands But once or twice ! 474 L^AL Souvenir LEAL SOUVENIR (e. f. b.) " "PJ^OR old sake's sake ! " 'Twere hard to choose -*- Words fitter for an old-world Muse Than these, that in their cadence bring Faint fragrance of the posy-ring, And charms that rustic lovers use. The long day lengthens, and we lose The first pale flush, the morning hues, — Ah ! but the back-look, lingering, For old sake's sake ! That we retain. Though Time refuse To lift the veil on forward views, Despot in most, he is not king Of those kind memories that cling Around his travelled avenues For old sake's sake ! 475 Essays in Old French Forms AFTER WATTE AU (to f. w.) ''PMBAROUONS-NOUS !'' I seem to go ■*-^ Against my will. 'Neath alleys low I bend, and hear across the air — Across the stream — faint music rare, — Whose " cornemuse," whose " chalmneau " ? Hark ! was not that a laugh I know ? Who was it, hurrying, turned to show The galley swinging by the stair ? — " Embarqiions-nous ! " The silk sail flaps, light breezes blow; Frail laces flutter, satins flow ; You, with the love-knot in your hair, "Allans, cmbarquons pour Cythcrc " ; You will not ? Press her, then, Pierrot, — " Embarquons-nous ! " 476 To Ethel TO ETHEL (Who wishes she had Hved — " In teacup-ihnes of hood and hoop. Or ivhile the patch -was luorn.'") ■ T N teacup-times ! " The style of dress ^ Would suit your beauty, I confess ; BELiNDA-like, the patch you'd wear; I picture you with powdered hair, — You'd make a charming Shepherdess ! And I — no doubt — could well express Sir Plume's complete conceitedness, — Could poise a clouded cane with care " In teacup-times ! " The parts would fit precisely — yes : We should achieve a huge success ! You should disdain, and I despair, With quite the true Augustan air ; But . . could I love you more, or less,— " In teacup-times " ? 477 Essays in Old French Forms «'WHEN FINIS COMES" T^/'HEN Fims comes, the Book we close, » ^ And somewhat sadly, P'ancy goes, With backward step, from stage to stage Of that accomplished pilgrimage . . . The thorn lies thicker than the rose ! There is so much that no one knows, — So much un-reached that none suppose ; What flaws ! what faults ! — on every page. When Finis comes. Still, — they must pass ! The swift Tide flows. Though not for all the laurel grows. Perchance, in this be-slandered age, The worker, mainly, wins his wage ; — And Time will sweep both friends and foes When Finis comes ! 478 "() FoNs Bandusi^" "O FONS BANDUSIiE" O BABBLING Spring, than glass more clear, Worthy of wreath and cup sincere, To-morrow shall a kid be thine With swelled and sprouting brows for sign, — Sure sign ! — of loves and battles near. Child of the race that butt and rear ! Not less, alas ! his life-blood dear Must tinge thy cold wave crystalline, O babbling Spring ! Thee Sirius knows not. Thou dost cheer With pleasant cool the plough-worn steer, — The wandering flock. This verse of mine Will rank thee one with founts divine ; Men shall thy rock and tree revere, O babbling Spring ! 479 Essays in Old French Forms "EXTREMUM TANAIN" (to j. k.) "D EFORE thy doors too long of late, -■— ' O Lyce, I bewail my fate ; Not Don's barbarian maids, I trow, Would treat their luckless lovers so ; Thou, — thou alone art obstinate. Hast thou nor eyes nor ears, Ingrate ! Hark ! how the North Wind shakes thy gate ! Look ! how the laurels bend with snow Before thy doors ! Lay by thy pride, — nor hesitate. Lest Love and I grow desperate ; If prayers, if gifts for naught must go, If naught my frozen pallor show, — Beware !....! shall not always wait Before thy doors ! 480 "ViXI PUELLIS" "VIXI PUELLIS" WE loved of yore, in warfare bold, Nor laurelless. Now all must go ; Let this left wall of Venus show The anas, the tuneless lyre of old. Here let them hang, the torches cold. The portal-bursting bar, the bow. We loved of yore. But thou, who Cyprus sweet dost hold, And Memphis free from Thracian snow, Goddess and queen, with vengeful blow, Smite, — smite but once that pretty scold We loved of yore ! 48r 2 H Essays in Old French Forms "WHEN I SAW YOU LAST, ROSE" WHEN I saw you last, Rose, You were only so high ; — How fast the time goes ! Like a bud ere it blows, You just peeped at the sky, When I saw you last. Rose ! Now your petals unclose. Now your May-time is nigh ; — How fast the time goes ! And a life, — how it grows ! You were scarcely so shy, When I saw you last, Rose ! Ill your bosom it shows There's a guest on the sly ; (How fast the time goes !) Ls it Cupid ? AVho knows ! Yet you used not to sigh. When I saw you last, Rose ; — How fast the time goes ! 4,S2 On a Nankin Plate ON A NANKIN PLATE "AH nie, but it might have been ! -^^ Was there ever so dismal a fate ? "- Quoth the little blue mandarin. " Such a maid as was never seen ! She passed, tho' I cried to her ' Wait,' — Ah me, but it might have been ! " I cried, ' O my Flower, my Queen, Be mine ! ' 'Twas precipitate," — Quoth the little blue mandarin, — " But then . . she was just sixteen, — Long-eyed, — as a lily straight,— Ah me, but it might have been ! " As it was, from her palankeen, She laughed — ' You're a week too late ! ' " (Quoth the little blue mandarin.) " That is why, in a mist of spleen, I mourn on this Nankin Plate. Ah me, but it might have been ! " — Quoth the little blue mandarin. 483 Essays in Old French Forms FOR A COPY OF THEOCRITUS O SINGER of the field and fold, Theocritus ! Pan's pipe was thine,- Thine was the happier Age of Gold. For thee the scent of new-turned n:aould, The bee-hives, and the murmuring pine, O Singer of the field and fold ! Thou sang'st the simple feasts of old, — The beechen bowl made glad with wine . . Thine was the happier Age of Gold. Thou bad'st the rustic loves be told, — Thou bad'st the tuneful reeds combine, O Singer of the field and fold ! And round thee, ever-laughing, rolled The blithe and blue Sicilian brine . . Thine was the happier Age of Gold. Alas for us ! Our songs arc cold ; Our Northern suns too sadly shine : — O Singer of the field and fold. Thine was the happier Age of Gold ! 484^ Tu NE QUAESIERIS TU NE QUAESIERIS" SEEK not, O Maid, to know (Alas ! unblest the trying !) When thou and I must go. No lore of stars can show. What shall be, vainly prying, Seek not, O maid, to know. Will Jove long years bestow ? — Or is 't with this one dying, That thou and I must go, Now, — when the great winds blow, And waves the reef are plying ? . . Seek not, O Maid, to know. Rather let clear wine flow. On no vain hope relying; When thou and T must go Lies dark ; — then be it so. Now, — iwiv, churl Time is flying ; Seek not, O Maid, to know When thou and I must go. 485 t>^ Essays in Old French Forms THE PRODIGALS " TD^INCES ! — and you, most valorous, -»- Nobles and Barons of all degrees ! Hearken awhile to the prayer of us, — Beggars that come from the over-seas ! Nothing we ask or of gold or fees ; Harry us not with the hounds we pray ; Lo, — for the surcote's hem we seize, — Give us — ah ! give us — but Yesterday ! " " Dames most delicate, amorous ! Damosels blithe as the belted bees ! Hearken awhile to the prayer of us, — Beggars that come from the over-seas ! Nothing we ask of the things that please ; Weary are we, and worn, and gray ; Lo, — for we clutch and we clasp your knees, — Give us — ah ! give us — but Yesterday ! " " Damosels — Dames, be piteous ! " (But the dames rode fast by the roadway trees.) " Hear us, O Knights magnanimous ! " (But the knights pricked on in their panoplies.) Nothing they gat or of hope or ease, But only to beat on the breast and say : — " Life we drank to the dregs and lees ; Give us — ah ! give us — but Yesterday ! " 486 The ProdicxALS ENVOY, Youth, take heed to the prayer of these ! Many there be by the dusty way, — Many that cry to the rocks and seas " Give us — ah ! give us — but Yesterday ! " 487 Essays in Old Fri;nch Forms ON A FAN THAT BELONGED TO THE MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR /^ HICK EN-SKIN, delicate, white, ^^ Painted by Carlo Vanloo, Loves in a riot of light, Roses and vaporous blue ; Hark to the d^miy frou-frou I Picture above, if you can. Eyes that could melt as the dew, — This was the Pompadour's fan ! See how they rise at the sight, Thronging the Oiil de Boeuf through, Courtiers as butterflies bright. Beauties that Eragonard drew. Talon-rouge, falbala, queue, Cardinal, Duke, — to a man, Eager to sigh or to sue, — This was the Pomjiadour's fan ! Ah, but things more than polite Hung on this toy, voycz-vous! Matters of state and of might. Things that great ministers do ; Things that, maybe, overthrew 48 « On a Fan Those in whose brains they began ; Here was the sign and the cue,— This was the Pompadour's fan ! ENVOY. Where are the secrets it knew ? Weavings of plot and of plan ? — But where is the Pompadour, too? This was the Pomj)adour's Fan ! 489 Essays in Old French Forms A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH of the Spanish Armada KING PHILIP had vaunted his claims ; He had sworn for a year he would sack us ; With an army of heathenish names He was coming to fagot and stack us ; Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, And shatter our ships on the main ; But we had bold Neptune to back us, — And where are the galleons of Spain ? His carackes were christened of dames To the kirtles whereof he would tack us ; With his saints and his gilded stern-frames, He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us ; Now Howard may get to his Flaccus, And Drake to his Devon again, And Hawkins t)owl rubbers to Bacchus, — For where are the galleons of Spain ? Let his Majesty hang to St. James The axe that he whetted to hack us ; He must play at some lustier games Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us ; To his mines of Peru he would pack us 490 A Ballad to Queen Elizabeth To tug at his bullet and chain ; Alas ! that his Greatness should lack us ! — But where are the galleons of Spain ? ENVOY. Gloriana ! the Don may attack us Whenever his stomach be fain ; He must reach us before he can rack us, . And where are the galleons of Spain ? 491 Essays in Old French Forms A BALLAD OF HEROES ' ' Noiu all your victories are in luiin. " — Mary F. Robinson. T3ECAUSE you passed, and now are not,- -*-^ Because, in some remoter day. Your sacred dust from doubtful sjjot Was blown of ancient airs away, — Because you perished, — must men say Your deeds were naught, and so profane Your lives with that cold burden ? Nay, I'he deeds you wrought are not in vain ! Though, it may be, above the plot That hid your once imperial clay, No greener than o'er men forgot The unregarding grasses sway ; — Though there no sweeter is the lay From careless bird, — though you remain Without distinction of decay, — The deeds you wrought are not in vain ! No. For while yet in tower or cot Your story stirs the pulses' play; And men forget the sordid lot — The sordid care, of cities gray ; — While yet, beset in homelier fray, 492 A Ballad of Heroes They learn from you the lesson plain That Life may go, so Honour stay, — The deeds you wrought are not in vain ! ENVOY. Heroes of old ! I humbly lay The laurel on your graves again ; Whatever men have done, men may, — The deeds you wrought are not in vain. 493 Essays in Olu Frknch Forms THE BALLAD OF THE THRUSH ACROSS the noisy street I hear him careless throw One warning utterance sweet; Then faint at first, and low, The full notes closer grow ; Hark ! what a torrent gush ! They pour, they overflow — Sing on, sing on, O Thrush ! What trick, what dream's deceit Has fooled his fancy so To scorn of dust and heat ? I, prisoned here below, Feel the fresh breezes blow ; And see, thro' flag and rush, Cool water sliding slow — Sing on, sing on, O Thrush I Sing on. What ihough thou beat On that dull bar, thy foe ! Somewhere the green boughs meet Beyond the roofs a-row ; Somewhere the blue skies show, Somewhere no black walls crush Poor hearts with hopeless woe — Sing on, sing on, O Thrush ! 494 The Ballad of the Thrush ENVOY. Bird, though they come, we know, The empty cage, the hush ; Still, ere the brief day go. Sing on, sing on, O Thrush ! 495 Essays in Old French Forms THE BALLAD OF THE BARMECIDE TO one in Eastern clime, — ^'tis said, — There came'a man at eve with " Lo ! Friend, ere the day be dimmed and dead, Hast thou a mind to feast, and know Fair cates, and sweet wine's overflow ? " To whom that other fain replied — " Lead on. Not backward I nor slow ; — ^Vhcre is thy feast, O Barmecide ? " Thereon the bidder passed and led To where, apart from dust and glow, They found a board with napery spread, And gold, and glistering cups a-row. " Eat," quoth the host, yet naught did show. To whom his guest — " Thy board is wide ; But barren is the cheer, I trow; Where is thy feast, O Barmecide ? " " Eat," quuth the man not less, and fed From meats unseen, and made as though He drank of wine both white and red. " Eat, — ere the day to darkness grow. Short space and scant the Fates bestow ! " What time his guest him wondering eyed, Muttering in wrath his beard below — •' Where is thy feast, O Barmecide ? " 496 The Ballad of the Barmecide ENVOY. Life, — 'tis of thee they fable so. Thou bidd'st us eat, and still denied. Still fasting, from thy board we go : — " Where is thy feast, O Barmecide ? " 497 2 1 Essays in Old French Forms THE BALLAD OF IMITATION " C'est imiiir quelqii^un que de pLinier des choux.^^ — Alfred de Musset. T F they hint, O Musician, the piece that you -■- played Is nought but a copy of Chopin or Spohr ; That the ballad you sing is but merely " conveyed " From the stock of the Arnes and the Purcells of yore ; That there's nothing, in short, in the words or the score That is not as out-worn as the " Wandering Jew " ; Make answer — Beethoven could scarcely do more — That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too ! If they tell you, Sir Artist, your light and your shade Are simply " adapted " from other men's lore ; That — plainly to speak of a " spade " as a " spade " — You've " stolen " your grouping from three or from four ; That (however the writer the truth may deplore), 498 The Ballad of Imitation 'Twas Gainsborough painted your " Little Boy Blue " ; Smile only serenely — though cut to the core — For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too ! And you too, my Poet, be never dismayed If they whisper your Epic — " Sir Eperon d'Or "— Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayed In a tissue that's taken from Morris's store; That no one, in fact, but a child could ignore That you " lift " or " accommodate " all that you do ; Take heart — though your Pegasus' withers be sore — For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too ! PosTSCRiPTUM. — And you, whom we all so adore. Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so new ! — One word in your ear. There were Critics before . . . And the man who plants cabbages imitates, too ! 499 Essays in Old French Forms THE BALLAD OF PROSE AND RHYME WHEN the ways are heavy with mire and rut, In November fogs, in December snows. When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut, — There is place and enough for the pains of prose ; But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows, And the jasmine-stars at the casement climb, And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows, Then hey ! — for the ripple of laughing rhyme ! When the brain gets dry as an empty nut. When the reason stands on its squarest toes, When the mind (like a beard) has a " formal cut," — There is place and enough for the pains of prose ; But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows. And the young year draws to the " golden prime," And Sir Romeo sticks in his car a rose, — Then hey ! — for the ripple of laughing rhyme ! 500 The Ballad of Prose and Rhyme In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant- strut, In a changing quarrel of " Ayes " and " Noes," In a starched procession of " If" and " But," — There is place and enough for the pains of prose ; But whenever a soft glance softer grows And the light hours dance to the trysting-time, And the secret is told " that no one knows," — Then hey ! — for the ripple of laughing rhyme ! ENVOY. In the work-a-day world, — for its needs and woes, There is place and enough for the pains of prose ; But whenever the May-bells clash and chime, Then hey ! — for the ripple of laughing rhyme ! 501 Essays in Old French For MS "O NAVIS" OHIP, to the roadstead rolled, ^ What dost thou ? — O, once more Regain the port. Behold ! Thy sides are bare of oar, Thy tall mast wounded sore Of Africus, and see, What shall thy spars restore ! — Tempt not the tyrant sea ! \Vhat cable now will hold When all drag out from shore ! What god canst thou, too bold, In time of need implore ! Look ! for thy sails flap o'er, Thy stiff shrouds part and flee, Fast — fast thy seams outpour, — Tempt not the tyrant sea ! What though thy ribs of old The pines of Pontus bore ! Not now to stern of gold Men trust, or painted prorc ! Thou, or thou count'st it store A toy of winds to be. Shun thou the Cyclads' roar, — Tempt not the tyrant sea ! 502 "O Navis ENVOY. 55 Ship of the State, before A care, and now to me A hope in my heart's core, — Tempt not the tyrant sea ! 503 Essays in Old French Forms THE DANCE OF DEATH (after HOLBEIN) " Contra ■vim MoRTls Mon est medkawen hi hortis. " IT E is the despots' Despot. All must bide, -*- J- Later or soon, the message of his might ; Princes and potentates their heads must hide, ' Touched by the awful sigil of his right ; Beside the Kaiser he at eve doth wait ' And pours a potion in his cup of state ; The stately Queen his bidding must obey ; No keen-eyed Cardinal shall him affray ; And to the Dame that wantoneth he saith " Let be, Sweet-heart, to junket and to play." There is no King more terrible than Death. The lusty Lord, rejoicing in his pride. He draweth down ; before the armed Knight With jingling bridle-rein he still doth ride; He crosseth the strong Captain in the fight : The Burgher grave he beckons from debate ; He hales the Abbot by his shaven pate, Nor for the Abbess' wailing will delay;' No bawling Mendicant shall say him nay ; 504 The Dance of Death E'en to the pyx the Priest he followeth, Nor can the Leech his chiUing finger stay . . There is no King more terrible than Death. All things must bow to him. And woe betide The Wine-bibber, — the Roisterer by night ; Him the feast-master, many bouts defied, Him 'twixt the pledging and the cup shall smite Woe to the Lender at usurious rate, The hard Rich Man, the hireling Advocate ; Woe to the Judge that selleth Law for pay ; Woe to the Thief that like a beast of prey With creeping tread the traveller harryeth : — These, in their sin, the sudden sword shall slay . There is no King more terrible than Death. He hath no pity, — nor will be denied. When the low hearth is garnished and bright, Grimly he flingeth the dim portal wide. And steals the Infant in the Mother's sight ; He hath no pity for the scorned of fate : — He spares not Lazarus lying at the gate, Nay, nor the Blind that stumbleth as he may ; Nay, the tired Ploughman, — at the sinking ray,- In the last furrow, — feels an icy breath, And knows a hand hath turned the team astray . There is no Kins more terrible than Death. He hath no pity. For the new-made Bride, Blithe with the promise of her life's delight, That wanders gladly by her Husband's side. He with the clatter of his drum doth fright ; 505 Essays in Old French Forms He scares the Virgin at the convent grate ; The Maid half-won, the Lover passionate ; He hath no grace for weakness and decay : The tender Wife, the Widow bent and gray, The feeble Sire whose footstep faltereth, — All these he leadeth by the lonely way . . There is no King more terrible than Death. ENVOY. Youth, for whose ear and monishing of late, I sang of Prodigals and lost estate. Have thou thy joy of living and be gay ; But know not less that there must come a day, — Aye, and perchance e'en now it hasteneth, — When thine own heart shall speak to thee and say,— There is no King more terrible than Death. 506 TN after days ivhen grasses high 0\r-top the stone -where I shall lie. Though ill or ivell the ivorld adjust My slender claim to honoured dust, I shall not question or reply. I shall not see the morning sky ; I shall not hear the night-ivind sigh ; I shall be mute, as all men must In after days ! But yet, noiu living, fain -were I That some one then should testify. Saying — ' ' He held his pen in trust To Art, not serving shame or lust. " M''^ill nunc F — Then let my memory die In after days ! 507 NOTES NOTES Collected Poems. — Title. npHIS volume is the outcome of half-a-dozen predecessors, -*- the earliest of which was published by Messrs. Henry S. King & Co., in October, 1S73. It was called Vignettes in Rhy7)ie and Vers de Socicte {now first collected), i.e. from dif- ferent magazines ; and it was dedicated to Anthony Trollope, the original Editor of St. Paul's, to which periodical many of the pieces had been contributed. It reached a second edition in 1874, and a third in 1875. I" May, 1877, it was followed by Proverbs in Porcelain ami oilier Verses, a fresh in-gather- ing, also issued by Messrs. King. A second edition of this appeared in 1878, the residue of which was destroyed by a fire. In 1880, Vignettes in Rliyine and otlier Verses, a selec- tion for the most part from these two books, was published at New York by Messrs. Henry Holt & Co., with a Dedication to Oliver Wendell Holmes and an Introduction by Mr. Edmund Clarence Stedman. In 1883 (by which date the two English collections named above were no longer obtainable) this American selection of 1880, newly arranged, was reprinted in London by Messrs. Kegan Paul, Trench & Co. (Messrs. King's successors) as Old- World Idylls ; while in 1885 a second volume, entitled At the Sign of the Lyre, and mainly composed of later pieces, made its appearance both at London and New York. Besides these, and some illustrated selec- tions, was issued in 1895 a two -volume edition of both {Poems on Several Occasions), comprising a portrait of the author by Mr. William Strang, and seven etchings by M. Adolphe Lalauze. Of this, however, which again contained Notes some new pieces, there was but a limited English impression, now becoming exhausted ; and as Old- World Idylls and At the Sign of the Lyre will not be reprinted, it is hoped that the present single volume— which includes all they in- cluded, and a little more — may now take their place. " What God withholds no man can know." — Page ii. " Nescire velle quK Magister optimus Docere non vult, erudita inscitia est." — Scai.IGER. A GkN 1 I.EWOMAN OF THE Ol.l) SCHOOL.— PAGE I4. The Bachelor Samson Carrasco in Don Quixote had his doubts of Second Parts, and there is a like prejudice against Companion Pictures. A Gentlewoman of the Old School would probably have remained unwritten if an uninvited pendant to John Leisure (which originally came out in St. Paul's for July, 1S70) had not made its appearance in Chambers's Journal ioi ]\Ay 8, 1871. "■ Went out of tozun to Marybone."— Page 19. " Many persons arrived in town from their country-houses in Marybone" [Daily Journal, Oct. 15, 1728). " Wai.pole talked of 'a man and his price. ' "—Page 19. This has been contradicted l)y the more literal historians. But it is sufficiently true for poetical purposes. ''Ensign (^Bragg's) made a terrible clangour."— Vag^ 21, Despite its suspicious appropriateness in this case, "Bragg's" regiment of Foot -Guards really existed, and was ordered to Flanders in April, 1742 (see Gentleman's Magazine, 1742, i. 217). 512 Notes " Purio-Bello at last was ta'en." — Page 23. Poito-Bello was taken in November, 1739. But Vice- Aclmiial Vernon's despatches did not reach England until the following March (see Gentleman's Magazine, 1740, i. 124, et seq. ). " In tJie fresh contours of his ' Milkmaid's 'face." — Page 27. See the Enraged Musician, an engraving of which was published in November of the following year (1741). To annotate this Ballad more fully would be easy ; but the reader will perhaps take the details for granted. In answer to some inquiries, it may, however, be stated that there is no foundation in fact for the story. '■^ An Incident in the Life of Francois Boucher" — Page 34. See Boucher by Arsene Houssaye, Galerie du XVIIP Siecle {Cinquicinc Scrie ; Sculpteurs, Peintres, Musiciens). The "incident" is, however, thus briefly referred to in Charles Blanc's Histoire des Peintres de tons les Ecoles : — " Une fois cepejidant Boucher se laissa prendre a un amour simple et candidc. Un jour, en passant dans la Rue Ste- Anne, il aperfut une jeujte fruitittre dont la bcaute Pcblouit. C\'tait an temps des cerises. Le peiutre la regarda et elle se laissa regarder sans songer a ses paniers. Ses Icvres parurent plus belles que ses cerises. Un amour na'ifet tendre ttaqtiit de cette echange de regards ; Boucher y trouva quelque jours de delices ; Rosine y trouva la mort aprcs une rapide bonheur.'' " The scene, a wood." — Page 34. The picture referred to is Le Panier Mystirieux by F. Boucher ; engraved by R. Gaiilard. 513 2K Notes " ' He f/iinks she thinks he thinks she sleeps,' in fad " — Pack 34. This, as well as another reference (in The Misogynist) to the Angel in the House, led the author of that book at first, I am afraid, to doubt whether I was an entirely sympathetic reader of his works. But when, in the later years of Coventry PATMORii's life, I had the advantage of his personal acquain- tance, it was not difficult to convince him that he had no more devoted admirer than myself. '■'■And far afield were sun-baked savage creatures'^ — Page 35. Sec Les Caracteres de La Bruyere, De Phoinfne, 12S. " Whose greatest grace was jupes a la Camargo." — Page 36. " C'etait k beau temps ou Camargo trommit ses jupes trap longues pour danser la gargouillade." — Arsene Houssaye. " The grass he called ' too green.' " — Page 36. "// trouvait la nature trap verte et mal eclairee. Et son ami Lancret, le peintre des salons ct la mode, ltd repondait : ^ Je suis de votre sentimettt, 1 1 nature manque d' harmonic ci de seduction.' " — Charles Blanc. "Fresh as a fresh young pear-tree blossoviing." — Page 37. " She was wel more blisful on to see Than is the newe pcrjenete tree." — Chaucer, The Millere's Talc. Proverbs in Porcelain. — Page 45. A pleasant memory connected with the appearance in 1873 of Vignettes in Rhyme is that the little book procured me 5H Notes the friendship of the author of London Lyrics. My second volume of verse, with the title prefixed to this note, was dedi- cated to him in words which — as they have not been recently reprinted — may be here preserved : — "To Frederick Locker. Is it to kindest Friend I send This nosegay gathered new ? Or is it more to Critic sure, — To Singer clear and true ? I know not which, indeed, nor need ; All Three I found— in You." "Nay, — 'twas a i'ow^o/'SAiNTE-AuLAiRE." — Page 50. It is but just to the octogenarian Marquis, whom the Duchess of Maine surnamed her '■'•vieux l>erge7-" to say that he is guiltless of the song here ascribed to him. For it, and for the similar pieces in these Proverbs, I am alone respon- sible. In the Secrets of the Heart, however, I have, without attempting to revive the persons, borrowed the names of the charming heroines of A quoi rhjent les Jeunes Filles. '* Sing me of Her, whose name may not be told." — Page 84. "Dicat Opuntia; Frater Megilla% quo beatus Vulnere, qua pereat sagitta." — HuR. i. 27. How this stanza originally stood escapes me ; but — as I well remember — it owes its final turn to the late Anthony Trollope, — kindest and most capable of Editors, — who re- ferred me to the foregoing quotation. " I atn a Shade: a Shadoive too arte thou.''' — Pack 140. A motto in this spirit occurs at Stirling. Notes Tut Child-Musician. — Page 146. These verses originated in an " American slory " told me orally by a friend who had found il copied into some English paper. I "romanced" it after my own fashion. After it was published, by the courtesy of one of the most graceful and finished of Trans- Atlantic poets, I was furnished with a more accurate version of the facts. Those who wish to read the true and authentic story of poor little James Speaight must do so in the pathetic prose setting of Mr. Thomas Bailey Aldrich. The Cradle.— Pace 147. The leading idea of these lines is taken from a French Sonnet, — Le Berceaii, by Eugene Manuel. ^^ Some moneyed fnourner's 'love or pride.' ^' — Page 150. " Thus much alone we know — Metella died, The wealthiest Roman's wife : Behold his love or pride ! " — Cliildc Harold, iv. 103. " Huddling they came, with shag sides caked of mire.'' — Page 170, See the picture of Circe by Mr. Briton Riviere, R.A. "^ bolder rider than Bcllcrophon.'''' — Page 175. " Eques ipso melior Bellerophonte." — HOR. iii. 12. "■The Thefts of Mercury:'— Vi^G^ 175. " Te, bovcs dim nisi reddidisses Per dolum amotas, puerum minaci Voce dum terret, viduus pharetra Risit Apollo."— HoR. i. 10. 516 Notes " Have I not 'curit thy Laws ? "—Page 191. The lines in italic type which follow, are freely para- phrased from the ancient Code cfAiiioitr of the XTIth Cen- tury, as given by Andre le Chapelain himself. " To brandish the poles of that old Sedan chair P^ — Pa(;e 213. A friendly but anonymous critic, whose versatile pen it is, nevertheless, not easy to mistake, recalls, a-propos of the above, the following passage from Moliere, which shows that Chairmen are much the same all the world over : — I. Porteur (prenant un des batons de sa chaise). Ca, ■hayez-nous vitenietit ! Mascarille. Qiioi? I. Porteur. Je dis gjie je vcux avoir de V argent tout il I'heure. Mascarille. II est raisonnable, celui-lh, &c. — Les Pricieuses Ridicules, Sc. vii. ' ' It has waited by portals where Gar rick has played.''— Vp^g-e. 213. According to Mrs. Elizabeth Carter (Smith's Nollekens, 1828, i. 211), when Garrick acted, the hackney-chairs often stood "all round the Piazzas [Covent Garden], down Southampton -street, and extended more than half-way along Maiden-lane." '■'■A skill Preville could not diso7vn." — Page 228. Preville was the French Foote circa 1760. His gifts as a comedian were of the highest order ; and he had an extra- ordinary faculty for entering completely into the parts he played. Sterne, in a letter to Garrick from Paris, in January, 1762, calls him " Mercury himself." Notes Molly Trrfusis. — Page 235.' The epigram here quoted from an " old magazine " is to be found in Lord Neaves's adniiralsle little volume, The Greek Anthology {Blackwood's Ancient Classics for Ejiglish Readers). Those familiar with eighteenth-century literature will recognize in the succeeding verses but another echo of those lively stanzas of John Gay to "Molly Mog " of the Rose Inn at Wokingham, which found so many imitators in their own day. Whether my heroine is to be identified with a certain " Miss Trefusis," whose Poems are sometimes to be met with in the second-hand booksellers' catalogues, I know not. But if she is, I trust I have done her accomplished shade no wrong. An Eastern Apologue. — Page 245. The initials " E. H. P." are those of the eminent (and ill-fated) Orientalist, Professor Palmer. As my lines entirely owed their origin to his translations from Zoheir, I sent them to him. He was indulgent enough to praise them warmly. It is true he found anachronisms ; but as he said that these would cause no serious disturbance to orthodox Persians, I concluded I had succeeded in my little pastiche, and, with his permission, inscribed it to him. I wish now that it had been a more worthy tribute to one of the most erudite and versatile scholars this age has seen. A Revolutionary Relic. — Page 249. "373. St. Pierre (Bemardin de), Paul et Virginie, i2mo, old calf. Paris, 1787. This copy is pierced throughout by a bullet-hole, and bears on one of the covers, the words : '^ Lucile St. A. . . . chcz AI. Batcmaiis, a Edmonds-Bmy, en Angleter7-c,' very faintly written in pencil." (Extract from Catalogue.) 518 Notes " Did she wander like that other "^ " — Page 251. Lucile Desmoulins. See Carlyle's French Revolution., Vol. iii. Book vi. Chap. ii. " And its tender rain shall lave it." — Page 252. It is by no means uncommon for an editor to interrupt some of these revolutionary letters by a "Here there are traces of tears." A Roman Round-Robin. — Page 265. This piece of flippancy first appeared in the Spectator for 13th November, 1875, and was pleasantly rallied in a later number by the present Laureate, Mr. Alfred Austin. To A Child. — Page 277. These lines were written for the Garland of Rachel (an English imitation of the famous Gnirlande de Julie), which was issued in 188 1 from the private press of Mr. H. Daniel of Oxford. ''By ' Bysshe ' his epithet."— T^agy. 280. i.e. The Art 0/ English Poetry, by Edward Bysshe, 1702. The Book- Plate's Petition. — Page 287. These lines were reprinted from Notes and Queries in Mr. Andrew Lang's instructive volume The Library, 1881, where the curious will find full information as to the enoj- mities of the book-mutilators. $'9 Notes A Dialogue, etc. — Page 301. This dialogue, first printed in Scribner's Magazine for May, 1888, was afterwards read liy Professor Henry Morley at the opening of the Pope Loan Museum at Twickenham (July 31st), to the Catalogue of which exhiI)ition it was prefixed. The ' crooked Body loith a crooked Mind.' " — Page 302. " Mens curva in corpora curve." Said of Pope by Lord Orrery. " Neither as Locke was, nor as Blake." — Page 309. The Shire Hall at Taunton, where, on September 4, 1883, these verses were read at the unveiling, by James Russell Lowell, of Miss Margaret Thomas's bust of Fielding, also contains busts of Admiral Blake and John Locke. " The Journal of his 7in'ddle-age.^' — Page 311. It is, perhaps, needless to say that the reference here is to 'Cne. Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon, published posthumously in February, 1755, — a record which for its intrinsic pathos and dignity may be compared with the letter and dedication which Fielding's predecessor and model, Cervantes, pre- fixed to his last romance of Persiles and Sigismunda. A Postscript to " Retaliation."— Page 313. On the 22nd June, 1896, these verses were read for the author by the Master of the Temple (Canon Ainger) at the dinner given in celebration of the five hundredth meeting of the Johnson Society of Pembroke College, Oxford. They then concluded with a couplet appropriate to that occasion. In their present place, il has been thouglit preferable to leave them — like Goldsmith's epitaph on Reynolds — unfinished. 520 Notes " When his pistol miss' d fire , he would use the butt-ciuir—V \VA-. 314. " He [Johnson] had recourse to the device which Gold- smith imputed to him in the witty words of one of Gibber's comedies : ' There is no arguing with Johnson ; for when his pistol misses fire, he knocks you down with the butt end of it.'" {MWWBoswcll, 1887, ii. 100.) " Yon found he had nought of the dear but the skin.'' — Page 314. " Let me impress upon my readers a just and happy saying of my friend Goldsmith, who knew him [Johnson] well : 'Johnson, to be sure, has a roughness in his manner ; but no man alive has a more tender heart. He has iiothing of the hear but his skin.' " (Hill's Boswell, 1887, ii. 66.) " That he made little fishes talk vastly like -cohales." — Page 314. " If you were to make little fishes talk, they would talk like Whales." (Goldsmith to Johnson, Hill's Bosrvell, 1887, ii. 231.) ' ' But read him for Style, — and dismiss from your thoughts, The croi.Lid of compilers who copied his faults" — Page 314. These, or like rhymes, are to be found in Edwin and Angelina, and — for the matter of that — in Retaliation itself: — "Say, where has our poet this malady caught? Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault ? " But the practice is not confined to Goldsmith : it is also followed by Pope and Prior. 521 Notes Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. — Page 316. These verses appeared in the Atheuiciim for April i, 1882. Charles George Gordon.— Page 317. These verses appeared in the Saturday Revietu for Feb- ruary 14, 1885. Victor Hugo.— Page 318. These verses appeared in the Atheiueum for August 8, 18S5. Alfred, Lord Tennyson. — Page 319. These verses appeared in the Aihcuir^ini for October 8, 1892. " With that he made a Leg."—PAGK 331. " Jove made his Leg and kiss'd the Dame, Obsequious Hermes did the same." — Prior. ''So took his Virtii off to Cock's."— PAGE 33 1. Cock, the auctioneer of Covent Garden, was the Christie and Manson of the last century. The leading idea of this fable, it should be added, is taken from one by Gellert. " Of Van's ' Goose-Pie: "—Page 333. " At length they in the Rubbish spy A Thing resembling a Goose Py." — Swift's verses on Vanbrugh^s House, 1706. " The Oaf preferred the 'Tongs and Bones.' "—Page 337. " I have a reasonable good ear in music : let us have the tongs and the bones." — Midsuiiiiiier-Night's Dream, Act iv. .Sc. i. 522 Notes '^ And sighed o^er Chaos 7vinefor Stingo." — Page 338. Squire Homespun probably meant Cahors. The Water-Cure.— Page 367. These verses were suggested by the recollection of an anecdote in Madame de Genlis, which seemed to lend itself to eighteenth -century treatment. It was therefore some- what depressing, not long after they were written, to find that the subject had already been annexed in the Tatler by an actual eighteenth -century writer, Swift's "little Harrison," who, moreover, claimed to have founded his story on a contemporary incident. Burton, nevertheless, had told it before him, as early as 1621, in the Anatomy of Melancholy. ^' In Babylonian numbers hidden." — Page 369. ' ' — nee Babylonios Tentaris numeros." — HoK. i. II. A City Flower, — Page 381. These verses — as far as I can remember — were my first contribution to a magazine. They appeared in Temple Bar for December, 1S64, being welcomed with extreme cordiality by the editor, Edmund Yates. Ok his Mistress. — Page 427, This translation was made at the request of Professor Saintsbury, who included it in his study of the author of the Memoires de Grammont (^Essays 011 French Novelists, Percival, 1891). Notes To One who rids mr Si.ng. — Page 438. This piece was wriUen in response to a graceful expos- tulatory villanelle whicli appeared in Temple Bar for Feb- ruary, 1S95, ^"^^ was signed " Cecil llarley." " All grinning as one in a gust of good nature." — PAGE 446. See Hogarth's Pleased Atulience at a Piav, 1733. " And spite of the tno7irni)ig that most of ns wear." — Pace 447. In March, 1773, when She Stoops to Conquer was first played, there was a court-mourning for the King of Sardinia (Forster's Goldsmith, Piook iv. Chap. 15). ' ' But he grows every day more and more like the tyrint." — Page 447. " Mr. Wilkes, with his usual good humour, has been heard to observe, that he is every day growing more and more like his portrait by Hogarth [i.e. the print of May 16, 1763]." — Biographical Anecdotes of William Hogarth, 1782, pp. 305-6. " The furious troops in battle join' d." — Page 454. The quotation is from Addison's Catnpaign. " They are a school to rcnn." — Page 459 In view of the very prolonged popularity which has attended the use of these old French forms in England and America, the following dates may here be preserved. Some of the Triolets at p. 461 appeared in the Graphic for May 23, 1874 ; the Rondeau at p. 46O and the Ballade at p. 4S6 in Evening 524 Notes Hours for May, 1876 ; the Villaitelle at p, 482 in Proverbs in Porcelain^ May, 1877 ; the Chant Royal at p. 504 in the Architect for July 14, 1877 ; and the Ballade a double refrain at p. 500 in Bclgravia for January, 1878. " Persicos Odi." — Page 463. The subjoined " Pocket Version " was appended to this, when it first appeared in the second edition of Proverbs in Porcelain, 1878 : — " Davus, I detest Persian decoration ; Roses and the rest, Davus, I detest. Simple myrtle best Suits our modest station ; — Davus, I detest Persian decoration." Monsieur Isaac de Benserade, in the Hotel de Rambouillet days, translated the entire Mctai)iorphoses of Ovid into Ron- deaus. In this, and some similar pieces that follow {cj. pp. 465, 479-481, 485, 502), I have imitated his temerity but not his excess. " On London Stones."— Pa(;k 466. Lope de Vega and Hurtado de Mendoza wrote sonnets on Sonnet-making ; Voiture imitated them as regards the Ron- deau. Here is a paraphrase of Voiture : — You bid mc try, Blue-Eyes, to write A Rondeau. What ! — forthwith ? — to-night ? Reflect. Some skill I have, 'tis true ; — But thirteen lines ! — and rhymed on two ! " Refrain," as well. Ah, hapless plight ! Notes Still, there are five lines, — ranged aright. These Gallic bonds, I feared, would fright My easy Muse. They did, till you — VoH bid me try ! That makes them eight. The port's in sight ;- 'Tis all because your eyes are bright ! Now just a pair to end in " oo " — When maids command, what can't we do ! Behold !— the Rondeau, tasteful, light, You bid me try ! " More Poets yet." — Page 468. The dedicatory initials of this rondeau stand for "John Leicester Warren" (afterwards Lord De Tabley). He was kind enough to read the proofs of the volume in which it appeared ; and I remember that, years after, at one of our rare meetings, he pleasantly — and with perfect accuracy — recalled the fact that the Homeric epithet "many-buttoned," applied to the page in A Nightingale in Kensington Gardens, had been suggested by himself. This suggestion by no means exhausts my debt to his fine scholarship and fastidious taste. When, some months before his death in 1895, he sent me his last book, I returned him a few verses of acknowledgment. As they pleased him — and as, moreover, Mr. Edmunp Gosse has been good enough to give them the currency of his delightful Critical Kit-Cats— \ may perhaps be par- doned if I reproduce them here : — Still may the Muses foster thee, O Friend, Who, while the vacant quidnuncs stand at gaze, Wond'ring what Prophet next the Fates may send, Still tread'st the ancient ways ; 526 Notes Still climb'st the clear-cold altitudes of Song, Or ling'ring " by the shore of old Romance," Heed'st not the vogue, how little or how long. Of marvels made in France. Still to the summits may thy face be set, And long may we, that heard thy morning rhyme Hang on thy noon-day music, nor forget In the hushed even-time ! " THE END Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson