THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
  
 
 CARMINA VOTIVA
 
 Carmina Votiva 
 
 and other 
 
 Occasional Verses 
 
 BY 
 
 AUSTIN DOBSON 
 
 " Enter a Song, singing." — Old Play 
 
 LONDON 
 
 PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION 
 
 1901
 
 CHISWICK PRESS: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO. 
 TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.
 
 
 TO 
 
 ANDREW LANG 
 
 MASTER OF MANY THINGS (THE LIGHTER 
 
 LYRE INCLUDED) 
 
 THIS COLLECTION IS INSCRIBED 
 
 BY HIS OLD FRIEND 
 
 THE AUTHOR 
 July, 1901. 
 
 ^owr^^n
 
 Too hard it is to sing 
 
 In these untuncful times, 
 
 When only coin can ring 
 
 And no one cares for rhymes ! 
 
 Alas ! for him who climbs 
 To Aganippe's spring : — 
 Too hard it is to sing 
 
 In these untuncful times. 
 
 His kindred clip his wing; 
 
 His feet the critic limes; 
 If Fame her laurel bring 
 
 Old Age his forehead rimes :— 
 Too hard it is to sing 
 
 In these untuneful times ! 
 
 1876.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The sixty pieces here collected belong to many 
 periods in the author's life. But they are alike in 
 this, that none of them are now to be found in any 
 of his published volumes. Some of them are 
 reprinted from ephemeral sources, others have never 
 appeared before, one or two have been restored 
 from the earliest issues of his poems. 
 
 Of this collection only 125 copies have been 
 printed for England and America, and the type 
 has been broken up.
 
 NO ' 9 ' -A/
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Ballad of the Queen's Majesty i 
 
 A Madrigal 3 
 
 For a Floral Wreath 4 
 
 Rank and File 5 
 
 Verses read at the Dinner of the Omar Khayyam Club 6 
 For a copy of " The Compleat Angler "....11 
 
 In " An Appendix to the Rowfant Library " . . . 14 
 
 "Good Luck to your Fishing! " 16 
 
 " When this old world was new " 18 
 
 For a copy of " The Vicar of Wakefield " ... 20 
 
 After a Holiday : . . 21 
 
 For a Charity Annual 23 
 
 The Philosophy of the Porch 24 
 
 The Holocaust 28 
 
 The Street Singer 30 
 
 The Ballad of the Bore 32 
 
 J ul y 34 
 
 Notes of a Honeymoon 37 
 
 "Change" 42 
 
 "Fair" 43 
 
 The Song of the Sea Wind 44 
 
 To a Lady : with a volume of Herbert's Poems . . 46 
 
 ix
 
 PAGE 
 
 To the late Lord de Tabley 48 
 
 A " Departmental Ditty " 49 
 
 To the Earl of Crewe on his Marriage 51 
 
 To the Lady Dorothy Nevill 52 
 
 To Edmund Gosse 53 
 
 To the Same 55 
 
 To the Same 56 
 
 To the Same 57 
 
 To the Same 58 
 
 To the Same 59 
 
 To the Same 60 
 
 To the Same 61 
 
 To Edmund Clarence Stedman 62 
 
 To the late Frederick Locker 63 
 
 For Locker's "London Lyrics" 64 
 
 To Brander Matthews 65 
 
 To the late H. C. Bunner 66 
 
 To George H. Boughton, R.A. ...*... 67 
 
 To Richard Watson Gilder 68 
 
 To Laurence Hutton 69 
 
 Epigrams 70 
 
 Verses written for the Menu of the Omar Khayyam 
 
 Club 71 
 
 Hill and Valley 72 
 
 " Rose, in the hedge-row grown " 74 
 
 Love's Farewell 75 
 
 Huitains 76 
 
 A Ballad of Antiquaries 78 
 
 x
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Second Ballad of Antiquaries 80 
 
 Regrets. After Joachim du Bellay. 1 82 
 
 )5 » » II 83 
 
 To Monsieur de la Mothe le Vayer. After Moliere 84 
 
 The Ballad of Bitter Fruit 86 
 
 For " Notes and Oueries " 88 
 
 To the Publisher of " The New Monthly Review " 89 
 
 R. L. S. In Memoriam 91 
 
 For a Volume of Verse 92 
 
 " Albi, ne doleas " 93 
 
 "Poscimur" 94 
 
 The Peacock on the Wall 95 
 
 XI
 
 A BALLAD OF THE QUEEN'S MAJESTY. 
 
 (June 22, 1897.) 
 
 Name that has been thy nation's shield 
 
 On many an alien shore and sea ; 
 Name that in many a fateful field 
 
 Has taught the stubborn foe to flee ; 
 
 Promise and proof of virtues three, 
 Valour unvaunting, vigour, verve, 
 
 We hail thy white-winged Sovereignty, 
 Victoria! — whom God preserve! 
 
 Monarchs there are to whom men yield 
 
 Obeisance — in a bondman's key; 
 Monarchs whose sceptred might doth wield 
 
 Only the rod of Tyranny; 
 
 We, in free homage, being free, — 
 
 I B
 
 We joy that naught can shake or curve 
 
 Thy rectitude of Royalty, 
 Victoria! — whom God preserve! 
 
 Therefore from all our towers be pealed 
 
 The note of greeting ; therefore be, 
 As from a thousand springs unsealed, 
 
 Outpoured the tide of mirth and glee; 
 
 For surely not to-day shall we 
 From sixty years' allegiance swerve, 
 
 Or shame thy twice-told Jubilee, 
 Victoria! — whom God preserve! 
 
 Oueen ! to whom true men bend the knee, 
 Our island heart and brain and nerve 
 
 Are loyal — loyal unto thee, 
 
 Victoria! — whom God preserve!
 
 A MADRIGAL 
 
 Written for "Choral Songs in Honour 
 of Queen Victoria," 1899. 
 
 Who can dwell with greatness ! Greatness is too 
 
 high ; 
 Flowers are for the meadow, suns are for the sky; — 
 Ah! but there is greatness in this land of ours, 
 High as is the sunlight, humble as the flowers ! 
 
 Queen, of thee the fable! Lady, thine the fate! 
 Royal, and yet lowly, lowly and yet great; — 
 Great in far dominion, great in bannered years, 
 Greater still as woman, greatest in thy tears!
 
 FOR A FLORAL WREATH. 
 
 (January 22, 1901.) 
 
 Great Queen, great Lady, Mother most of all ! 
 Beyond the turmoil of Earth's hopes and fears, 
 How should you need the tribute of our tears?— 
 
 Our helpless, useless tears! But they must fall.
 
 RANK AND FILE. 
 
 (South Africa, i 900-1.) 
 
 O undistinguished Dead! 
 Whom the bent covers, or the rock-strewn steep 
 Shows to the stars, for you I mourn, — I weep, 
 
 O undistinguished Dead! 
 
 None knows your name. 
 Blacken'd and blurr'd in the wild battle's brunt, 
 Hotly you fell . . . with all your wounds in front: 
 
 This is your fame!
 
 VERSES READ AT THE DINNER OF 
 THE OMAR KHAYYAM CLUB 
 
 on Thursday, 25 March, 1897. 
 
 " Medio de fotite kporum 
 
 Surgit Omari aliquid" 
 
 Lucretius (adapted). 
 
 " While we the Feast by Fruit and Wine prolong 
 A Bard bobs up, and bores us with a Song." 
 
 The Apiciad. 
 
 'Twas Swift who said that people "view 
 
 In Homer more than Homer knew." 
 
 I can't pretend to claim the gift 
 
 Of playing Bentley upon Swift; 
 
 But I suspecl: the reading true 
 
 Is "Omar more than Omar knew," — 
 
 Or why this large assembly met 
 
 Lest we this Omar should forget? 
 
 (In a parenthesis, I note 
 
 Our Rustum 1 here, without red coat; 
 
 1 Field-Marshal Viscount Wolseley. 
 
 6
 
 Where Sohrab sits I'm not aware, 
 But that's Firdausi in the Chair!) — 
 I say then that we now are met 
 Lest we this Omar should forget, 
 Who, ages back, remote, obscure, 
 Wrote verses once at Naishapur, — 
 Verses which, as I understand, 
 Were merely copied out by hand, 
 And now, without etched plates, or aid 
 Of India paper, or handmade, 
 Bid fair Parnassus' top to climb, 
 And knock the Classics out of time. 
 
 Persicos odi — Horace said, 
 And therefore is no longer read. 
 Time, who could simply not endure 
 Slight to the Bard of Naishapur 
 (Time, by the way, was rather late 
 For one so often up-to-date!), 
 Went swiftly to the Roll of Fame 
 And blotted Q. H. F. his name; 
 Since when, for every youth or Miss 
 That knows §>uis mult a gracilis ', 
 There are a hundred who can tell 
 
 7
 
 What Omar thought of Heav'n and Hell; 
 Who Bahram was; and where (at need) 
 Lies hid the Beaker of Jamshyd; — 
 In short, without a break can quote 
 Most of what Omar ever wrote. 
 
 Well, Omar Khayyam wrote of Wine, 
 And all of us, sometimes, must dine; 
 And Omar Khayyam wrote of Roses, 
 And all of us, no doubt, have noses; 
 And Omar Khayyam wrote of Love, 
 Which some of us are not above. 
 Also, he charms to this extent, 
 We don't know, always, what he meant. 
 Lastly, the man's so plainly dead 
 We can heap honours on his head. 
 
 Then, too, he scores in other wise 
 By his " deplorable demise." 
 There is so much that we could say 
 Were he a Bard of yesterday! 
 We should discuss his draughts and pills, 
 His baker's and his vintner's bills; 
 Rake up — perhaps 'tis well we can't — 
 Gossip about his maiden aunt; 
 
 8
 
 And all that marketable matter 
 
 Which Freeman nicknamed " Harriet-chatter!" 
 
 But here not even Persian candles 
 
 Can light us to the smallest scandals; — 
 
 Thus far your Omar gains at least 
 
 By having been so long deceased. 
 
 Failing of this, we needs must fall 
 Back on his opus after all; — 
 Those quatrains so compact, complete, 
 So suited to FitzGerald's feet, 
 (And, let us add, so subtly planned 
 To tempt the imitative band !) — 
 Those censers of Omari ware 
 That breathe into the perfumed air 
 His doubt, his unrest, his despair; — 
 Those jewels-four-lines-long that show, 
 Eight hundred years and more ago, 
 An old thing underneath the sun 
 In Babylonish Babylon: — 
 A Body and a Soul at strife 
 To solve the Mystery of Life! 
 
 So then all hail to Omar K! 
 (To take our more familiar way) 
 
 9
 
 Though much of what he wrote and did 
 
 In darkest mystery is hid; 
 
 And though (unlike our bards) his task 
 
 Was less to answer than to ask; 
 
 For all his endless Why and Whether, 
 
 He brings us here to-night together; 
 
 And therefore (as I said before), 
 
 Hail! Omar Khayyam, hail! once more! 
 
 10
 
 FOR A COPY OF 
 "THE COMPLEAT ANGLER." 
 
 " Le reve de la vie champetre a ete de tout temps F ideal aes villes." 
 
 George Sand. 
 
 I care not much how folk prefer 
 
 To dress your Chub or Chavender ; — 
 
 I care no whit for line or hook, 
 
 But still I love old Izaak's book, 
 
 Wherein a man may read at ease 
 
 Of " gander-grass " and " culver-keys," 
 
 Or with half-pitying wonder, note 
 
 What Top sell, what Du Ban as wrote, 
 
 Or list the song, by Maudlin sung, 
 
 That Marlowe made when he was young : — 
 
 These things, in truth, delight me more 
 
 Than all old Izaak's angling lore. 
 
 These were his Secret. What care I 
 How men concoct the Hawthorn-fly, 
 
 1 1
 
 Who could as soon make Syllabub 
 
 As catch your Chavender or Chub ; 
 
 And might not, in ten years, arrive 
 
 At baiting hooks with frogs, alive! — 
 
 But still I love old Izaak's page, 
 
 Old Izaak's simple Golden Age, 
 
 Where blackbirds flute from ev'ry bough, 
 
 Where lasses " milk the sand-red cow," 
 
 Where lads are " sturdy foot-ball swains," 
 
 And naught but soft " May-butter " rains; 
 
 Where you may breathe untainted air 
 
 Either at Hodsden or at Ware ; 
 
 And sing, or slumber, or look wise 
 
 Till Phcebus sink adown the skies ; 
 
 Then, laying rod and tackle by, 
 
 Choose out some " cleanly Alehouse " nigh, 
 
 With ballads " stuck about the wall," 
 
 Of Joan of France or English Mall — 
 
 With sheets that smell of lavender — 
 
 There eat your Chub (or Chavender), 
 
 And keep old Izaak's honest laws 
 
 For " mirth that no repenting draws" — 
 
 To wit, a friendly stave or so, 
 
 That goes to Heigh-trolollie-loe , 
 
 I 2
 
 Or more to make the ale-can pass, 
 A hunting song of William Basse — 
 Then talk of fish and fishy diet, 
 And dream you "Study to be quiet." 
 
 1899. 
 
 U
 
 IN "AN APPENDIX TO THE ROWFANT 
 
 LIBRARY." 
 
 F. L. L. In Memoriam. 
 
 ''His Books." Oh yes, his Books I know — 
 Each worth a monarch's ransom ; 
 
 But now, beside their row on row, 
 I see, erect and handsome, 
 
 The courtly Owner, glass in eye, 
 With half-sad smile, forerunning 
 
 Some triumph of an apt reply, — 
 Some master-stroke of punning. 
 
 Where shall we meet his like again ? 
 
 Where hear, in such perfection, 
 Such genial talk of gods and men,— 
 
 Such store of recollection ; 
 
 14
 
 Or where discern a verse so neat, 
 
 So well-bred and so witty, — 
 So finished in its least conceit, 
 
 So mixed of mirth and pity ? 
 
 Pope taught him rhythm, Prior ease, 
 
 Praed buoyancy and banter; 
 What modern bard would learn from these ? 
 
 Ah, tempora mutant ur ! 
 
 The old regime departs, — departs ; 
 
 Our days of mime and mocker, 
 For all their imitative arts, 
 
 Produce no Frederick Locker. 
 
 1900. 
 
 15
 
 "GOOD LUCK TO YOUR FISHING!" 
 For a Picture by Mr. G. F. Watts, R.A. 
 
 Good luck to your fishing ! 
 
 And what have you caught ? 
 Ah, would that my wishing 
 
 Were more than a thought ! 
 Ah, would you had caught her, 
 
 Young Chloe, for me, — 
 Young Chloe, the daughter 
 
 Of Proteus, the sea ! 
 
 She irks me, she irks me, 
 
 With blue of her eyes; 
 She irks me, she irks me, 
 
 With little drawn sighs ; 
 She lures me with laughter, 
 
 She tempts me with tears ; 
 And hope follows after, — 
 
 Hope only, — and fears ! 
 16
 
 Good luck to your fishing ! 
 
 But would you had caught 
 That maid beyond wishing, — 
 
 That maid beyond thought ! 
 O cast the line deeper, 
 
 Deep — deep in the sea ; 
 And catch her, and keep her, 
 
 Dan Cupid, for me! 
 
 Christmas^ 1900. 
 
 17
 
 "WHEN THIS OLD WORLD WAS NEW." 
 
 When this old world was new, 
 Before the towns were made, 
 Love was a shepherd too. 
 
 Clear-eyed as flowers men grew, 
 
 Of evil unafraid, 
 
 When this old world was new. 
 
 No skill had they to woo, 
 Who but their hearts obey'd — 
 Love was a shepherd too. 
 
 What need to sigh or sue ! 
 Not so was life delay'd 
 When this old world was new. 
 
 Under the candid blue 
 They kiss'd their shepherd maid — 
 Love was a shepherd too. 
 
 18
 
 They knew but joy ; they knew 
 No whit of state or grade : 
 When this old world was new, 
 Love was a shepherd too. 
 
 l 9
 
 FOR A COPY OF 
 "THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD." 
 
 By Goldsmith's tomb, the City's cry 
 Grows faint and distant ; now no more, 
 From that famed Street he trod of yore, 
 
 Men turn where those old Templars lie ! 
 
 Only some dreamer such as I 
 
 Pauses awhile from dust and roar 
 
 By Goldsmith's tomb! 
 
 And then — ah ! then, when none is nigh, 
 What shadowy shapes unseen before 
 Troop back again from Lethe's shore ! — 
 
 How the ghosts gather then, and sigh, 
 
 By Goldsmith's tomb! 
 1883. 
 
 20
 
 AFTER A HOLIDAY. 
 
 Three little ducks by a door, 
 
 Snuggling aside in the sun ; 
 The sweep of a threshing-floor, 
 
 A flail with its One-two, One ; 
 
 A shaggy-haired, loose-limbed mare, 
 
 Grave as a master at class ; 
 A foal with its heels in the air, 
 
 Rolling, for joy, in the grass; 
 
 A sunny-eyed, golden-haired lad, 
 
 Laughing, astride on a wall ; 
 A collie-dog, lazily glad . . . 
 
 Why do I think of it all ? 
 
 Why ? From my window I see, 
 
 Once more through the dust-dry pane, 
 
 The sky like a great Dead Sea, 
 And the lash of the London rain; 
 
 21
 
 And I read — here in London town, 
 Of a murder done at my gate, 
 
 And a goodly ship gone down, 
 And of homes made desolate ; 
 
 And I know, with the old sick heart, 
 That but for a moment's space, 
 
 We may shut our sense, and part 
 From the pain of this tarrying place 
 
 11
 
 FOR A CHARITY ANNUAL. 
 
 In Angel-Court the sunless air 
 
 Grows faint and sick ; to left and right 
 The cowering houses shrink from sight, 
 
 Huddling and hopeless, eyeless, bare. 
 
 Misnamed, you say ? For surely rare 
 Must be the angel-shapes that light 
 
 In Angel-Court ! 
 
 Nay ! — the Eternities are there. 
 
 Death at the doorway stands to smite ; 
 
 Life in its garrets leaps to light ; 
 And Love has climbed that crumbling stair 
 
 In Angel-Court. 
 1901. 
 
 2 3
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE PORCH. 
 
 By a Summer-day Stoic. 
 To A. J. Munby. 
 
 "Cultivons notrc jardin." — Voltaire. 
 
 Across my Neighbour's waste of whins 
 
 For roods the rabbit burrows ; 
 You scarce can see where first begins 
 
 His range of steaming furrows; 
 I am not sad that he is great, 
 
 He does not ask my pardon ; 
 Beside his wall I cultivate 
 
 My modest patch of garden. 
 
 I envy not my Neighbour's trees ; — 
 
 To me it nowise matters 
 Whether in east or western breeze 
 
 His " dry-tongued laurel patters." 
 Me too the bays become ; but still, 
 
 I sleep without narcotics, 
 
 24
 
 Though he should bind his brows at will 
 With odorous exotics. 
 
 Let goodman Greenfat, glad to dine, 
 
 With true bon-vivant's benison, 
 Extol my Neighbour's wit and wine, — 
 
 His virtue and his venison : 
 I care not. Still for me the gorse 
 
 Will blaze about the thicket ; 
 The Common's purblind pauper horse 
 
 Will peer across my wicket ; 
 
 For me the geese will thread the furze, 
 
 In hissing file, to follow 
 The tinker's sputtering wheel that whirs 
 
 Across the breezy hollow ; 
 And look, where smoke of gipsy huts 
 
 Curls blue against the bushes, 
 That little copse is famed for nuts, 
 
 For nightingales and thrushes ! 
 
 But hark ! I hear my Neighbour's drums 
 
 Some dreary deputation 
 Of Malice or of Wonder, comes 
 
 In guise of adulation. 
 
 2 5
 
 Poor Neighbour ! Though you like the tune, 
 
 One little pinch of care is 
 Enough to clog a whole balloon 
 
 Of aura popularis ; 
 
 Not amulets, nor epiderm 
 
 As tough as armadillo's, 
 Can shield you if Suspicion worm 
 
 Betwixt your easy pillows ; 
 And, though on ortolans you sup, 
 
 Beside you shadowy sitters 
 Can pour in your ungenial cup 
 
 Unstimulating bitters. 
 
 Let Envy crave and Avarice save, 
 
 Let Folly ride her circuit ; 
 I hold that — on this side the grave — 
 
 To find one's vein and work it, 
 To keep one's wants both fit and few, 
 
 To cringe to no condition, 
 To count a candid friend or two, — 
 
 May bound a man's ambition. 
 
 Swell, South-wind, swell my Neighbour's sails ; 
 Fill Fortune, fill his coffers ; 
 
 26
 
 If Fate has made his role the whale's, 
 And me the minnow's offers ; 
 
 I am not sad that he is great, 
 He need not ask my pardon; 
 
 Beside his wall I cultivate 
 My modest patch of garden. 
 
 1871. 
 
 27
 
 THE HOLOCAUST. 
 
 "Heart-free, with the least little touch of spleen." 
 
 Maud. 
 
 Above my mantelshelf there stands 
 
 A little bronze sarcophagus, 
 Carved by the unknown artist's hands 
 
 With this one word — Amoribus ! 
 
 Along the lid a Love lies dead: 
 Across his breast his broken bow ; 
 
 Elsewhere they dig his tiny bed, 
 
 And round it women wailing go : — 
 
 A trick, a toy — mere " Paris ware," 
 Some Quartier-Latin sculptor's whim, 
 
 Wrought in a fit of mock despair, 
 
 With sight, it may be, something dim, 
 
 Because the love of yesterday 
 
 Had left the grenier, light Musette, 
 28
 
 And she who made the morrow gay, 
 Lutine or Mimi, was not yet, — 
 
 A toy. But ah ! what hopes deferred 
 (O friend, with sympathetic eye !), 
 
 What vows (now decently interred) 
 Within that " narrow compass " lie ! 
 
 For there, last night, not sadly, too, 
 With one live ember I cremated 
 
 A nest of cooing billets-doux, 
 
 That just two decades back were dated. 
 
 1889. 
 
 2 9
 
 THE STREET SINGER. 
 
 He stands at the curb and sings, 
 'Tis a doleful tune and slow . . . 
 Ah me ! if I had but wings ! 
 
 He bends to the coin one flings, 
 But he never attempts to go, — 
 He stands at the curb, and sings. 
 
 The conjurer comes with his rings. 
 And the Punch-and-Judy show. 
 (Ah me ! if I had but wings !) 
 
 They pass like all fugitive things,- 
 They fade and they pass, but lo ! 
 He stands at the curb and sings. 
 
 All the magic that music brings 
 Is lost when he murders it so . . 
 Ah me ! if I had but wings ! 
 
 30
 
 But the worst is a thought that stings, 
 There is nothing at hand to throw, — 
 He stands at the curb and sings . . . 
 Ah me ! if I had but wings ! 
 
 1883. 
 
 31 
 
 "1
 
 THE BALLAD OF THE BORE. 
 
 For "Alma Mater's Mirror," 1887. 
 
 " Garru/us hunc quando consumet cunque^ 
 
 Hor. Sat. ix., lib. i. 
 
 I see him come from far, 
 
 And, sick with hopelessness, 
 Invoke some kindly star, — 
 
 I see him come, not less. 
 
 Is there no sure recess 
 Where hunted men may lie? 
 
 Ye Gods, it is too hard ! 
 I feel his glittering eye, — 
 
 Defend us from The Bard ! 
 
 He knows nor let nor bar : 
 With ever-nearing stress, 
 
 Like Juggernaut his car, 
 I see him onward press ; 
 He waves a huge MS. ; 
 
 32
 
 He puts evasion by, 
 
 He stands — as one on guard, 
 And reads — how volubly ! — 
 
 Defend us from The Bard. 
 
 He reads — of Fates that mar, 
 
 Of Woes beyond redress, 
 Of all the Moons that are, 
 
 Of Maids that never bless 
 
 (As one, indeed, might guess) ; 
 Of Vows, of Hopes too high, 
 
 Of Dolours by the yard 
 That none believe (nor buy), — 
 
 Defend us from The Bard ! 
 
 Envoy. 
 
 Prince Phcebus, all must die, 
 Or well- or evil-starred, 
 Or whole of heart or scarred ; 
 
 But why in this way — why ? 
 Defend us from The Bard. 
 
 1887. 
 
 33 D
 
 JULY. 
 
 Good-bye to the Town ! — good-bye ! 
 Hurrah ! for the sea and the sky ! 
 
 In the street the flower-girls cry; 
 In the street the water-carts ply ; 
 And a fluter, with features awry, 
 Plays fitfully " Scots wha hae " — 
 And the throat of that fluter is dry ; 
 Good-bye to the Town ! — good-bye ! 
 
 And over the roof-tops nigh 
 
 Comes a waft like a dream of the May ; 
 
 And a lady-bird lit on my tie ; 
 
 And a cock-chafer came with the tray ; 
 
 And a butterfly (no one knows why) 
 
 Mistook my Aunt's cap for a spray; 
 
 And " next door" and "over the way" 
 
 34
 
 The neighbours take wing and fly: 
 Hurrah ! for the sea and the sky ! 
 
 To Buxton, the waters to try, — 
 
 To Buxton goes old Mrs. Bligh ; 
 
 And the Captain to Homburg and play 
 
 Will carry his cane and his eye ; 
 
 And even Miss Morgan Lefay 
 
 Is flitting — to far Peckham Rye; 
 
 And my Grocer has gone — in a " Shay " ; 
 
 And my Tailor has gone — in a " Fly " ; — 
 
 Good-bye to the Town ! — good-bye ! 
 
 And it 's O for the sea and the sky ! 
 And it 's O for the boat and the bay ! 
 For the white foam whirling by, 
 And the sharp, salt edge of the spray ! 
 For the wharf where the black nets fry, 
 And the wrack and the oarweed sway! 
 For the stroll when the moon is high 
 To the nook by the Flag-house gray! 
 For the risus ab angulo shy 
 From the Someone we designate " Di " ! 
 For the moment of silence, — the sigh ! 
 
 3S
 
 " How I dote on a moon! " "So do I! ' 
 For the token we snatch on the sly 
 (With nobody there to say Fie!) 
 Hurrah ! for the sea and the sky ! 
 
 So Phillis, the fawn-footed, hie 
 For a hansom ! Ere close of the day 
 Between us a " world " must lie, — 
 Good-bye to the Town ! — Good-bye ! 
 Hurrah! for the sea and the sky ! 
 
 1876. 
 
 36
 
 NOTES OF A HONEYMOON. 
 
 In the Train. 
 
 At last we are free, — 
 
 All hail, Hymenseus ! 
 From C, and from D., — 
 At last I — we are free ! 
 What a comfort 'twill be 
 
 cf Mrs. Grundy " can't see us ! 
 At last we are free, — 
 
 All hail, Hymenaeus ! 
 
 From the Hotel Window. 
 
 "What a mountain ! " " What ferns ! " 
 
 " And a pond, too, for Rover ! " 
 Da capo — in turns 
 <c What a mountain ! " " What ferns ! ' : 
 
 37
 
 Meanwhile the toast burns, 
 And the kettle boils over; — 
 
 " What a mountain ! " " What ferns ! ' 
 " And a pond, too, for Rover." 
 
 The First Walk. 
 
 <c Join hands for a peep. 
 
 You must keep yourself steady. 
 See the cliff goes down steep, — 
 Join hands for a peep. 
 This they call ' Lovers' Leap,' — 
 
 We have leaped it already ! 
 Join hands for a peep. 
 
 You must keep yourself steady." 
 
 Arcadia. 
 
 " I can hear a sheep-bell." 
 
 " There are doves cooing yonder." 
 " It sounds like a spell, — 
 I can hear a sheep-bell." 
 
 33
 
 "Shall we like this as well — 
 
 In a twelvemonth? " " I wonder.'" 
 
 cc I can hear a sheep-bell." 
 
 (t There are doves cooing yonder." 
 
 At a Bookstall. 
 
 "Here it is in The Times, — 
 Dear Charlie, — how funny ! 
 'Twixt a f Smith ' and a ' Symes,' — 
 Here it is ! — in The Times." 
 " And it 's not with the f crimes ' ! " 
 
 " You must pay. I've no money ! 
 Here it is in The Times, — 
 Dear Charlie, — how funny ! " 
 
 Misgivings (No. i). 
 
 " Poor Papa, — he 's alone ! " 
 
 She is sure he must miss her. 
 There 's a tear in the tone, — 
 "Poor Papa! He's alone!" 
 
 39
 
 At this point I own, 
 
 There is naught but to kiss her. 
 " Poor Papa, — he 's alone ! ' 
 
 She is sure he must miss her. 
 
 Misgivings (No. 2). 
 
 By-play as before. 
 
 " Then you'll love me for ever ? " 
 " For ever — and more ! ' 
 (By-play as before.) 
 " Never think me a bore ? — 
 
 Never laugh at me ? " " Never ! ' 
 By-play as before. 
 
 " Then you'll love me for ever ? ' 
 
 The Sum Total. 
 
 She is all that is sweet ! 
 
 I must learn to deserve her. 
 Bright, kind ... I repeat — 
 She is all that is sweet ! 
 40
 
 (Here a noise in the street 
 Puts an end to my fervour.) 
 
 She is all that is sweet ! 
 
 I must learn to deserve her. 
 
 1878. 
 
 41
 
 "CHANGE." 
 
 Freeze, freeze, O icy wind ! 
 
 Lucilla's cap 's awry ; 
 No signal undesigned 
 
 To those that read the sky. 
 
 Dull drags the breakfast by : 
 She 's something on her mind ;— 
 
 Freeze, freeze, O icy wind ! 
 Lucilla's cap 's awry ! 
 
 " You're tired — " ' c And you're unkind ! ' 
 <c You're cross — " " That I deny ! ' 
 
 " Perhaps you're both combined." 
 " I'm tired of you — Good-bye ! "■ — 
 
 Freeze, freeze, O icy wind ! 
 Lucilla's cap 's awry ! 
 
 1877. 
 
 42
 
 (C 
 
 FAIR. 
 
 " Blow, blow, Etesian gale ! 
 
 Lucilla's cap is straight ; 
 Fill fast the flowing sail 
 
 Of happy man and mate. 
 
 " What is it, Dear? — A plate? 
 Do taste this potted quail." 
 Blow, blow, Etesian gale ! 
 
 Lucilla's cap is straight. 
 
 " More sugar ? — No. You're pale. 
 
 My Own, you work too late ! 
 Ah me, if you should fail ! 
 
 I'll see you to the gate."— 
 Blow, blow, Etesian gale ! 
 
 Lucilla's cap is straight. 
 
 1877. 
 
 43
 
 THE SONG OF THE SEA WIND. 
 
 How it sings, sings, sings, 
 
 Blowing sharply from the sea-line, 
 With an edge of salt that stings ; 
 How it laughs aloud, and passes, 
 As it cuts the close cliff-grasses ; 
 How it sings again, and whistles 
 As it shakes the stout sea-thistles — 
 How it sings ! 
 
 How it shrieks, shrieks, shrieks 
 
 In the crannies of the headland, 
 In the gashes of the creeks ; 
 
 How it shrieks once more, and catches 
 Up the yellow foam in patches ; 
 How it whirls it out and over 
 To the corn-field and the clover — 
 How it shrieks ! 
 
 44
 
 How it roars, roars, roars 
 
 In the iron under-caverns, 
 In the hollows of the shores ; 
 
 How it roars anew, and thunders, 
 As the strong hull splits and sunders : 
 And the spent ship, tempest-driven, 
 On the reef lies rent and riven — 
 How it roars ! 
 
 How it wails, wails, wails 
 
 In the tangle of the wreckage, 
 In the flapping of the sails, 
 How it sobs away, subsiding, 
 Like a tired child after chiding; 
 
 And across the ground-swell rolling, 
 You can hear the bell-buoy tolling — 
 How it wails ! 
 1885. 
 
 45
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 With a Volume of Herbert. 
 
 I. 
 
 When I go 
 
 From my place 
 At your feet, 
 Sweet, 
 All I know 
 Of your face 
 I recall, — 
 All, 
 Being by 
 (In the net) 
 I forget. 
 
 Why? 
 
 46
 
 II. 
 
 Being by, 
 I but hear 
 What you say,- 
 Yea, 
 Naught am I 
 But an ear 
 To the word 
 
 Heard ; 
 Then I go 
 And the grace 
 Of your face 
 Know. 
 1868. 
 
 47
 
 TO LORD DE TABLEY. 
 
 In Acknowledgment of a Volume of Poems. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 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 ! 
 
 1894. 
 
 48
 
 A "DEPARTMENTAL DITTY." 
 
 To the Hon. T. H. W. Pelham. 
 
 While you, at Brynhyffyn, ^ 
 Are taking your muffin, 
 And shrimps and plum-duff in 
 
 The sight of the sea, 
 Remember, remember, 
 The Ides of September, 
 And this junior member, 
 
 Who wishes to flee ! 
 
 You, bold as a Viking, 
 And clad to your liking, 
 Go bathing or " biking," 
 
 Wherever you please ; 
 He, worried and fretting, 
 Tight-collared and sweating, 
 Is well-nigh forgetting 
 
 The colour of trees ! 
 
 49
 
 No President wrings you, 
 No work the post brings you, 
 The salt water stings you 
 
 Wherever you go ; 
 Lost, — lost in the Present, 
 And free as a pheasant, 
 Your " Minutes" are pleasant, 
 
 But his are not so ! 
 
 For " F. and H." 1 grinds him, 
 And blue paper blinds him, 
 And red tape enwinds him 
 
 From shoulder to knee ; 
 While you, at Brynhyffyn 
 Grow sleek as a puffin, 
 With every new snuff in 
 
 You take of the sea ! 
 
 1899. 
 
 1 Fisheries and Harbour Department. 
 
 50
 
 TO THE EARL OF CREWE 
 ON HIS MARRIAGE. 
 
 With a Volume of Verse. 
 
 In the duo of Love 
 
 There is little libretto ; 
 There are few rhymes but " dove " 
 In the duo of Love ; 
 Yet we prize it above 
 
 All your Epic falsetto ; — 
 In the duo of Love 
 
 There is little libretto. 
 
 1899. 
 
 5i
 
 TO THE LADY DOROTHY NEVILL. 
 
 With a Memoir of Horace Walpole. 
 
 Here is Horace his Life. I have ventured to draw 
 
 him 
 As the Berrys, the Conways, the Montagus 
 
 saw him : 
 Very kind to his friends, to the rest only so-so ; 
 A Talker, Fine Gentleman, Wit, Virtuoso ; 
 With — running through all his sham-Gothic gim- 
 
 crackery — 
 A dash of Sevigne, Saint-Simon and Thackeray. 
 For errors of ignorance, haste, execution, 
 From you, his descendant, I ask absolution. 
 
 1 89 1. 
 
 S 2
 
 TO EDMUND GOSSE. 
 
 With a First Edition of "Atalanta 
 in Calydon." 
 
 At your pleasure here I hold 
 " Atalanta, snowy-souled " : 
 Rather smudgy though, — the gold 
 Not so brilliant as of old ; 
 First Edition, — this is plain ; 
 Monogram of J. B. Payne . . . 
 Dogg'rel this, but it was reckoned 
 Metre under George the Second. 
 Then a man was thought a Bard 
 If by striving very hard 
 He could write — say once a quarter — 
 Something just as long, or shorter. 
 Straight they crowned his head with bay, 
 Nobles took him home to " tay " ; 
 Maids of honour for his muse 
 Quite forgot their " P's" and « Q's." 
 
 S3
 
 See his name on all the posts; 
 People rush to buy in hosts 
 Tonson's last impression with 
 Author's portrait, done by Smith ; 
 All his little words are quoted ; 
 All his little airs are noted ; 
 And, if he goes trickling on 
 From his paltry Helicon, 
 He is made Court- Footman or, 
 Possibly, Ambassador ! 
 
 1878. 
 
 54
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 With Churchill's "Poems" (1763). 
 
 When Churchill wrote, th' Aonian maid 
 He served was scarce of speech afraid ; 
 
 She used no phrase to circumvent 
 
 The homely article she meant, 
 But plainly called a spade a spade. 
 
 Nor was the public much dismayed. 
 He but his age's law obeyed ; — 
 
 They liked to see the bludgeon's dent 
 When Churchill wrote. 
 
 'Tis not so now. To-day the trade 
 Demands the finest Sheffield blade ; 
 
 We use a subtler instrument; 
 
 We cut for depth and not extent . . . 
 But would 'twere ours — the Mark they made- 
 When Churchill wrote. 
 
 1877. 
 
 S5
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 With a Memoir of Horace Walpole. 
 
 Had I but Walpole's wit, I'd write 
 
 A quatrain here to-day 
 Should turn the wig of Prior white, 
 
 And make e'en Horace gray ; 
 
 Or had I Stanhope's pen (the same 
 That once he gave to Young), 
 
 I would as neat a couplet frame 
 As e'er was said or sung; 
 
 But since I've not, I can't, you know ; 
 
 The page must go without it; 
 This is my latest gift; and so . . . 
 
 And so, that 's all about it ! 
 
 1891. 
 
 56
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 With "At the Sign of the Lyre." 
 
 IC Book against book." " Agreed," I said 
 But 'twas the truck of Diomed ! 
 
 — And yet, in Fairy-land, I'm told 
 Dead leaves — as these — will turn to gold. 
 Take them, Sir Alchemist, and see ! 
 Nothing transmutes like sympathy. 
 
 1885. 
 
 57
 
 TO THE SAME. ' 
 
 With Vincent Bourne's "Poetical Works." 
 
 Gossip, may we live as now, 
 Brothers ever, I and thou ; 
 Us may never Envy's mesh hold, 
 Anger never cross our threshold ; 
 Let our little Lares be 
 Friendship and Urbanity. 
 
 1876. 
 
 58
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 With Goldsmith's " Selected Poems." 
 
 Grub-Street is Milton- Street to-day; 
 
 And that antiqua Mater 
 Whom Goldsmith served has passed away ; 
 
 But is our lot the greater ? 
 
 Ah no ! as some lean rascal hides 
 
 His misery from his betters, 
 We wrap our trash in parchment sides, 
 
 And call our task-work " Letters." 
 
 1887 
 
 59
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 With a Copy of Walton's Lives. 
 
 You write your Life of Donne. 'Twill be 
 
 A masterpiece of sympathy ! 
 
 Exact., I know, in fact and date, 
 
 And skilled to lead, to stimulate, 
 
 To show, as you would have him seen, 
 
 That morbid, mystic, mighty Dean. 
 
 But will you catch old Izaak's phrase 
 That glows with energy of praise ? 
 Old Izaak's ambling unpretence 
 That flames with untaught eloquence ? 
 Will you ? I pause for a reply, 
 And you must answer, Friend, not I. 
 
 1899. 
 
 60
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 With the Author's Works. 
 
 Exegi monument um. 
 
 Eight volumes ! — all well-polished prose, 
 
 Or better verse (as some suppose) ; 
 
 In style more playful than severe, 
 
 Moral in tone (pour qui salt lire) ; 
 
 All written by my single pen, 
 
 And praised by some distinguished men, 
 
 But else not widely read, I fear : — 
 
 Crown me, Melpomene, my Dear ! 
 1900. 
 
 61
 
 TO EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 
 
 Dedication of "At the Sign of the Lyre." 
 
 No need to-day that we commend 
 This pinnace to your care, O Friend ! 
 You steered the bark that went before 
 Between the whirlpool and the shore ; 
 So, — though we want no pilot now, — 
 We write your name upon the prow. 
 
 1885. 
 
 62
 
 TO FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 Dedication of " Proverbs in Porcelain." 
 
 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. 
 
 1877. 
 
 63
 
 FOR LOCKER'S "LONDON LYRICS.' 
 
 Apollo made, one April day, 
 A new thing in the rhyming way ; 
 Its turn was neat, its wit was clear, 
 It wavered 'twixt a smile and tear, 
 Then Momus gave a touch satiric, 
 And it became a " London Lyric." 
 
 1881. 
 
 64
 
 TO BRANDER MATTHEWS. 
 
 With a Volume of Verses. 
 
 In vain to-day I scrape and blot : 
 The nimble words, the phrases neat, 
 Decline to mingle or to meet; 
 
 My skill is all foregone, — forgot. 
 
 He will not canter, walk or trot, 
 My Pegasus. I spur, I beat, 
 In vain to-day ! 
 
 And yet 'twere sure the saddest lot 
 That I should fail to leave complete 
 One poor . . . the rhyme suggests " conceit 
 
 Alas ! 'Tis all too clear I'm not 
 
 In vein to-day. 
 
 1884. 
 
 65
 
 TO THE LATE H. C. BUNNER. 
 
 With a Volume of Verses. 
 
 Witness my hand (and seal thereto): 
 All ye who wrong by word or sign, 
 This unprotected Muse of mine, 
 
 I wish you . . . Something else to do ! 
 
 May all your bills at once fall due ! 
 
 May She, whose grace you seek, decline ! 
 
 Witness my hand ! 
 
 But you, acute, accomplished, true 
 And candid, who in every line 
 Discern a spark (or sparks) divine, 
 
 Be blessed ! There's good in store for you,- 
 
 Witness my hand ! 
 1884. 
 
 66
 
 TO GEORGE H. BOUGHTON, R.A. 
 
 With a Volume of Verses. 
 
 Spring stirs and wakes by holt and hill, 
 In barren copse and bloomless close 
 Revives the memory of the rose, 
 
 And breaks the yellow daffodil. 
 
 Look how the spears of crocus fill 
 The ancient hollows of the snows, — 
 Spring stirs and wakes ! 
 
 Yet what to you are months? At will 
 For you the season comes or goes ; 
 We watch the flower that fades and blows, 
 
 But on your happy canvas still 
 
 Spring stirs and wakes ! 
 
 1885. 
 
 67
 
 TO RICHARD WATSON GILDER. 
 With a Volume of Verses. 
 
 Old friends are best ! And so to you 
 
 Again I send, in closer throng, 
 
 No unfamiliar shapes of song, 
 But those that once you liked and knew. 
 
 You surely will not do them wrong ; 
 For are you not an old friend, too ? — 
 
 Old friends are best. 
 
 Old books, old wine, old Nankin blue; — 
 All things, in short, to which belong 
 The charm, the grace that Time makes strong,- 
 
 All these I prize, but {entre nous) 
 
 Old friends are best ! 
 
 1884. 
 
 68
 
 TO LAURENCE HUTTON. 
 
 With a Volume of Verses. 
 
 There is no "mighty purpose" in this book. 
 
 Of that I warn you at the opening page, 
 Lest haply, 'twixt the leaves you careless look, 
 
 And, finding nothing to reform the age, 
 
 Fall with the rhyme and rhymer in a rage. 
 Let others prate of problems and of powers ; 
 I bring but fancies born of idle hours, 
 
 That striving only after Art and Ease, 
 Have scarcely more of moral than the flowers, 
 
 And little else of mission than to please. 
 
 1884. 
 
 69
 
 EPIGRAMS. 
 
 On the Poetry of Artifice. 
 
 Within this verse, said Dick, you see 
 There 's not a single " B " or " D " : 
 Why not (quoth Ned) go farther yet, 
 And leave out all the alphabet ? 
 
 1889. 
 
 On Didactics in Poetry. 
 
 Parnassus' peaks still catch the sun ; 
 
 But why — O lyric brother! — 
 Why build a Pulpit on the one, 
 
 A Platform on the other ? 
 
 1876. 
 
 On a Catalogue Raisonne\ 
 
 I doubt your painful pedants who 
 Can read a Dictionary through ; 
 But he must be a dismal dog 
 Who can't enjoy this Catalogue. 
 
 1893. 
 
 70
 
 VERSES WRITTEN FOR THE MENU 
 OF THE OMAR KHAYYAM CLUB. 
 
 "// does not appear there was any danger in holding and singing 
 Sufi Pantheism, so long as the Poet made his salaam to Mohammed 
 at the beginning and end of the Song." — FitzGerald's Preface to 
 Rubdiyat, 1872. 
 
 Salaam to Omar ! We that meet to-night 
 Have bid Black Care be banished, and invite 
 The Rose, the Cup, the not-too-ancient Jest, 
 To help and cheer us, but beyond the rest, 
 Peaceful Digestion with its blissful calm. 
 Therefore to Omar once again — Salaam ! 
 
 Salaam to Omar ! Life in truth is short 
 And mortal man of many ills the sport; 
 Yet still th' Oasis of the Board commends 
 Its vantage-ground for cheerful talk of friends, 
 And brings Oblivion, like an Eastern Balm. 
 Therefore to Omar once again — Salaam ! 
 
 May 17, 1 90 1. 
 
 7i
 
 HILL AND VALLEY. 
 
 He. 
 
 Come, let us climb to the height, 
 
 Peak after peak in the sun, 
 As the rays brighten, grow rosy and lighten, 
 
 Now that the thunder has done. 
 
 She. 
 Nay ; through the leafage, the light 
 
 Gentlier glimmers below; 
 See through the valley the rivulets sally, 
 
 Singing aloud as they go. 
 
 He. 
 
 Grandly, ah ! grandly the hill 
 
 Broke the black storm on its crest ; 
 
 All the cliff under went leaping the thunder, 
 Growling away in the west. 
 
 72
 
 She. 
 Here it is restful and still ; 
 
 Only the drops from the trees, 
 Where the shades darkle, fall slowly and sparkle, — 
 
 Here there is solace and ease. 
 
 He. 
 
 Child, but the eagle above, 
 
 Now that the mists are withdrawn, 
 Never wing-weary, sails up from his eyrie, 
 
 E'en to the eye of the dawn. 
 
 She. 
 Ah ! But below us the dove, 
 
 Crooning for joy on the nest, 
 Fills with soft slumber the leaves without number. 
 
 Shadow and quiet are best. 
 
 * 
 
 1881. 
 
 73
 
 "ROSE, IN THE HEDGE-ROW GROWN." 
 
 Rose, in the hedge-row grown, 
 
 Where the scent of the fresh sweet hay 
 Comes up from the fields new-mown, 
 You know it — you know it — alone, 
 So I gather you here to-day. 
 
 For here — was it not here, say ? — 
 That she came by the woodland way, 
 And my heart with a hope unknown 
 
 Rose ? 
 
 Ah yes ! — with her bright hair blown, 
 And her eyes like the skies of May, 
 
 And her steps like the rose-leaves strown 
 When the winds in the rose-trees play — 
 
 It was here — O my love ! — my own 
 
 Rose ! 
 1876. 
 
 74
 
 LOVE'S FAREWELL. 
 
 " No more ! " I said to Love. " No more ! 
 
 I scorn your baby-arts to know ! 
 Not now am I as once of yore ; 
 
 My brow the Sage's line can show ! ' 
 " Farewell ! " he laughed. Cf Farewell ! I go 
 
 And clove the air with fluttering track. 
 " Farewell ! " he cried far off; — but lo ! 
 
 He sent a Parthian arrow back ! 
 
 1876. 
 
 75
 
 HUITAINS. 
 For "The Library" of Mr. Andrew Lang. 
 
 I. 
 
 Books, books again, and books once more ! 
 These are our theme, which some miscall 
 Mere madness, setting little store 
 By copies either short or tall. 
 But you, O Slaves of Shelf and Stall ! 
 We rather write for you that hold 
 Patched folios dear, and prize " the small, 
 Rare volume, black with tarnish'd gold." * 
 
 II. 
 
 "Of making many books," 'twas said, 
 " There is no end " ; and who thereon 
 The ever-running ink doth shed 
 But proves the words of Solomon. 
 
 1 Ferriar's Bibliomania. 
 76
 
 Therefore we now, for colophon, 
 From London's city drear and dark, 
 In the year Eighteen-Eighty-One, 
 Reprint them at the press of Clark. 
 
 1881. 
 
 77
 
 A BALLAD OF ANTIQUARIES. 
 
 The days decay as flower of grass, 
 
 The years as silent waters flow ; 
 All things that are depart, alas ! 
 
 As leaves the winnowing breezes strow ; 
 
 And still while yet, full-orbed and slow, 
 New suns the old horizon climb, 
 
 Old Time must reap, as others sow : 
 We are the gleaners after Time ! 
 
 We garner all the things that pass, 
 
 We harbour all the winds may blow ; 
 As misers we up-store, amass 
 
 All gifts the hurrying Fates bestow ; 
 
 Old chronicles of feast and show, 
 Old waifs of by-gone rune and rhyme, 
 
 Old jests that made old banquets glow :- 
 We are the gleaners after Time ! 
 
 78
 
 We hoard old lore of lad and lass, 
 Old flowers that in old gardens grow, 
 
 Old records writ on tomb and brass, 
 Old spoils of arrow-head and bow, 
 Old wrecks of old worlds' overthrow, 
 
 Old relics of Earth's primal slime, 
 All drift that wanders to and fro: — 
 
 We are the gleaners after Time ! 
 
 Envoy. 
 Friends, that we know not and we know ! 
 
 We pray you, by this Christmas chime, 
 Help us to save the things that go: 
 
 We are the gleaners after Time. 
 
 1880. 
 
 79
 
 A SECOND BALLAD OF ANTIQUARIES. 
 
 " Friends that we know not" . . late we said. 
 
 We know you now, true friends, who still, 
 Where'er Time's tireless scythe has led, 
 
 Have wrought with us through good and ill, — 
 
 Have toiled the weary sheaves to fill. 
 Hail then, O known and tried ! — and you, 
 
 Who know us not to-day, but will — 
 Hail to you all, Old Friends and New ! 
 
 With no scant store our barns are fed: 
 
 The full sacks bulge by door and sill, 
 With grain the threshing-floors are spread, 
 
 The piled grist feeds the humming mill; 
 
 And — but for you — all this were nil, 
 A harvest of lean ears and few, 
 
 But for your service, friends, and skill ; 
 Hail to you all, Old Friends and New ! 
 
 80
 
 But hark ! — Is that the Reaper's tread ? 
 
 Come, let us glean once more until 
 Here, where the snowdrop lifts its head, 
 
 The days bring round the daffodil ; 
 
 Till winds the last June roses kill, 
 And A'-tumn fades ; till, 'neath the yew, 
 
 Once more we cry, with Winter chill, 
 Hail to you all, Old Friends and New ! 
 
 Envoy. 
 Come ! Unto all a horn we spill, 
 
 Brimmed with a foaming Yule-tide brew, 
 Hail to you all, by vale and hill ! — 
 
 Hail to you all, Old Friends and New ! 
 
 1881. 
 
 81
 
 REGRETS. 
 
 After Joachim du Bellay. 
 
 I. 
 
 Alas ! where now doth scorn of fortune hide ? 
 And where the heart that still must conqueror be ; 
 Where the strong hope of immortality, 
 And that fine flame to common souls denied ? 
 
 Where is the joyance which at eventide, 
 Through the brown night, the silver moon could see, 
 With all the Nine, whenas in fancy free 
 I led them dance, some sacred stream beside ? 
 
 Dame Fortune now is mistress of my soul, 
 And this my heart, that I would fain control, 
 Is grown the thrall of many a fear and sigh. 
 
 For after-time no more have I desire ; 
 No more within I feel that ancient fire, 
 And the sweet Muses turn from me and fly. 
 
 1886. 
 
 82
 
 REGRETS. 
 
 After Joachim du Bellay. 
 
 II. 
 
 Happy the man, like wise Ulysses tried, 
 Or him of yore that gat the Fleece of Gold, 
 Who comes at last, from travels manifold, 
 Among his kith and kindred to abide ! 
 
 When shall I see, from my small hamlet-side, 
 Once more the blue and curling smoke unrolled? 
 When the poor boundaries of my house behold — 
 Poor, but to me as any province wide ? 
 
 Ah, more than these imperious piles of Rome 
 Laugh the low portals of my boyhood's home ! 
 More than their marble must its slate-roof be ! 
 
 More than the Tiber's flood my Loire is still ! 
 More than the Palatine my native hill, 
 And the soft air of Anjou than the sea ! 
 
 1886. 
 
 83
 
 TO MONSIEUR DE LA MOTHE LE 
 
 VAYER, UPON THE DEATH OF 
 
 HIS SON. 
 
 After Moliere. 
 
 Let thy tears flow, Le Vayer, let them flow : — 
 None of scant cause thy sorrowing can accuse, 
 Since, losing that which thou for aye dost lose, 
 E'en the most wise might find a ground for woe. 
 
 Vainly we strive with precepts to forego 
 The drops of pity that are pity's dues ; 
 And Nature's self, indignant, doth refuse 
 To count for fortitude that heartless show. 
 
 No grief, alas ! can now bring back again 
 The son too dear, by Death untimely ta'en ; 
 Yet, not the less, his loss is hard to bear. 
 
 84
 
 Graced as he was by all the world reveres, 
 Large heart, keen wit, a lofty soul and rare, 
 — Surely these claim immitigable tears. 
 
 1886. 
 
 85
 
 THE BALLAD OF BITTER FRUIT. 
 
 After Theodore de Banville. 
 
 In the wood with its wide arms overspread, 
 Where the wan morn strives with the waning night, 
 The dim shapes strung like a chaplet dread 
 Shudder, and sway to the left, the right; 
 The soft rays touch them with fingers white 
 As they swing in the leaves of the oak-tree browned, 
 Fruits that the Turk and the Moor would fright, — 
 This is King Lewis his orchard ground. 
 
 All of these poor folk, stark and sped, 
 Dreaming (who knows !) of what dead despight, 
 In the freshening breeze by the morning fed 
 Twirl and spin to the mad wind's might; 
 Over them wavers the warm sun bright ; 
 Look on them, look on them, skies profound, 
 Look how they dance in the morning light ! — 
 This is King Lewis his orchard ground. 
 
 86
 
 Dead, these dead, in a language dead, 
 Cry to their fellows in evil plight ; 
 Day meanwhile thro' the lift o'erhead 
 Dazzles and flames at the blue vault's height ; 
 Into the air the dews take flight; 
 Ravens and crows with a jubilant sound 
 Over them, over them, hover and light; — 
 This is King Lewis his orchard ground. 
 
 Envoy. 
 Prince, we wot of no sorrier sight 
 Under the whispering leafage found, 
 Bodies that hang like a hideous blight ; — 
 This is King Lewis his orchard ground. 
 
 1889. 
 
 37
 
 FOR "NOTES AND QUERIES." 
 
 In " N. and Q." we meet to weigh 
 
 The Hannibals of yesterday ; 
 
 We trace, thro' all its moss o'ergrown, 
 The script upon Time's oldest stone, 
 
 Nor scorn his latest waif and stray. 
 
 Letters and Folk-lore, Art, the Play ; 
 Whate'er, in short, men think or say, 
 
 We make our theme, — we make our own,- 
 
 In « N. and Q." 
 
 Stranger, whoe'er you be, who may 
 
 From China to Peru survey, 
 
 Aghast, the waste of things unknown, 
 Take heart of grace, you're not alone, 
 
 And all (who will) may find their way 
 
 In"N. andQ." 
 
 1882. 
 
 88
 
 TO THE PUBLISHER OF 
 ' C THE NEW MONTHLY REVIEW." 
 
 In the first days of this Review, 
 When Griffith, ay, and Madam, too, 
 From the old Dunciad in the Row 
 Instructed folk how they should go, 
 'Tis rumoured that they kept confined 
 And cabined in some room behind 
 A queer slow-witted, stuttering rogue, 
 An usher, with an Irish brogue, 
 Who, working then for Grub-Street pay, 
 Yet lived to write one perfect play 
 That still is played ; to tell a tale 
 Still, as the book-stalls show, on sale ; 
 And write, besides, some verse of note 
 That still old-fashioned persons quote. 
 
 Full well I wot, Sir, your domain 
 No such back-parlour could contain ; 
 
 89
 
 Sure, too, am I you would not choose 
 The Dunciad for your sign to use ; 
 But still I trust that you may light 
 Upon some genius who will write 
 Plain-spoken things, and unperplext, 
 That we may read this year and next, . 
 Though they should fail to last as long 
 As Goldsmith's play and tale and song ! 
 
 1900. 
 
 90
 
 R. L. S. IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 For the New Century Number of the 
 Edinburgh "Student." 
 
 These to his Memory. May the age arriving, 
 
 As ours, recall 
 That bravest heart, that gay and gallant striving, 
 
 That laurelled pall ! 
 
 Blithe and rare spirit ! We who later linger, 
 
 By bleaker seas, 
 Sigh for the touch of the Magician's finger, 
 
 His golden keys. 
 
 1901. 
 
 9 1
 
 FOR A VOLUME OF VERSE. 
 
 Good Sir, or Madam, pray come in, — 
 No doubt you'll find a vacant seat. 
 
 Our "plot," maybe, is somewhat thin, — 
 We hope at least the " parts " complete. 
 
 Of themes sublime we seldom treat, — 
 Be warned of that ere we begin. 
 Good Sir, or Madam, pray come in, — 
 
 No doubt you'll find a vacant seat. 
 
 Here is the Bill. You see we spin 
 But trifles. Still, a slight conceit 
 
 May prove the pin to prick a sin, — 
 The balm to make a virtue sweet. 
 
 Good Sir, or Madam, pray come in, — 
 No doubt you'll find a vacant seat. 
 
 1877. 
 
 92
 
 "ALBI, NE DOLEAS." 
 
 (Hor. i. 33.) 
 
 Love mocks us all. Then cast aside 
 These tuneful plaints, my Albius tried, 
 For heartless Glycera, from thee 
 Fled to a younger lover. See, — 
 Low-browed Lycoris burns denied 
 
 For Cyrus ; he (though goats shall bide 
 With wolves ere she in him confide) 
 Turns, with base suit, to Pholoe : — 
 Love mocks us all ! 
 
 So Venus wills, and joys to guide, 
 'Neath brazen yolk pairs ill-allied 
 
 In form and mind. So linked she me 
 (Whom worthier wooed) to Myrtale, 
 Fair, but less kind than Hadria's tide, — 
 
 Love mocks us all ! 
 
 1887. 
 
 93
 
 « POSCIMUR." 
 (Hor. i. 32.) 
 
 The Muses call. Now, shell, inspire, 
 If aught, to last this year and more, 
 Lightly, we two have wrought before, 
 
 Come now, a song like his whose fire 
 
 First smote thee, from th' Aonian choir, 
 Catching, through camp and tempest's roar, 
 
 The Muses' call, — 
 
 Singing the Queen of all desire, 
 Bacchus, and Cupid flutt'ring o'er, 
 And Lycus : — thou, that Phcebus bore, 
 
 Dear to Jove's feast, care-soothing Lyre ! — 
 
 The Muses call. 
 
 1887. 
 
 94
 
 THE PEACOCK ON THE WALL. 
 
 A Mediaeval Ballad, in the Modern 
 
 Manner. 
 
 A doughty knight was Hue le Beau, 
 
 A flower of men, perfay, 
 A gentle squire of dames also — 
 
 Jn his peculiar way. 
 
 I say " peculiar," for in truth, 
 
 According to his view, 
 Men must have had eternal youth— 
 
 Or nothing else to do. 
 
 He held that but when years had past 
 
 In courtesies minute, 
 His love should yield herself at last 
 
 To his protracted suit. 
 
 95
 
 Culture, he urged, could love extend 
 
 To lengths so undefined, 
 A man might quite a lifetime spend 
 
 Before he spoke his mind. 
 
 Alix le Fay was straight and tall, 
 
 A maid of high degree; 
 And by her father's orchard wall 
 
 He met her, — frequently. 
 
 These were the merely prologue days, 
 
 And on her lily cheek, 
 Sir Hue, for quite three hours, would gaze, 
 
 But not a word would speak ; 
 
 Then, feeling first to ascertain 
 
 Whether the grass was wet, 
 This blameless knight and man was fain 
 
 Upon his knees to get ; 
 
 And lifting up her fingers two, 
 
 With gentle gesture, he 
 Would lay his bearded lip thereto 
 
 And kiss, — respectfully. 
 
 9 6
 
 Seven years Sir Hue had gazed and kissed 
 
 In this enlightened wise, 
 And only on Saints' days had missed 
 
 His usual exercise. 
 
 Seven years Sir Hue had kissed and gazed, 
 
 And in no detail swerved, 
 Till he, one afternoon, — amazed, 
 
 Perceived he was observed. 
 
 For lo, upon the orchard wall, 
 
 A Peacock-bird would rest, 
 That seemed to watch his motions all 
 
 With wonder manifest. 
 
 " Sir Knight," — (at once began the bird) 
 
 " Though I appear abrupt, 
 Believe me that it ne'er occurred 
 
 To me to interrupt. 
 
 " Fair is the path of virtue traced 
 
 By men of low estate, 
 Much more, ennobled by the taste 
 
 And fancy of the great. 
 
 97 H
 
 " A courtship, so refined, sedate 
 
 And singular in kind, 
 Could hardly fail to captivate 
 
 The well-conducted mind. 
 
 " Good hap, the highest and the least 
 
 Can admiration stir, 
 And make of either bird or beast, 
 
 A Hero-worshipper ; 
 
 " So I, — a bird — can yet revere 
 The Beautiful — the True; — 
 
 Permit me then, I pray, Messire, 
 To join your party too, 
 
 " For you, I feel, will understand 
 
 That but to contemplate 
 A suit so delicately planned, 
 
 Must surely elevate." 
 
 The Knight could not refuse request 
 
 So gracefully preferred : 
 Thence, as the long amour progressed, 
 
 The blandly curious bird 
 
 9 8
 
 Watched from the wall the varied shades 
 Of " Sweetness " and of " Light," 
 
 As good Sir Hue went through the grades 
 Of Passion grown polite. 
 
 But, long ere Alix made him hers, 
 
 Departing from its post, 
 The Peacock, being full of years, 
 
 Had yielded up the ghost ; 
 
 And after, when Sir Hue the maid 
 
 By slow degrees had gained, 
 He had the circumstance portrayed 
 
 Upon a window stained, 
 
 Showing himself, Alix le Fay, 
 
 The Peacock watching by ; 
 " And there it stands unto this day 
 
 To witness if I lie." 
 
 1873- 
 
 99
 
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