. : . .:. -' ' '-' : " THE STORY OF ROSINA ETC. BY THE SAME AUTHOR THE BALLAD OF BEAU BROCADE, and other Poems of the XVIIIth Century. With fifty Illustrations by HUGH THOMSON. Eleventh 1'housand. PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. With twenty-five Illustra- tions by BERNAKD PARTRIDGE. POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. Enlarged Edition. In two Volumes. With Etchings by ADOLPHE LALAUZE, and Portrait etched from life by WILLIAM STRANG. OLD-WORLD IDYLLS. Eleventh Edition. AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE. Ninth Edition. In the "Parchment Library" (Edited). EIGHTEENTH CENTURY ESSAYS. With an Intro- duction and Notes. FABLES OF MR. JOHN GAY. With a Memoir. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. With a Preface and Notes. SELECTED POEMS OF MATTHEW PRIOR. With an Introduction and Notes. LONDON: KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRUBNER & CO., LTD. oncf \4? ft Ballantyne Press DEDICATION TO * * * What would our modern maids to-day ? I watch, and, carit conjecture : A dubious Tale ? an Ibsen Play ? A pessimistic Lecture ? / know not. But tins. 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 OF ROSINA." Were it not for the recollection of certain incon- venient but salutary epigrams, and more parti- cularly Popes couplet about the pictures that " for the page atone," / might perhaps be disposed to cheat myself with the belief that the welcome which greeted " The Ballad of Beau Brocade " was not, in the main, attributable to the designs of an Artist whose hand is never so happy as when it works in the half-light of a bygone time. But if I cannot lay any such flattering unction to my amour-propre, / may at least reflect with satis- faction that " The Story of Rosina " is equally fortunate in its illustrator. In spite of many viii Preface obstacles j Mr. HUGH THOMSON has again afforded me the invaluable aid of his fertile fancy; and 1 am therefore fully warranted in hoping that this further volume of reprinted verses may achieve a success equal, if not superior, to that of its predecessor. AUSTIN DOBSON. September 1895. THE STORY OF ROSINA . UNE MARQUISE AN AUTUMN IDYLL A GARDEN IDYLL . A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO DOROTHY POT POURRI . THE SUNDIAL . CUPID'S ALLEY LOVE IN WINTER . THE CURE'S PROGRESS . AT THE CONVENT GATE THE MISOGYNIST . A VIRTUOSO . i 19 3i 43 53 59 65 7i 79 87 9i 97 103 in NOTES 119 ' ' Dorothy " . Heading to Preface Heading to Contents . Heading to List of Illustrations . "The Scene" .... Heading to poem " Watching the suspended cherries ' " Besought her leave" " The unknown comer " " On his knees" . . . . " By the door she lingers" . " Ah, the poor child ! " "Thick as bees" Heading to poem " Your last poet on his knees " . "Jove, what a day ! " . Heading to poem Frontispiece PAGE vii To face To face I I 2 6 8 10 12 19 . 19 To face 20 31 31 xii List of Illustrations PAGE "At her feet" To face 36 4 * Peered at the beehives curiously " ... ,, 43 Heading to poem 43 " Some dream of harp-prest bosoms " . . To face 46 " My dear and deprecating mother " . . . ., 48 "You're reading Greek?" ,, 53 Heading to poem 53 " The sequel's scarce essential " .... To face 54 " Preferred ' Clarissa ' to a gossip's word " . . ,, 59 Heading to poem 59 " Twice-told tales " To face 60 " The vanished days ". ..... ,, 65 Heading to poem 65 " When Dash was smitten " .... To fact 66 " Betwixt the paths " ., 71 Heading to poem 71 " Read and re-read " . . . . . . To face 74 "High and low, and young and old " . . . ,, 79 Heading to poem 79 " From off his seat shall tumble" . . . To face 82 " Bright-eyed Bella " ,,87 Heading to poem 87 " Waiting in the snow " To face 88 " Monsieur the Cure " 91 Heading to poem 91 List of Illustrations xiii PAGE " Strive to lure anew " ..... J^oface 97 Heading to poem ........ 97 " His air was always woe-begone " . . . To face 103 Heading to poem 103 "We met him last, grown stout" . . . To face 106 A Virtuoso ,, in Heading to poem in THE STORY OF ROSINA AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF FRANCOIS BOUCHER " On ne badine pas avec P amour" T HE scene, a wood. A shepherd tip-toe creeping, Carries a basket, whence a billet 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. A 2 Tlie Stjry o/ Rosina One hardly needs the " Peint par Francois Boucher." All the sham life comes back again, one sees Alcoves^ Ruelles, the Lever, and the Coucher, Patches and Ruffles, Roues and Marquises ; The little great, the infinite small thing That ruled the hour when Louis Quinze was king. 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 ; The Story of Rosina No 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 Bonhomme Tumbrils were not, nor any sound of drum. But Boucher was a Grasshopper, and painted, Rose-water Raphael, en couleur de 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. 4 The Story of Rosina A laughing Dame, who sailed a laughing cargo Of flippant loves along the Fleuve du Tendre ; Whose greatest grace wzsjupes a la Camargo^ Whose gentlest merit gentiment se rendre ; Queen of the rouge-cheeked Hours, whose footsteps 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 ; The Story of Rosina 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. 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. 6 The Story of Rosina 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, piquante, 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 blackbird'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 The Story of Rosina Up till the blush had vanquished all the brown, And, like two birds, the sudden lids dropped down. As Boucher smiled, the bright 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, M'sieu? Rosine^ depechez-vou s ! " 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." 8 The Story of Rosina 11 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 " Reveillez-vous." 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 ; The Story of Rosina c 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 a flower on which the sun-rays fall ; Loved if you will ; she never named it so : Love comes unseen, we only see it go. io 77ie Story of Rosina 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. But forth her Story, for I will not tarry, 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. 'Tvvas a young girl " une pauvre fille" she said, " They had been growing poorer all the summer ; Father was lame, and mother lately dead ; On The Story of Rosina \ i Bread was so dear, and, oh ! but 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 ; " Allez, Rosina ! sit behind the curtain." Meantime 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. 12 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 throbbing, And blankly stared at poor Rosina sobbing. " This was no model, Msieu, but a lady." Boucher was silent, for he knew it true. " Est-ce que vous Faimez ? " Never answer made he ! Ah, for the old love fighting with the new ! " Est-ce que vous Faimez ? " sobbed Rosina's sorrow. " Bon I " murmured Boucher ; " she will come to- morrow. 7 ' 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. The Story of Rosina 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. 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 that Fame had passed him by? 14 The Story of Rosina 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^ Af'steu, morte ! On dit^ des peines du 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 ; ' 5ft ,ti* poor The Story of Rosina 1 5 Then, for at best 'twas but the empty type, The husk of man with which the days were ripe, Then, he forgot her. But, for you that slew her, You, 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. LINE MARQUISE n UMVW//^// A RHYMED MONOLOGUE IN THE LOUVRE " Belle Marquise^ vos beaux yeux me font mourir d' amour" MOLIERE A S you sit there at your ease, O Marquise ! And the men flock round your knees Thick as bees, 2O Utte Marquise 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 fan's frou-frou sounds louder, And your " beaux ycux n 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 ; Growing proud, I say, and prouder To the crowd that come and go, Dainty Deity of Powder, Fickle Queen of Fop and Beau, o/ouv Une Marquise 2 1 As you sit where lustres strike you, Sure to please, Do we love you most or like you, "Belle Marquise!" 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 I" - You were everything in ere (With exception of severe), You were cruelle and rebelle, With the rest of rhymes as well ; 22 Une Marquise You were " Reine" and " Mire (F Amour" ; You were " Venus a Cy there "; " Sappho mise en Pompadour" And " Minerve en Parablre " ; You had every grace of heaven In your most angelic face, With the nameless finer leaven Lent of blood and courtly race ; And he added, too, in duty, Ninon's wit and BoufHers' beauty ; And La Valliere's yeux veloutes Followed these ; And you liked it, when he said it (On his knees), And you kept it, and you read it, "Belle Marquise!" Une Marquise 23 in Yet with us your toilet graces Fail to please, And the last of your last faces, And your mise ; For we hold you just as real, " Belle Marquise ! As your Bergers and Bergeres, lies d' Amour and Batelieres ; As you? 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, 24 Une Marquise 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, Made for madrigals and catches, Not for heart-wounds, but for scratches, O Marquise ! Just a pinky porcelain trifle, " Belle Marquise ! " Wrought in rarest rose-Dubarry, Quick at verbal point and parry, Clever, doubtless ; but to marry, No, Marquise ! Une Marquise 25 IV For your Cupid, you have clipped him, Rouged and patched him, nipped and snipped him, And with chapeau-bras 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 ; 26 Une Marquise 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 !" No : we neither like nor love you, " Belle Marquise ! " Lesser lights we place above you, Milder merits better please. We have passed from Philosophc-fan& Into plainer modern days, Grown contented in our oafdom, Giving grace not all the praise ; Une Marquise 27 And, en partant^ Arsinoe^ 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 ! " AN AUTUMN IDYLL "Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song" SPENSER LAWRENCE. FRANK. JACK. LAWRENCE. T JERE, 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. 3 T 32 An Autumn Idyll FRANK. Jack's undecided. Say^formosepuer, 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. 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 ! An Autumn Idyll 33 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 ? c 34 An Autumn Idyll LAWRENCE. Yes, if you will. But ere I play the piper, Let him declare the prize he has to bring. JACK. Hear 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. An Autumn Idyll 35 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. Notjn 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. 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. 36 An Autumn Idyll 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 pic-nic, leader of the glees, Not too divine to toss you up a salad, Great in Sir Roger danced among the trees. %1 An Autumn Idyll 37 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. 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. 38 An Autumn Idyll 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 own 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. An Autumn Idyll 39 LAWRENCE. "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. X 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 threadbare, " Calum, non animum " is, I take it, true. 4O An Autumn Idyll JACK. " Souventfemme 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. 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. A GARDEN IDYLL A LADY. A POET. THE LADY. IR 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 ; 43 44 A Garden Idyll 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 ? 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. A Garden Idyll 45 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"; Believe me there are tuneless days, When neither marble, brass, nor vellum, Would profit much by any lays That haunt the poet's cerebellum. 46 A Garden Idyll 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. 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. A Garden Idyll 47 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, 48 A Garden Idyll Quite a la mode. Alas for prose ! My vagrant fancies only rambled Back to the red-walled Rectory close, When first my graceless boyhood gamboled, 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 ; I 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 ; A Garden Idyll 49 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. D A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO L/ [ '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 with roses. 53 54 A Dialogue from Plato " 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." " But hear, the next's in stronger style : The Cynic School asserted That two red lips which part and smile May not be controverted ! " A Dialogue from Plato 5 5 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." 56 A Dialogue from Plato She read no more. I leapt the sill : The sequel's scarce essential Nay, more than this, I hold it still Profoundly confidential. DOROTHY ^^ HE 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." 59 60 Dorotky 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, Whose crude perception could but see " Ma'am Fine-airs " in " Miss Dorothy." How not ? She loved, may be, perfume, Soft textures, lace, a half-lit room ; Perchance too candidly preferred "Clarissa" to a gossip's word; Dorothy 6 1 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 ! 62 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 ! 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.' " POT POURRI " Si jeunesse savait ? " f 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, 6 5 E 66 Pot Pourri 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" ; We roused the rooks with rounds and glees, Played hide-and-seek behind the trees, Then plucked these roses, : Pot Pourri 67 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 scandalized 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 ; 68 Pot Pourn 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. THE SUNDIAL IS 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 : 31 am a >i)atte : a >l>atiotoe too arte tfxw : tfjou 0oe? mar&e tfje &ime : 72 The Sundial 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, smiling, hummed a tune,- Before whose feet a barking spaniel leapt. 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 Sundial 73 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. 74 The Sundial The shade slipped onward to the falling 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 marvelled 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 ; The Sundial 75 Kissed it, I think, and hid it in his breast ; Laughed softly in a flattered happy way, Arranged the broidered baldrick 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. CUPID'S ALLEY O, Love's but a dance. Where Time plays the fiddle! See the couples advance, O, Love's but a dance ! A whisper , a glance, " Shall we twirl down the middle ? " O, Lovers but a dance, Where Time plays the fiddle! \ T 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." 79 8o 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." 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 Cour To Jenny's pas de Chalet ; The folks who ne'er have danced before, Can dance in " Cupid's Alley." Cupid's Alley Si 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." 82 Cupid's Alley Strange pairs ! To laughing, fresh Fifteen Here capers Prudence thrifty ; Here Prodigal leads down the green A blushing Maid of fifty ; 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 ajl 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." Cupid's Alley 83 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." 84 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." LOVE IN WINTER B ETWEEN 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 ! " 8 7 88 Love in Winter " 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 ? ' " THE CURE'S PROGRESS Cure's progrejy I ]\ /TONSIEUR the Cure down the street Comes with his kind old face, With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, And his green umbrella-case. You may see him pass by the little " Grande Place? And the tiny "Hdtel de Ville" ; He smiles as he goes, to \hzfleuHste Rose, And the pompier The'ophile. 91 92 The Curfs Progress He turns, as a rule, through the " Marche" cool, Where the noisy fish-wives call ; And his compliment pays to the "belle 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 be heterodox, That will ended be with a "Mafoi, oui! n And a pinch from the Cure's box. There is also a word that no one heard To the furrier's daughter Lou. ; And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red, And a " Bon Dieu garde M'sieu ! " The Cnr/s Progress 93 But a grander way for the Sous-Prefet, And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne ; And a mock " off-hat " to the Notary's cat, And a nod to the Sacristan : For ever through life the Cure goes With a smile on his kind old face With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, And his green umbrella-case. AT THE CONVENT GATE v^xf Jo /are a ne Ml - ^^^C^-^ ^T^rj:^^] w ISTARIA 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 ! 97 98 At the Convent Gate 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 page ; 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 ; The Veil unseen that women wear With heart-whole thought, and quiet care, And hope of higher good. At the Convent Gate 99 "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." THE MISOGYNIST w HEN first he sought our haunts, he wore His locks in Hamlet-style ; His brow with thought was "sicklied We rarely saw him smile ; And, e'en when none were looking on, His air was always woe-begone. He kept, I think, his bosom bare To imitate Jean Paul ; 103 IO4 The Misogynist His solitary topics were ^Esthetics, Fate, and Soul ; Although at times, but not for long, He 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.' In these light moods, I call to mind, He darkly would allude To some dread sorrow undefined, Some passion unsubdued ; The Misogynist 105 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. We never knew What gentler ears he told it to. io6 The Misogynist 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, 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 ; The Misogynist 107 Not fjOos 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. io8 The Misogynist And O Jean Paul, and Fate, and Soul ! We met him last, grown stout, His throat with wedlock's triple roll, " All wool," en wound about ; His very hat had changed its brim ; Our course was clear, WE BANISHED HIM ! A VIRTUOSO A Virtuoso" B E seated, pray. " A grave appeal " ? The sufferers by the war, of course ; Ah, what a sight for us who feel, This monstrous melodrame of Force ! We, Sir, we connoisseurs, should know, On whom its heaviest burden falls ; Collections shattered at a blow, Museums turned to hospitals ! ii2 A Virtuoso " And worse," you say ; " the wide distress ! " Alas, 'tis true distress exists, Though, let me add, our worthy Press Have no mean skill as colourists : 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 ; 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 ? A Virtuoso 1 1 3 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 intelligible names ; ii4 ^ Virtuoso While here with us Ah ! who could hope To verify the varied pleas, Or from his 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. I 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 : A Virtuoso 1 1 5 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 I 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." NOTES NOTES NOTE i, PAGE i. "An Incident in the Life of Francois Boucher" SEE Boucher, by Arsene Houssaye, Galerie du XVIIl e Siecle {Cinquieme Serie\ and Charles Blanc, Histoire des Peintres de tous les Ecoles. NOTE 2, PAGE i. " The scene > a wood," The picture referred to is Le Panzer Mysterieux by F. Boucher ; engraved by R. Gaillard. NOTE 3, PAGE 3. " And 'far afield were sun-baked savage creatures" See Les Caracteres de LA BRUYERE, De rhomme. NOTE 4, PAGE 4. " Whose greatest grace was jupes a la Camargo." " Cctait le beau temps oit Camargo trouvait ses jupes trop longues pour danser la gargo nil lade." ARSENE HOUSSAYE. 1 20 Notes NOTE 5, PAGE 5. ' ' The grass he called * too green* " "// trouvait la nature trap verte et mal eclairee. Et son ami Lancret, le peintre des salons a la mode, lui repondait : ' Je suis de votre sentiment, la natttre manque d^harmonie et de seduc- tion''" CHARLES BLANC. Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & Co. Edinburgh and London