( LIBRARY ] UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SAN DIEGO Echoes from Kottabos Echoes from Kottabos Edited by R. Y. Tyrrell, Litt.D., D.C.L., LL.D. And Sir Edward Sullivan, Bart., Ex-Sch., B.A. London E. Grant Richards 1906 PREFACE SHORTLY after my election to a fellowship in Trinity College, Dublin, in 1868, I started a College miscellany of Greek and Latin verse (mainly translations), and of English pieces, verse and prose (mainly original), which were for the most part of a playful character. In the selection of the latter I was fortunate enough soon to obtain the help of John Hartley, many of whose compositions will be found in the collection now published. We were often asked for an explanation of the title Kottabos. My idea was that an ancient Greek game associated with literary symposia might indicate a miscellany of pieces, more or less playful, and emanating from an academic body. The name went trippingly on the tongue, and soon became familiar to many who had never heard of the game which was played by the ancient Greeks. The motto prefixed to each number was a fragment from the Pleisthenes of Euripides, TroAvs Se KOTTct/?(>v d ev A number appeared three times a year one in each of the College terms. At the end of four years the first volume, embracing twelve numbers, was issued in 1874. Two further volumes, made up of a PREFACE similar number of parts, appeared in 1877 and 1881. Thus thirty -six numbers came out under the original editors, after which Kottabos^ which had enjoyed a longer lease of life than falls, as a rule, to the lot of College magazines, ceased to appear for some half-dozen years. In 1888 it was revived under the editorship of J. B. Bury, then a Fellow of Trinity College, Dublin, now Regius Professor of Modern History in the University of Cambridge. The first volume of the second series was completed in 1891, and a second, under the editor- ship of Rev. George Wilkins, Fell. Trin. Coll., in 1895. Thus fifty numbers have been available for the present editors to choose from, and the interval between the first and the last number of Kottabos has been about twenty-five years. ROBERT Y. TYRRELL. We must own to having borrowed our title from that delightful volume Echoes from the Oxford Magazine ; but we hope this will not be taken as an invitation to readers to compare the two collections. To go no further, in one respect our method is quite different from that of the Oxford editors. They have included only verses of a comic (or at least serio-comic) complexion. Many, if not most, of ours wholly lack this character. Then, our contributors are numerous; while twenty-eight of the fifty-five pieces in the Oxford volume are the work of two writers, and all the contributions are far more deeply tinged than ours with the local colour and academic spirit. PREFACE Another distinguishing feature of the present collection is the series called "Poems Written in Discipleship," which were composed as affectionate studies or sketches, in the manner of some of the best known English poets, but in which the element of parody has no place. Many of the pieces now published have been printed in anthologies, such as that of Mr. Hinkson, who has kindly extended to us the privilege originally accorded by the editors of Kottabos to him. We have no doubt that any with whom (or with whose representatives) we were unable to communicate will meet us with similar compliance and courtesy. All the extracts are by Trinity College men, and were originally given to the editors in a spirit of friendliness and common interest in the literary reputation of Trinity College, Dublin. It is now for the first time possible for the editors of Kottabos to tender to them all the thanks which have been long overdue. The selections are in the chronological order in "which they originally appeared. A complete set of Kottabos is now very rare ; probably there are not more than half a dozen extant. The long range over which the fifty numbers extend may have an interest as the record of the mind of Trinity College, Dublin, from the Dis- establishment of the Church to the end of the nineteenth century. The book falls into three parts Verse, Prose, and Latin rhymes. No classical exercises are admitted, a selection from these having been long since published in Dublin Translations into Greek and Latin Verse. Among the Prose extracts the Oxford Solar Myth, by the late Rev. R. Littledale, has had a considerable vogue. It has even PREFACE furnished, in a German rendering, the feuilleton of a pamphlet issued by a Buchhandlung of Berlin. Though the theory on which this skit is founded is now somewhat obsolete, we hope it will still have an interest for scholars. But it is now too late for hopes and fears, which will soon be transmuted into gratification or regret. ROBERT Y. TYRRELL. EDWARD SULLIVAN. TRINITY COLLEGE, DUBLIN, October, 1906. CONTENTS PART I VERSE Scepticism The Old Parson and the New . Louise .... The Flight of the Muses Remember . Lady Clara in the South Cleopatra On Reading the Fragments of Early Greek Lyric Poetry . Nessun Maggior Dolore ! Never .... Ballad of Graf Brom . David and Michal Necropolis The Ballad of the Countess A Farewell After the Laureate Gay Provence The Death of Adonis . The Grave . . Clean out of Mind Emmeline Poems written in Discipleship . Long Deserted . Rosette . . Poems written in Discipleship . PAGE I 2 4 6 10 ii 13 16 16 17 20 20 21 23 2 4 24 26 28 29 31 32 34 36 37 Paradise Found . Rest .... To Bella .... Per Arnica Silentia Lunae Goldsmith Song of the Cynic Romaunt of the Myrtle . Epitaph . . , The Song of the Lines . Poems written in Discipleship . The Christian Martyr . Bells . . . . The Loves, Religions, and Whis- kers of Mr. Arthur Cecil Payne The Dying Warriors L' Amour qui passe Love and Death . The Voyage The Rime of Lord Rhadnor In the Lecture Room Cygnus Expirans The Vampire Among the Flowers From Heine A Reminiscence . PAGE 39 40 4i 42 43 45 45 47 47 49 53 54 56 60 62 63 64 66 69 70 73 74 75 77 CONTENTS Willie and Winnie . . Half Hours with the Classics . After Study . . - oyl-lOvnov Ifpwros &vOos . . The Idle Son . . - On Walt Whitman's " Leaves of Grass" . . . Vespers at St. Nicotine's Within Poetry and Commerce . . Vespers at St. Nicotine's Without Swift on Stella . . . A Fragment from the Agamem- non of Aeschylus . . vo,u.ov7 Trial Shots with an old Cross- Of Poesie . V 312 Bow .... 299 PART III LATIN RHYMES Euthanasia . . . 314 " The Second Collect for Peace " Mors Janua Vitae . . 315 (Greek) 320 Three Jolly Post-boys (Latin) . 316 The Bridge of Sighs (English Three Jolly Post-boys (Greek) . 317 and Latin) . 321 Dies Irae .... 318 In Praepositi Pavonem . 325 6a.va.ros dvirOdvaros . . 319 " The Second Collect for Peace " (Latin) . . . 320 LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS G. F. A. . GEORGE FRANCIS ARMSTRONG B. C. . . BRABAZON M. CASEMENT G. C. . GEOFFREY CLARKE S. K. C. . SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN J. A. C. . . JOHN A. CROSS M. C. . . MAX CULLINAN H. J. DE B. . HUBERT J. DE BURGH E. D. . . EDWARD DOWDEN J. S. D. . . J. S. DRENNAN D. F. . . . D. FREEMAN H. S. G. . HENRY S. GABBETT H. C. H. . . HENRY CHICHESTER HART J. E. H. . JOHN E. HEALY W. H. . . WILLIAM HEAZLE F. I. . . . FITZGERALD ISDELL H. T. J. . . H. T. JAMES G. H. J. . GEORGE H. JESSOP J. K. . . JOHN KIRBY LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS R. F. L. . R. F. LlTTLEDALE H. S. M. . . H. S. MACRAN T. M. . . THOMAS MAGUIRE J. E. M. . J. EWAN MARTIN J. M. . . JOHN MARTLEY A. C. M. . A. C. MEREDITH F. M. . . . F. MEREDYTH T. E. M. . . TOWNSEND E. MILLS C. P. M. . CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY G. N. . . . GEORGE NEWCOMEN S. O'G. . . STANDISH O'GRADY J. O. . . JOHN ORMSBY A. B. O. . A. BARRINGTON ORR P. ... ARTHUR PALMER P. S. P. . . PERCY S. PAYNE C. K. P. . . C. K. POOLER M. R. . . MAXWELL REILLY T. W. R. . . THOMAS W. H. ROLLESTON G. F. S. . . GEORGE F. SHAW L. E. S. . L. E. STEELE E. S. . . . SIR EDWARD SULLIVAN J. T. . . . JOHN TODHUNTER J. F. T. . . JOHN F. TOWNSEND T. ROBERT YELVERTON TYRRELL J. V. . . . JOHN VERSCHOYLE LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS W. THOMAS E. WEBB H. C. W. . . HARRY CRICHTON WEIR C. B. W. . . CECIL BROOKE WELLAND O. W. . . OSCAR WILDE W. C. K. W. . WILLIAM C. K. WILDE G. W. . . GEORGE WILKINS W. W. . . WILLIAM WILKINS F. W. . . FREEMAN WILLS W. G. W. W. G. WILLS PART I VERSE SCEPTICISM THEY change, they die ! We watch them day by day ; We see them go in wedding-robes and hearses, Uncaring what may fail or pass away, Until our clique of friends at last disperses. The curse of work and death, still unexpired, Clings to our mother-age in all her glory ; And it appears the Fates are not yet tired Of making human life the same old story. Else why do they who rule us as they will Still make the bad in every conflict winners ? Why do disease and debt and failure still Make us such very miserable sinners ? Alas ! all generous faiths are overtopp'd By selfish facts ; and I, a fond romancer, May question Fate until my mouth be stopp'd By churchyard dust Is this the only answer ? C. P. M. B I CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY THE OLD PARSON AND THE NEW (A LAY ADDRESSED TO DIVINITY STUDENTS) AN old song, somewhat alter'd to suit events of late, Of a fine old Pluralist Parson living at a bountiful rate, Who held three separate rectories, and swore by Church and State, And drank the glorious memory of Sixteen-eighty-eight, Like a fine old Parson of the old school, And an old-school Parson. With a fine old house located in a fashionable square, And an old church tumbling to decay, for which he didn't care, And a fine old chancel almost by the winds and rain laid bare, And a fine old peal of bells, which, save on Sunday, never rung for prayer, Like a fine old Parson of the old school, And an old-school Parson. With fine fashionable daughters, who could dance and sing and play, Though visiting the poor and sick was not much in their way, And a fine old pack of hounds, for which he made the parish pay, And a fine old Bible and Prayer-book, which he'd somehow sworn to obey, Like a fine old Parson of the old school, And an old-school Parson. 2 CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY Who, drinking too much fine old Port one day with Squire Jones, Died of delirium tremens, as all the parish owns ; And his successor announced his coming in a letter dated $Lanzn, n jre feast of 52 ranalati0n 0f %. j$impljer.0sa's bones, Like a fine young Parson of the new school, And a new-school Parson. Who at once gave up the Rectory house, and sold off all the hounds, And lived in a cottage (he call'd it ^e ^.bliaje) within the church's grounds, And among the poor and sick every morning went his rounds, And to repair the chancel subscribed a thousand pounds, Like a fine young Parson of the new school, And a new-school Parson. Who preach'd each Sunday morning in surplice, hood, and stole, And, working in the parish with all his heart and soul, He caught a fever at last, and died of it, so the whole Parish subscribed for an altar-tomb with please prajre for ire soul Of tljis fgne gottge fJarsomte at ire llefoe Jfofrool, Jlnir tfris jHetoe-sdjool IJarsotme. THE SEQUEL, IN WHICH THE PARSON OF THE NEW SCHOOL IS SUCCEEDED BY ANOTHER OF THAT ILK And to him succeeded one who work'd in quite a different way, And with candles copes and crosses made a wonderful display, And insisted upon double choral service every day, And preach'd such sermons as made most people curse instead of pray, Like a new young Priest of the Anglicans, And a new young Anglican Priest. 3 JOHN TODHUNTER Until to the Court of Arches they brought this erring ecclesiastic, Because they thought his prayers too long, and his piety too gymnastic, Where Sir J. F. Fust (as every one must) condemn'd his poses plastic^ And his reading of the Articles as entirely too elastic, Like a new young Priest of the Anglicans, And a new young Anglican Priest. Who to give up his living was order'd very soon, And then against his Archbishop cursed and swore like a dragoon, And who went to Rome on a pilgrimage with staff and sandal shoon, And at parting was greeted with words that refer to a Connaughtman and to a spoon, Like a new young Priest of the Anglicans, And a new young Anglican Priest. C. P. M. LOUISE (BY A MAGAZINE POET OF THE PERIOD) WAVERING lily-buds are fair In the spaces of the spring ; Comes a wealth of mellower air, Comes a tenderer whispering. Angels' molten glories these : Why not thou, Louise ! 4 JOHN TODHUNTER Crimson lily-flowers are glad In the glow of great-eyed June ; Nightingales divinely mad Flinging raptures to the moon. Hebe's ministers are these : Why not thou, Louise ! Orbed lily-fruits are rare In the autumn's cloistral shades, Ere the star-sown heavens are bare, Ere the verdurous twilight fades. Daedal panoplies are these : Why not thou, Louise ! Lisping lily-leaves are sad In the wintering woodlands frore ; Sombre skies austerely clad, White with waning more and more. Shudderings of Earth's harp are these ; Why not thou, Louise ! J. T. ARTHUR PALMER THE FLIGHT OF THE MUSES CAUSED BY AN ORDER OF THE BOARD OF T. C. D., October 31, 1868 LAST Monday early, cold the morn and chill, While Freshmen of their homes lay dreaming still, Ere honest Christy had his rounds begun, I issued forth to meet the morning sun. Long hath it been, long may it be, my use To court Apollo ere I court the Muse. I gain'd old Trinity's most ancient square, When, lo ! a sound of sighs oppress'd the air : My eyes I raised believe it, future years ! There stood a heavenly maid dissolved in tears A silver radiance from her raiment gleam'd A heavenly maid ! but sorely vex'd she seem'd. By rarest beauty, noblest majesty, I knew the sternest Muse, Melpomene : Her hair, more golden than the golden west, Rain'd on her shoulders and her heaving breast Her heaving breast, her eyes suffused with flame, The secret anguish of her soul proclaim : The vine wreath from her brows was rent away ; The club of Hercules rejected lay ; But in her hand oh strange to poets' rhymes ! 6 ARTHUR PALMER She held a copy of |JE Irislj Cintea. Full on the leading article she gazed, And, as she look'd, her eyes with fury blazed. But see ! more wondrous ! there appal my eyes Eight radiant figures hovering in the skies : The Aonian sisters ! they in slow, sad wheel Circle the summit of the Campanile : Not so quick swallows bid their nests good-bye In autumn, when September frosts they fly. Fain to be gone, unwilling yet to go, They seem to beckon her who sat below : " Fly, sister, fly, ere dawn the rosy hours Fly, and abandon these ungrateful towers." She heard, she rose ; but first her passion broke, And thus the Muse in choking accents spoke : " Farewell ungrateful, 'tis the Board's decree, Forgetful of my Person and of me ! Forgetful of the glory and the fame That I have shed around your once scorn'd name. With niggard hands their gifts the gods dispense ; They gave you genius, but denied you sense ; Genius that lifts you o'er the Nations far As from Orion is the Northern star ; In sense you are the rest as far below As is the Liffey from the shining Po. For now the sacred Board no more allows Greek* verse to grace the Scholar of the House. * Greek verse has since been reinstated in its pristine dignity at the Scholarship Examination. ARTHUR PALMER Oh for the days when yet no levelling cry Was echo'd from the halls of Trinity : Ere cried our statesmen, stuff'd with stale research, ' Down with Iambics and the Irish Church ! ' And Lowe, cold railer at Hellenic lore, Join'd deadly Gladstone, drunk with hellebore.* Gone is the test, the easy test that once Could separate the scholar from the dunce : Gone are the days, the golden days of men, When every parson could Iambics pen. Then Alma Mater welcomed with hurrah Her sober Grecians entering from Armagh : The mild Caesura dealt its genial laws And boors grew polish'd under Porson's pause. Base was the wretch, condemn'd to long disgrace, Who dared a spondee in the fourth foot place ; Then even the peasant boasted lines to scan, And learn'd to venerate himself as man. Soon rose the music of your whispers wild, And Hellas wonder'd at her western child : From reedy Cam I shook my wings and flew, And hoped to find a dearer home with you. But hear the sacred Board : ' 'Tis all my eye ; There lies no magic in senarii : A man may carry just as much weight with him Who never learn'd a foot of ancient rhythm.' Be it so then : the well-tried code discard, And sell your learning at so much per yard : * cf. "ebria ueratro." Persius. 8 ARTHUR PALMER Let cultivation yield to pelf, and then You'll make no men of taste, no gentlemen. Eager to profit by the grand reform, I see the noble counter-jumpers swarm : M.A.'s, like Beales, shall own your handiwork, But hope no more a Goldsmith or a Burke. And now farewell, to my own Greece I fly, Where tall Olympus mingles with the sky : Vainly I've wander'd through th' ungenial earth ; No land so dear as that which gave me birth. There my own Sophocles, begg'd from Pluto's reign, With BRADY, TYRRELL, and MAX CULLINANE, On meads of lotus and of asphodel With mighty Homer shall immortal dwell. No more pale candidates for Fellowship ; No more Dan Duncan waiting for a tip -, No giant Tyrant of the menial brood;* No stalwart Sizars rushing to their food ; But calm from Helicon we'll view below Green valleys, and the silver streams that flow : And thou, my servant, if thou faithful prove, And for the Muses keep thy zealous love, Thou too shalt join the band, to death denied, And live and sing for ever by my side." She ceased : for now the chapel bell's dire boom Broke, loudly clanging, through the morning gloom : Like mists which flee before the sun's bright face, The sacred sisters vanish'd into space. P. * lanitorum Principem Hingstonum sine dubio innuit poeta noster. 9 THOMAS E. WEBB REMEMBER (FROM DE MUSSET) REMEMBER, when the Morn in half-affright Opes the enchanted palace of the Sun ; Remember, when walks forth the pensive Night, In robe of silver, like some dreaming one ; At call of pleasure if thy bosom heave, When the shades waken some sweet thought of eve- Where woods wave to and fro, List to the murmur low Remember ! Remember, if the Fates in spite of tears For evermore shall leave us far apart, When grief, and exile, and the wasting years Have worn and wither'd this despairing heart ; Think of our passion, of our parting hour ! Absence and Time on Love have little power ; And, while my heart shall beat, Still, still it shall repeat Remember ! 10 MAXWELL REILLY Remember, when the chilly earth shall wrap My broken heart in everlasting sleep ; Remember, when upon its lonely lap A single flower shall ope and vigil keep. I shall not see thee more ; but still shall be My spirit faithful, and return to thee ; And in the midnight lone A mournful voice shall moan Remember ! W. LADY CLARA IN THE SOUTH LADY Clara Vere de Vere, You whom the Laureate makes attacks on,- If your papa were not a peer, If you were not an Anglo-Saxon, In short, if 'twere not too absurd To think of you where aught of trade is, I'd almost say, upon my word, I'm looking at you now in Cadiz. For, from the window of mine inn, At which I sit and smoke my Lopez, While Xeres from the inmost bin Beside me gleams like molten topaz, ii MAXWELL REILLY Down in the square court-yard below Alone undrowsed in noontide languor, 'Midst Gomez, Manuel, Filippo, I see your very Dofpel-ganger. The tinge, my lady, of your hair Is left unmentioned, but my guess is The fashionable colour fair; Hers is a wealth of blue-black tresses Down streaming with unstudied grace (Of course you wear yours in a chignon) In masses round her dark young face ; ( You 're old enough to call sixteen young). Her eyes are brown and yours are blue, With just a shade perhaps of greenness ; Her skin is somewhat dark of hue Yours is the tint of Gibson's Venus. Yet there she stands yourself again, In every thing except externals ; Your common game the hearts of men, From simple yeomen up to colonels. She's done with Manuel long ago, She's turned young Gomez round her finger, Then cast him off for Filippo ; And all while o'er my weed I linger. 12 JOHN KIRBY And now she makes great eyes at me (Such fickleness is my abhorrence), Just as you did ere seasons three The limes had bloom'd above poor Laurence. They scowl in vain, she takes no note, But looks straight on with calm correct eye ; You gazed on " that across his throat," As though 'twere some new style of necktie. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I don't believe femme souvcnt varie ; Your sex are all the same, I fear, From Timbuctoo to Tipperary. M. R. CLEOPATRA (HoR. OD. i. xxxvn) OH, now should the floor with free measure be trod Deck the temple from altar to portals With such feasts as the Salii spread for their god Now, now, should we greet the Immortals ! Ere this to bring out the old Caecuban wine From the cellars ancestral were blameful, While the Queen plann'd such woe for the Capitol's shrine, For the Empire extinction so shameful. 13 JOHN KIRBY With a herd of the vilest her triumph to share, All frenzied with Fortune and madden'd, There was nought but her spirit unbridled would dare, Nought untoward such spirit but gladden'd. But her fury abated, when scarcely a ship Escaped the hot breath of the burning ; And the rose faded out from her wine-tinted lip, To terror's own ashen hue turning. And from Italy seaward she flies in despair ; Swift Caesar in hot pursuit follows So the hawk on the dove so the hound on the hare Over Thessaly's snow-drifted hollows. Who feared not the sword, did she stoop to their chain ? By womanish dread was she humbled ? Did she seek an exile far over the main, Who smiled as her palaces crumbled ? No ! nor feared she the snake as a gallant to clasp ; All unmoved was the Ptolemies' daughter, While she wooed to the white of her bosom the asp, And death was the boon that he brought her. Ere it come, how the blood rushes back to her face, Once again how the proud spirit rallies ! Scarce the woman, I ween, as a captive to grace Their hated Liburnian galleys ! K. STANDISH O'GRADY ON READING THE FRAGMENTS OF EARLY GREEK LYRIC POETRY WE have all Tupper not one thunder-tone Hath ceased to bellow through the British sky, And ladies tell us that the great trombone Will sound again, and laughing fools defy ; But where are ye, whose broken harmony Makes discord shriek where music seem'd to flow, Clear stars of song, to whom our best can be Nought but loose clouds, that shift and toil below ; Handbreadths of wondrous streams, joyous and free, That leap and foam and flash, and have no peers, Bounded by darkness ; wafts of strange melody Heard in the loud wild night of wasteful years ? Ah, bleeding mouths ! ah, smitten tuneful lips ! He is the same who mightily lifts the sun Majestical, and blacks it with eclipse, And wastes the pleasant slopes of Helicon The law that bound the Israelites of old Slays you, the firstlings of Apollo's fold. S. O'G. JOHN TODHUNTER NESSUN MAGGIOR DOLORE! No greater grief! Is it then always grief Remembering happier times in times of sorrow ? Does one day of delight ne'er bring relief To the sick soul on a despairful morrow ? Past joys are a possession. Oft we borrow Strength for our present pain from out the brief Bright moments garner'd long in memory's sheaf : August's rich grains make glad December's furrow. Have mine eyes once with any wealth been blest Of coast, sea, sky, or heaven-suggesting face ; Mine ears drunk highest music when she sung Who was my life of life, whose gentle breast From the world's rush was my one resting place ; Blind, deaf, and old, I see, hear, still am young. J.T. NEVER (AFTER DE MUSSET) " NEVER," you said to me the other night, While the sad music fill'd the air with sighs ; " Never," you said, while in your own despite Love lit the azure sadness of your eyes. 16 W. G. WILLS " Never," you said again with accent low, And mournful smile, as smiles the marble, pale ; But the proud thought of what you might bestow Veil'd you with blushes, as a jealous veil. Oh, what a word, and what a world of woe ! I did not see the fair face all aglow, Or the pale smile when to my lips love rose ; Fair was the face, but than the soul less fair, On this I gazed, my love was centred there And yet I saw your heart close as a flower doth close. W. BALLAD OF GRAF BROM OLD Graf Brom is dying at last, He's alone in his room, and sinking fast ; And his shutter is push'd by the bluff night blast Howling oh wul lul lul lul lul lo ho ! ho ! Howling oh wul lul lul lul lul lo ! His lips are gluey, extremities cold, His nose is pinch'd, and the life-blood roll'd With a slow, dull beat, like a bell that is toll'd, With a dead wul lul lul lul lo ! 'Tis dismal to finish a life of sin With the night without, and the night within ; To buckle alone the last struggle, and grin With a sick wul lul lul lul lo ! c 17 W. G. WILLS Old Graf Brom was a scandalous rake, Women have done queer things for his sake ; 'Tis well that the dead can never awake, Shrieking oh wul lul lul lul lul lo, ho ! ho ! Shrieking oh wul lul lul lul lul lo ! Oh, woman, poor woman, by dozens undone, And the young love, the true love, the heart-broken one, Long dead, long sped, and pitied by none, Sobbing oh wul lul lul lul lul lo woe ! woe ! Sobbing oh wul lul lul lul lul lo ! Oh, hush ! oh, hark ! his ears can catch A fumble of hands on his hall-door latch ; His hair stood up in a grisly thatch, Who comes with this wul lul lul lo ! A smother'd din, a stirring of feet, That stumble upstairs with irregular beat, And murmurs resembling a gibber or bleat, Or a queer creepy wul lul lul lo ! Up they come with a step that lags, Hollow-eyed maidens and rickety hags ; The moss on their bones can be seen through the rags, Creaking oh wul lul lul lul lul lo ! The skeleton wantons come tottering in, All dead, all sped his pupils in sin, To witness their master's last struggle, and grin With a shivering wul lul lul lo ! 18 W. G. WILLS They chatter'd and wagg'd their chins like the dumb ; Skeleton babies were suckled by some, Or horribly dandled at old Dad Brom, With lullaby lul lul lul lo ho ! ho ! With lullaby lul lul lul lo ! Oh, woman, poor woman, by dozens beguiled, And the young love, the true love, the poor, poor child, Her yellow hair sullied, her hazel eye wild, Who died long ago, deserted defiled, Crooning oh wul lul lul lul lul lo, woe woe ! Crooning oh wul lul lul lul lul lo ! Rattle the shutters, and rattles his throat, His white beard heaves in gasps like a goat, While his tatterdemalions peer and gloat With a clamour of wul lul lul lo ! Old Graf Brom is dead at last, Alone in his bed, all stark and aghast ; And his shutter is bursten in by the blast, Roaring oh wul lul lul lul lul lo ho ! ho ! Roaring oh wul lul lul lul lul lo ! W. G. W. EDWARD DOWDEN DAVID AND MICHAL " BUT then you don't mean really what you say " To hear this from the sweetest little lips, O'er which each pretty word daintily trips Like small birds hopping down a garden way ; When I had given my soul full scope to play For once before her in the Orphic style, Caught from three several volumes of Carlyle And undivulged before that very day ! O young men of our earnest school, confess How it indeed is very tragical To find the feminine souls we would adore So full of sense, so versed in worldly lore, So deaf to the Eternal Silences, So unbelieving, so conventional. E. D. NECROPOLIS THROUGH the live-long summer days, Summer suns unwearied blaze Hot above the icy dead. Through the short fair nights for ever Steadfast stars, and stars that quiver, Gleam above the darkened head. 20 W. G. WILLS In the old year's troubled wane Shrieks the wind and sweeps the rain Round death's silent citadel. Through long nights of ebon skies Thick above the darkness lies ; Is it heaven ? Is it hell ? H. J. DE B. THE BALLAD OF THE COUNTESS THERE was an old Countess of gay report, Who was past her days for thinking Thinking ; In monstrous hoop she went to court, And round her the gallants in malice or sport Went sliding, ogling, and winking Winking. The mincing ladies pry'd and peer'd, But their envy was unavailing -Availing ; And spindle-legg'd old fops pry'd and peer'd, Put up their glasses, and wickedly leer'd, As down the room she went sailing Sailing. 21 W. G. WILLS Her cheek was full of smiling hate Through paint and patches wrinkling Wrinkling ; None was there with train so great, Her hair was a powder'd pillar of state, And her corset with jewels was twinkling Twinkling. Once this ancient lady's smile, Now in paint and patches throbbing Throbbing, Could simple men from their wives beguile, Win their devotion with mischievous wile, And leave the poor bride sobbing Sobbing. Under her corset's jewell'd mould The mortal dropsy is hiding Hiding ; Fears of death come clammy and cold, And visions of phantoms bloated and old Go winking, ogling, and sliding Sliding. Round this ancient lady's bed, When in hideous death she was sinking Sinking, The doctor who tended her till she was dead, 22 EDWARD DOWDEN A little dark man whose eyes glow'd red, Went sliding, ogling, and winking Winking. Ladies, beware of the Countess's fate, Yourselves on conquest priding Priding, For, when your charms are out of date, Butterfly joys no longer will wait, And the world you loved around you in hate Will go winking, ogling, and sliding Sliding. W. G. W. A FAREWELL YES, dearest, keep the locket, And keep the lock of hair, To smile at some day queerly, When neither has locks to spare : And keep the little letters, All the love that ever I wrote, They will make, if twisted neatly, Such excellent papillotes. E. D. 2 3 MAX CULLINAN AFTER THE LAUREATE ("FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED WALL, ETC.) TERRIER in my granny's hall, I whistle you out of my granny's ; Hold you here, tail and all, in my hand, Little terrier : but, if I could understand What you are, tail and all, and all in all, I should know what " black and tan " is. GAY PROVENCE PROVENCAL air, Provencal air, Blown soft by dale and sea, Who throws the throbbing bosom bare, And bathes himself in thee, Who feels thee faint on cheek and brows, Who quaffs thee through the lips, With love and light and music glows From foot to finger-tips : He lives a king, in court and hall, Mid wail of wildering lyres ; A priest by carven cloister wall, Or dim cathedral choirs ; 24 GEORGE FRANCIS ARMSTRONG A knight, with airy lance in rest, Who rides in lonely vale ; A page by queenly hand caress'd By gate or vineyard-pale ; He loiters in a golden light, Is led with dulcet lure, By ghostly town, by tower'd height, A tuneful troubadour ; He pines for soft imagined eyes, Where fictive fervour beams, And woos, with phantom tears and sighs, The lily dames of dreams. Provengal air, Provengal air, Blown soft by dale and sea, O subtle, playful spirit rare, O wanton witchery, Well, well I love that land of thine Grey peaks and scarped caves, And fields of olive, orange, vine, Blue bays and breaking waves. a F. A. 25 F. MEREDYTH THE DEATH OF ADONIS (LOOSELY RENDERED FROM THE GREEK OF BION) ON the green turf flooring the hills of chase Meet couch for jaded hunter lo ! is lying The young Adonis ; but that pallid face Droops not in slumber nay, alas ! he's dying ; Scarr'd by the wild boar's tusk his snowy limb Trembles with pain : and there in speechless anguish, Her fond eyes with a cloud of tears all dim, His Goddess love beholds her fair flower languish ; His breath too weak to dull the mirror's disc ; His faint pulse scarce responding to her fingers ; The blood for which her deity she'd risk More carmine than the sky where sunset lingers Welling away, and bearing with it life ; Beneath the lids, like violet cups dew-laden, Close heavily the orbs no longer rife With the bright ray that kindled many a maiden ; Blanch'd is the lip its bloom, as Autumn's rose Uncrimson'd, and its cluster'd kisses flying, Like Hybla's bees when Winter's herald blows, That stay no longer since the flower is dying. Distracted Cypris ! ah, how wildly now Dost thou the rapture of that lip remember, 26 F. MEREDYTH And on thine own would'st catch the wonted glow To light it up from the expiring ember. That pressure thrills him not ; he feels no more Her breath ambrosial, like the fire of Heaven By Titan pilfer'd, vivify his core, As if electric potency were given. Alas for Cytherea ! Earth has none Like him, Adonis, Beauty's best creation ; She clasps his mangled limb, now chill as stone, And thus laments her heart's dark desolation : " My lost Adonis ! rash and reckless boy ! Too deeply loved, too prematurely blighted, Has thus then closed my sudden dream of joy, Thus died the lamp of love thy smile had lighted ? Is this the last time that my soul shall drink Revival from thy presence, in such sorrow As he who by a desert fountain's brink Knows 'twill have fail'd before the dawning morrow ? In vain my folding arms may stay thee now, My kisses win thee from the way thou goest, The path to stern Aidoneus' realms below ; Ah ! me no more, mine earthly love, thou knowest. How impotent is my divinity, Albeit Gods and men own me their sovereign, I cannot rescue, not e'en follow thee ; Love's sway extends not where the Internals govern ! Could Eos grant the boon of deathlessness ? Art thou unworthier it than her Tithonus ? Is Aphrodite than Aurora less, 27 HENRY S. GABBETT And may not save from fate her loved Adonis ? Persephone ! my spirit's wedded one Receive where with the Lord of Shades thou dwellest, Since even me, the Queen of Beauty's throne, Victress of Ida, thou in power excellest. Lorn one ! to me Heaven's golden light dim seems ; Air's music hoarse ; wither'd Earth's scenes Elysian ; While from my widow'd heart Love's rapturous dreams And Joy's sweet trance fade like a fleeting vision." F. M. THE GRAVE (FROM THE GERMAN OF SALIS) THE Grave is deep and silent, Awful its brink and lone ; Tis deck'd with sable hangings, A land unknown. The nightingale's soft music Sounds not above its breast ; The flowers of friendship only There fall and rest. In vain are tears of anguish And wringings of the hand ; The orphan's wailings reach not That lonely land. 28 HUBERT J. DE BURGH Yet here alone abideth The long'd-for rest to come ; And through this gloomy portal Man sees his home. The poor heart, tost and wearied With many a storm before, Finds rest, when sinking silent It beats no more. H. S. G. CLEAN OUT OF MIND THERE were thriving tradesmen by Nilus' bank, 'Mid the people that worshipp'd Isis, Who pickled the dead of every rank At a varying scale of prices. So a man through his family vault might stroll With a little help from his pedigree roll, While the torch in the gloom burn'd dimly ; And there he might see the mother he'd loved, The wife he had cherish'd, the friend he had proved, His father fond, and his sister dear, And his first-born babe on its tiny bier, All staring out at him grimly. 29 HUBERT J. DE BURGH Reader, had you such a catacomb, How often, pray, would you leave your home To visit a dead relation ? How often now, if the question 's fair, Do you turn your steps to the churchyard there, Where your loved ones, lost in these last few years, Were laid to rest with blessings and tears, While the prayer and exhortation Were hurriedly read by the parson, who Had twenty such funerals more to go through As part of his day's vocation ? There are plenty of ways to preserve the dead : We may solder them up in sheets of lead, Wrap bushels of spice about them ; But, whether they last or whether they rot, 'Tis much the same, they are soon forgot, And the world gets along without them. So 'mid manly weeping and feminine shrieks Be this your comfort : ere many weeks Have pass'd o'er those who bemoan you, Your love and your friend, your kith and your kin, Will laugh and toil, will quarrel and sin, As though they had never known you ! H. J. DE B. CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY EMMELINE WHY sitt'st thou by the shore, Emmeline? Why sportest thou no more, Emmeline ? 'Mid those oozy-looking damsels just emerging from the brine, Thy blue eyes on the blue water why so sadly dost incline, Looking wistful And half tristful, Emmeline ? One summer morn like this, Emmeline, Thy heart beat close to his, Emmeline ! And I rather think he took the liberty to twine His arm just for one moment round that slender waist of thine ; Oh ! wasn't it imprudent For a penniless law-student, Emmeline ? He loves you the poor wretch ! Emmeline ; But there's many a better catch, Emmeline. EDWARD DOWDEN Cut him dead when next you meet him, burn his letters every line, And deserve the eligible match your dearest friends assign ; He is but a poor and true man, You a lady (not a woman), Emmeline. C. P. M. POEMS WRITTEN IN DISCIPLESHIP* OF THE SCHOOL OF TENNYSON SONGS I THE gloom of the sea-fronting cliffs Lay on the water, violet dark, The pennon drooped, the sail fell in, And slowly moved our bark. A golden day : the summer dream'd In heaven, and on the whispering sea, Within our hearts the summer dream'd ; It was pure bliss to be. Then rose the girls with bonnets loosed, And shining tresses lightly blown, Alice and Adela, and sang A song from Mendelssohn. * These poems are in no sense parodies, but intend to be affectionate studies or sketches in the manner of some of the masters of song. 3 2 EDWARD DOWDEN O sweet and sad, and wildly clear, Through summer air it sinks and swells, Sweet with a measureless desire, And sad with all farewells. ii Down beside the forest stream Went at eve my wife and I, And my heart, as in a dream, Heard the idle melody. " Pleasant is this voice," I said, " Sweet are all the gliding years " ; But she turn'd away her head " Wife, why fill your eyes with tears ? " " O the years are kind," said she, " Dearest heart, I love thee well ; But this voice brought back to me What I know not how to tell. " Here I came three springs ago ; Ah, my babe's sweet heart was gay ; Still the idle waters flow, And it seems but yesterday. " First that morn he walk'd alone, Laugh'd, and caught me by the knee ; Though I weep now, O my own, Thou art all the world to me." 33 CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY in (LATER MANNER) Rain, rain, and sunshine, Dash'd by winds together, All her flowers are toss'd and glad In the wild June weather. Which will she wear in her gown ? Drench'd rose and jessamine blossom ; I must stoop if I would smell Their freshness at her bosom. E. D. LONG DESERTED YON old house in moonlight sleeping, Once it held a lady fair ; Long ago she left it weeping, Still the old house standeth there That old pauper house unmeet for the pleasant village street. With its eyeless window sockets, And its courts all grass-o'ergrown, And the weeds above its doorway Where the flowers are carved in stone, And its chimneys lank and high like gaunt tombstones on the sky. 34 CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY Ruin'd, past all care and trouble, Like the heir of some old race Whose past glories but redouble Present ruin and disgrace, For whom none are left that bear hope or sorrow anywhere. Lost old house ! and I was happy 'Neath thy shade one summer night, When on one that walk'd beside me Gazed I by the lingering light, In the depths of her dark eyes searching for my destinies. There within our quiet garden Fell that last of happy eves, Through the gold of the laburnum And the thickening lilac leaves ; There the winter winds are now sighing round each leafless bough. Haunted house ! and do they whisper That the wintry moon-rays show, Glancing through thy halls, a ghastly Phantasy of long ago, And thy windows shining bright with a spectral gala light ? Vain and idle superstition ! Thee no spectral rays illume ; But one shape of gentlest beauty I can conjure from thy gloom, In whose sad eyes I can see ghosts that haunt my memory. C. P. M. 35 JOHN F. TOWNSEND ROSETTE (FROM BERANGER) WHAT, heedless of your springtide gay, You speak to me of tender fears To me ! whose youth is giving way Beneath the weight of forty years. Love once could make my bosom glow 'Twould kindle for a poor grisette ! Ah ! would that I could love you now As, long ago, I loved Rosette ! In glittering equipage, each day You shine among the brilliant throng ; Rosette, all smiling, fresh and gay, Tripp'd lightsomely on foot along. How flash'd on her each daring eye My jealous pains I think of yet ; I cannot love you tenderly As, long ago, I loved Rosette ! To your boudoir, with satin deck'd, In rich attire as on you pass, The mirror'd walls your smiles reflect ; Rosette had one poor looking-glass ! No curtains fenced her pallet low, Morn's rosy blush her glances met ; Alas ! I cannot love you now As, long ago, I loved Rosette ! 36 JOHN TODHUNTER Your wit is bright, and many a youth Deems lyric compliments your meed ; I do not blush to tell the truth My poor Rosette could scarcely read ! But, though her tongue was rather slow, Love could her words interpret yet ; Alas ! I cannot love you now As, long ago, I loved Rosette ! She had not charms like yours, in truth, Her heart less tender was, perchance ; A lover's pains she could not soothe With such a fascinating glance. What spell enslaved me, will you know ? 'Twas youth, which vainly I regret ; Ah ! would that I could love you now As, long ago, I loved Rosette ! J. F. T. POEMS WRITTEN IN DISCIPLESH I P* OF THE SCHOOL OF WILLIAM BLAKE PARADISE LOST IN the woodlands wild I was once a child, Singing, free from care, Wandering everywhere. * These poems are in no sense parodies, but intend to be affectionate studies or sketches in the manner of some of the masters of song. 37 JOHN TODHUNTER Angels went and came, Like spires of blissful flame All among the flowers, Fed with virgin showers, Angels went and came Call'd me by my name. But a Serpent crept On me as I slept ; Stung me on the eyes, Woke with sick surprise. And a Demon came With a face of shame ; Spoke my sudden doom, Naked in the gloom. Then a dreadful sound Peal'd through heaven's^profound ; All my lonesome places Were fill'd with dreadful faces ; Everywhere a face Full of my disgrace. JOHN TODHUNTER PARADISE FOUND Naked, in despair, Ashes on my hair, Menace everywhere, I fled from pallid Care : Weak as lamb new yean'd, Follow'd by the Fiend, With his whip of wires Red with my desires. Soon a Sage drew near, Clad my stripes in fear ; Bade me weep and wait, At a temple gate. But a Maiden came With tender hands of flame, And by secret ways She led me, many days. In the woodlands wild, Now no more a child ; Among seraphs bright I clothe my limbs in light. Where the children sleep, Like a snake I creep ; Kiss them on the face For their greater grace. J. T. 39 PERCY S. PAYNE REST SILENCE sleeping on a waste of ocean Sun down westward traileth a red streak One white sea-bird, poised with scarce a motion, Challenges the stillness with a shriek ; Challenges the stillness, upward wheeling Where some rocky peak containeth her rude nest ; For the shadows o'er the waters they come stealing, And they whisper to the silence, " There is Rest." Down where the broad Zambesi River Glides away into some shadowy lagoon, Lies the antelope, and hears the leaflets quiver, Shaken by the sultry breath of noon ; Hears the sluggish water ripple in its flowing ; Feels the atmosphere, with fragrance all-opprest ; Dreams his dreams, and the sweetest is the knowing That above him, and around him, there is Rest. Centuries have faded into shadow : Earth is fertile with the dust of man's decay ; Pilgrims all they were to some bright El-dorado, But they wearied, and they fainted, by the way. Some were sicken 'd with the surfeiture of pleasure ; Some were bow'd beneath a care-encumber'd breast ; But they all trod in turn Life's stately measure, And all paused betimes to wonder, " Is there Rest ?" 40 D. FREEMAN Look, O man ! to the limitless Hereafter, When thy Sense shall be lifted from its dust, When thy Anguish shall be melted into Laughter, When thy Love shall be sever'd from its Lust. Then thy spirit shall be sanctified with seeing The Ultimate dim Thule of the Blest, And the passion-haunted fever of thy being Shall be drifted in a Universe of Rest. P. S. P. TO BELLA (AFTER ALFRED DE MUSSET) BELLA, when you've said " Good-night "- When eve is at its closing Kneeling by the dim lamp's light, Half praying and half dozing When your dainty white alcove You've fearfully peep'd under, What is it then, my little love, You think about, I wonder ! Does jealousy your breast assail ? Do loving thoughts within burn ? Perhaps they're of the Holy Grail, Or naughty Mr. Swinburne. WILLIAM C. K. WILDE Perhaps your fancy runs on dress Diaphanous of tissue Or chignon versus curling tress May be the point at issue. Perhaps you think of " that new waltz " Of girlish confidences Of bonbons husbands Hetty's faults Your pocket's dire expenses. Perhaps of some neglected call Perhaps of winter clothing Of bouquets of your next week's ball Of me perhaps of nothing ! D. F. PER AMIGA SILENTIA LUNAE (FROM VICTOR HUGO) THE pale moon glitters on the flowing waves ; Each riplet, bright with laughing silver, glistens ; The Fairest of the Harem sits, and listens, While the sea murmurs to the isles it laves. Sudden falls from her fingers the guitar, With loosen'd chords, no longer music waking What sound was that, the midnight silence breaking With a dull, heavy echo from afar ? 42 ROBERT H. MARTLEY Some Turkish bark from Greece her burden brings With straining oar : perchance some cormorant splashes The argent waters o'er the waves he dashes, Tossing the spray, like pearl-drops, from his wings. Was that a sea-bird's scream ? Or awful moan Of some fell Djinn, who shakes these lofty towers ? Or far-off thunder from yon cloud that lowers In the dim distance ? Or a falling stone ? No Turkish bark from sunny Greece is come, No cormorant breaks the silence of the hour, Nor cry of bird, nor demon from the tower Hurls down our turrets Heaven itself is dumb. A stifled sob a choking cry to save ! A heavy sack falls quivering in the water ; The sound was murder. " Nay, the Sultan bought her." Still the moon glitters o'er the silv'ry wave. W. C. K. W. GOLDSMITH (HIS STATUE WAS ERECTED IN FRONT OF TRINITY COLLEGE IN 1863) AYE, in the forefront of the very spot Where was his trial let his triumph be ; The roof that shelter'd him, but gave him not What most his great heart pined for sympathy. There let the image of the poet stand Just tribute of his long-ungrateful land. 43 ROBERT H. MARTLEY The genial mother, recking not the time When at her haughty feet the lowly youth, Whose poverty was only not a crime, Gather'd the scanty fallen crumbs of truth Now with his worth, his genius, all confess'd, Will wear him, like a jewel, on her breast. Ye cramp'd and cloister'd pedants of the Schools, Who strove, Procrustes-like, to clip each mind By your own strait traditionary rules, Behold the genius that ye ne'er divined, Now, by the verdict of the nations known In prouder rolls of glory than your own. And couldst thou thus receive, ungrateful land Oh, lasting shame ! oh, burning deep disgrace ! The loftiest boon of Heaven's indulgent hand, A poet, sprung amidst thy favour'd race And leave him friendless and unloved to roam, To seek the fame he could not find at home ? How long shall Erin be the nurse of song, While stranger hands confer the well-won bay ? Oh, burst the fetters that have bound thee long, My native land, and haste to wipe away The shame that all thy exiled sons impute, Who find " their place of birth alone is mute." R. H. M. 44 JOHN TODHUNTER SONG OF THE CYNIC WHEN I am told there's some one born, According to my rules, " Tis well," I say, " here's one fool more To plague the other fools." And when I'm told there's some one dead, My comfort I express, According to my custom, thus : " Thank heaven ! one fool less." W. F. ROMAUNT OF THE MYRTLE NEVER was song stranger than mine All of a falcon that flew thro' the brine, All of a falcon that flew o'er the sea To the dim Islands of Twilight, where be Groves of pale myrtle where wander and wait, Hovering and hoping, before Heaven's gate, The ghosts of sad lovers ! There wait and wander, frail meteors of fire, Spirits Death-snatch'd in their morn of desire, Their April of passion when lips at his kiss Freeze, ere the heart be made perfect thro' bliss To pass the glad portals. There came the falcon that flew o'er the sea To the wan white bosom of Eulalie. 45 JOHN TODHUNTER Never was song stranger than mine All of a dove that flew back thro' the brine, All of a dove that flew back o'er the sea With a pale myrtle-spray from the wan Eulalie, To Mainz in the Rhineland ! In Mainz was high^feasting, and Berthold was there ; And Frauenlob chanted the praise of the fair, And eyes grew more bright, cheeks more beauteous, and wine Foam'd fresh to their lips in great flagons ashine ; And the king's heart was merry, the courtiers were clad In robes of rejoicing ; but Berthold was sad For the loss of his falcon. To him came the dove that flew back o'er the sea, With that pale sweet token from Eulalie. Never was song sweeter than mine All of this dove that flew back thro' the brine, To Berthold mute-brooding and wroth for their glee With the flower of love-longing from wan Eulalie, Sweet, sweet with her sighing ! Sweet with her sighing and pale with her kiss What glimpse of forgotten deep by-ways of bliss Grew clear to his vision what fragrance of dreams, What nightingale music by weird-flowing streams Made mystic each sense what wild glamour bid start The passionate fountains long-dead in his heart, Till he fainted for yearning ! And the king dropp'd his beaker, the minstrel let fall His ghittern the music died harshly and all 46 CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY Was tumult men rose, women shriek'd, and 'twas said By knots of scared whisperers " Berthold is dead ! " In Mainz in the Rhineland. But Berthold was speeding far far o'er the sea To the warm breast of his own Eulalie ! J.T. EPITAPH ON AN "AIR WITH VARIATIONS" SPARE, Execution ! spare thy Victim's bones, Composed by Mozart decomposed by Jones. J. M. THE SONG OF THE LINES WITH Gradus dirty and worn, With heavy and weary eyes, A Freshman sat who had written an ode For the last Vice-Chancellor's prize. Wait, wait, wait, 'Mid Grinders, Lectures, and fines, And thus on a lyre of dolorous chord He sang the Song of the Lines. 47 CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY Wait, wait, wait, When the bell is ringing aloof, And wait, wait, wait, When we leave our Grinder's roof; And it's oh to be a Jib In the Godless College of Cork, Where never Vice-Chancellor gives a prize, If this be Christian's work. Oh, Fellows with pupils dear, Oh, Fellows with nephews and sons, It is not paper you're tearing up, But a Senior Freshman's Duns ; For the Duns are growing rude, Because of the Bills I owe, Madden and Roe, Kinsley and Jude, Jude and Kinsley and Roe. Wait, wait, wait, Till term after term fulfils ; And wait, wait, wait, As minors wait for wills. Week after week in vain We've looked at the College gate, For how many days ? I would hardly fear " To speak of Ninety-Eight." * * Dr. Ingram was then one of the examiners. 48 JOHN TODHUNTER With Gradus dirty and worn, With heavy and weary eyes, A Freshman sat who had written an ode For the last Vice-Chancellor's prize. Wait, wait, wait, 'Mid Grinders, Lectures, and fines, And thus on a lyre of dolorous chord, (Would that its tones could reach the Board,) He sang the Song of the Lines. C. P. M. POEMS WRITTEN IN DISCIPLESHI P* OF THE SCHOOL OF WALT WHITMAN A PROEM I AM come he you was inquiring for a moment ago. Did anyone tell you I was well and hearty, and without disease ? I say to you I am on the contrary full of diseases a lazar I confess to you I have but just now risen from a sick bed : (But I am not for that reason to be shunted as of no account in the world. * These poems are in no sense parodies, but intend to be affectionate studies or sketches in the manner of some of the masters of song. E 49 JOHN TODHUNTER I am serene, self-reliant, robust able to do a job of work with any man To wrestle for the prizes of life with any man, To love or hate with any man. I tell you that I can love a true man with an intense and personal love And that every man is a true man ; That I can hate a liar with an intense and personal hatred, And that every man is a liar.) n Hymning the great in the little I come, and hymning the little in the great I come ; Hymning chaos, the cosmos, discords, harmonies the Identity of Opposites : For I am myself the Panharmonic man the Identity of all possible Opposites The poet of men and women, the poet of man, the poet of the herma- phrodite monad of intelligence. There is no spot of this universe, or of your consciousness where I have not been, and where I dare not be again. (Though I confess there are some spots where I had rather not be again.) in Was my grandfather an ouran-outan ? Was my grandmother a gorilla ? What then ? I claim to be the Adam of a new universe the beasts come to me to be named. 5 JOHN TODHUNTER IV Who told you I should write nothing but epics ? I write also dramas, lyrics, sonnets, operas, canzones, novels, narrative poems, xenien ; I do not disdain puns or pleasantries ; I make my market of all. What is this cant about prose ? I distinctly assert that there is no such thing as prose. What is this cant about music, about poetry ? I positively aver that I hear music and poetry wherever I go In the hubbub of streets a Beethoven symphony, in the clamour of machinery a Tannhauser overture, In the chaffer of men and chatter of women a Wagner opera. O mother sublime ! O womb of the Panharmonic race ! America ! O omnipresent idea ! ubiquitous reality ! (For now I perceive her presence, unchangeable, unescapeable, For now I perceive here in Ireland America, and that Ireland is herself America.) O there are possibilities, eventualities, futurities, climaxes, crises, termini ! O still for you there are chants triumphal, For you prophetic a psalm, O Mater Dolorosa, O Erin ! JOHN TODHUNTER VI Ages upon ages ! O all divine ! O all necessary ! I see the procession of Humanity ! I hear Bacchic marches, I hear Orphic songs ! I assert will, sympathy, passion, independence, interdependence, Onrushings, vortices, cataclysms, the spiral snakelike advance, through aeons interminable. The song of love the mingling of divine personalities, through cycles interminable, The song of war the birthing of atomic wills, through cycles intermin- able, The song of brotherhood the shoulder to shoulder unity of self-reliant aggression, through cycles interminable. VII Sublime passion of death, O august solitudes of death, O aloneness of gradual dying ! O shock of sudden changes, abrupt, dreadful, delirious, O rendering up of the self ! Beautiful rapture of life modulations, rhapsodies, Seeds, wills, embryos, universes tidal sap of Vallisneria cells, and tidal fluxes of the stars. Now I know that life is only a resurrection, now I know that resurrec- tion is only progress. O to sail for ever on the unknown seas of God to voyage for ever ! for ever to become, through dim eternities elapsing, Cosmic mysteries evolving, perfect volition achieving ! 1 trust myself to you. O ages, to you, O non-existent divine potentialities Of happiness, blissfulness, life-fulness the serene something beyond ! J.T. 52 BARRINGTON ORR THE CHRISTIAN MARTYR (A GENTLEMAN, BEING CONSIGNED TO THE POLICE FOR CHANTING IN CHURCH, GAVE HIS NAME AS ERNEST AUGUSTUS JAMES FITZROY) His voice was husky, his face was dusky, For a shocking cold he had got, poor boy, And, chaunting faintly, there knelt the saintly Ernest Augustus James Fitzroy. He heeded not beadle, nor Mr. Liddel, Nor yet the notice upon the door, Where, as they express'd it, it was requested That the service here be intoned no more. Oh, grim churchwarden, say, did no chord in Your bosom thrill, did no twinge annoy Of remorse's needle, when you sent the beadle To Ernest Augustus James Fitzroy. Good heavens ! a beadle too gruff to wheedle, Who scowling, growling, " Now then, old boy, You know you can't in this church be chantin' " Poor Ernest Augustus James Fitzroy ! For fault so venial did pamper'd menial Approach with triumph and fiendish joy, And from the portal eject the immortal Ernest Augustus James Fitzroy ? 53 TOWNSEND E. MILLS Oh, slavish minions of weak opinions, He's only twenty, that high-soul'd boy ! But, like a true brick, he stood by the rubric, Did Ernest Augustus James Fitzroy ! B. O. BELLS HIGH go up and low go down, To ring the bells of Dublin town ; Read your Divinity Says the big bell of Trinity ; Never think it a bore, man, Says the bell of Grangegorman ; Read as little as you can, Says the bell of St. Anne ; Don't read it at all, Says the bell of St. Paul Portal's " Manual " does tickle us, Say the bells of St. Nicholas ; Its doctrines are Laudian, Says the bell of St. Audoen ; They are what I believe in, Says the bell of St. Stephen ; The new rubrics are done, Says the bell of St. John ; The worst ever man drew, Says the bell of St. Andrew. 54 TOWNSEND E. MILLS Seen that book by the Duke ? * Says the bell of St Luke ; The style is not strikin', Says the bell of St. Michan ; I think it's mere blatherin', Says the bell of St. Katherine ; You shouldn't be rude, Says the bell of St. Jude ; It was written for a lark, Says the bell of St. Mark ; You should take a more solemn view, Says the bell of Bartholomew. For the Church who'll provide ? Says the bell of St. Bride ; I wish Bass would " treat " her, Says the bell of St. Peter ; Will the laymen disgorge ? Says the bell of St. George ; You must ask Dr. Reichel, Says the bell of St. Michael ; The subscribers are chary, Says the bell of St. Mary; We've many a promise, Says the bell of St. Thomas ; A long list of names, Says the bell of St. James ; From China to Cherburg, Says the bell of St. Werburgh ; Christian Theology and Modern Scepticism. By the Duke of Somerset. 55 CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY We're not left in the lurch, Say the bells of Christ Church ; Our " Bass " taught Roe that trick, Say the bells of St. Patrick ; JTve got no Bass darn a Bass, Says the bell of St. Barnabas. T. E. M. THE LOVES, RELIGIONS AND WHISKERS OF MR. ARTHUR CECIL PAYNE (AFTER CLARENCE MANGAN) " I WAS not born to lounge about, an antipogonoirophist," Said the beardless Mr. Arthur Cecil Payne. " I was not born to stay at home, an antipogonotrophist, With a beard or an imperial On feast-day, fast, or ferial, Methinks I should look anything but plain," Said this Mr. Arthur Cecil, Said this beardless Mr. Arthur Cecil Payne. So, at once he off to London set, and read the Chaetotechnicon, Did this whiskerless young Arthur Cecil Payne, And bought the Kallotrophic oil, as bade the Chaetotechnicon ; Using half a bottle daily, He, through all the season gaily, 56 CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY Waited, getting up his whiskers into train, Did this Mr. Arthur Cecil, Rich and fashionable Arthur Cecil Payne. Now it came to pass one day, he heard the Rev. Mr. Purchas preach, Did this Low-Church Mr. Arthur Cecil Payne ; Providentially it came to pass, he heard this Mr. Purchas preach, Where St. Mary Magdalene, Spite of Gumming and Daubigne, There in London has her chapel built again, There walked in this Arthur Cecil, There sat down this Mr. Arthur Cecil Payne. And from many creeds and councils did he prove to him most lucidly, To the listening Mr. Arthur Cecil Payne, And from Liturgies and homilies, demonstrated most lucidly, That if ever any particles Of Truth were in " the articles," They are not what Low-Church Protestants maintain ; This he proved to Arthur Cecil, Proved to shut up Mr. Arthur Cecil Payne. And there before the screen, in front of Rood and Antependium, Knelt enraptured Mr. Arthur Cecil Payne, Where the gold corona lucis lay before the Antependium, And the Eleemosynarium Hung up in the Sacrarium, Underneath the oriel window's tinted pane, There knelt down this Arthur Cecil, Knelt the Ritualistic Arthur Payne. 57 CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY " Oh !" said he," oh, the young lady that can work me such an altar-cloth, Work for me, young Mr. Arthur Cecil Payne, Such a mass of hearts and lilies, stars and crosses, for an altar-cloth, Her, whatever lady knows to Work me this, will I propose to For all others, their flirtations will be vain, With me, Mr. Arthur Cecil, Rich and eligible Arthur Cecil Payne." So, upon some Dublin friends he called to ask about the altar-cloth, To be worked for Mr. Arthur Cecil Payne, " What / consent, a Protestant, to working Popish altar-cloths ! " Said Papa, " Well now I'm cuss'd if I'd," Said Mamma, " By faith we're justified, And to trust to our own righteousness is vain, Lost, but rich young Arthur Cecil ! Unregenerate Mr. Arthur Cecil Payne ! " But the daughter of this lady, when she read the letter sent to her, All on vellum signed by Arthur Cecil Payne, When she read this medieval, Gothic letter that he sent to her, Said, "An altar-cloth ! I never ! Goodness gracious ! Did you ever ! Why the young man must be really insane]! Mad is Mr. Arthur Cecil, Idiotic Mr. Arthur Cecil Payne ! " So the story reached at last the ear of pious sister Agatha, Did this whim of Mr. Arthur Cecil Payne ; And she worked for him an altar-cloth, herself, did sister Agatha, All on silk from Hardman's ordered, And with silver crosses bordered, 58 CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY And she sent it up to Dublin, by the train, Labelled, " Mr. Arthur Cecil, Glass, with care, Mr. Arthur Cecil Payne." And straight he called a four-wheeler and drove away to visit her, Did this love-sick Mr. Arthur Cecil Payne ; In a gorgeous coat from Buckmaster's he walked upstairs to visit her, And upon his knees before her, Was commencing to implore her, That she evermore would condescend to reign In the heart of Arthur Cecil, In the constant heart of Arthur Cecil Payne. Said she, " Oh goodness gracious ! Did you ever hear such sacrilege, Bold and earthly Mr. Arthur Cecil Payne, If another of Miss Sellon's nuns will listen to such sacrilege, Her you then perhaps may marry, But for me I may not tarry, But must hasten back to Devonport again, Far away from Arthur Cecil, Sacrilegious Mr. Arthur Cecil Payne." So, changed at last by grief to stone, upon the Church at Sandymount, As a gargoyle stands this Arthur Cecil Payne ! Miraculously there he stands transmogrified at Sandymount, And to all the Irish nation Of the evils of flirtation, A sad monument will evermore remain, Metamorphosed Arthur Cecil, Petrified young Mr. Arthur Cecil Payne. C. P. M. 59 H. T. JAMES. THE DYING WARRIORS (TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND) THE furious Danes had forced the Swedish host To the wild, stormy coast ; The chariots clash, and lifted falchions gleam In the moon's silver beam : Two dying warriors on the battle plain, Father and comely son, lie stretch'd among the slain. SON. Alas ! oh Sire, that Fate should summon me So young, by stern decree ; Ah ! never more may mother deck my hair, Making it passing fair ; My minstrel maiden, skill'd in many a lay, Perchance from yonder height awaits me from the fray. FATHER. They will lament and see our forms at night In dreamland's misty light : Be thou consoled, for soon pain's bitter dart Will pierce thy faithful heart. Thy bright-hair'd maiden, radiant in her love, Shall reach to thee the cup in Odin's hall above. SON. I've left unharp'd a glorious song of mine, Attuned to notes divine, 60 H. T. JAMES. Of kings and heroes of a bygone age, Of love and battle's rage : Ah, longings vain ! when passing breezes blow, Thrills through the lonely harp a plaintive sound of woe. FATHER. The sacred courts of Odin glitter bright Aloft in cloudless night : Wander the stars beneath for evermore, And storms with distant roar. Repose we there, our mighty sires among, There, in Valhalla's bliss, complete thy noble song. SON. Ah ! father mine, that Fate should summon me So young, by harsh decree ! My shield as yet bears no emblazon'd name Of deeds deserving fame. The judges twelve shall deem thy son unfit Amongst their awful ranks in solemn state to sit. FATHER. One splendid deed may well a host outshine, It shall be so with thine : To die a hero at thy country's call Is noblest deed of all. Uplift thine eyes, behold ! the foemen fly, There is our destined home where gleams yon friendly sky ! H. T. J. 61 CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY L'AMOUR QUI PASSE STRAY waifs of perfume yesterday With art-made scent recall'd the prime Of spring, and her long years away Who loved me well when she had time ! And I look'd back through Life's career, Sad-thoughted to that long-ago, The worn out almanac of the year, When we two loved each other so. Once more as in the days gone by, I see your little garret room, So near to heaven I mean the sky So sweet with poison in perfume ! Once more the ballet hour prolong, Half drown'd, like Clarence, in champagne, In which your voice through many a song, To dip her drooping wings was fain ! Fair feet that trod that cul de sac I Where have ye wander'd, in what ways ? Bright eyes ! through tears have you look'd back Upon those careless thriftless days, And you and I ! what tempts us still ? Are we of those wild ways still fain ? The love that went at the winds' will The youth that comes not back again. 62 BRABAZON CASEMENT Light Love of wasted youth ! adieu, Vain blossom of the days that were In Life's closed page best hid from view And yet the poor dead flower was fair. No summer can with bloom endow Those press'd and faded petals more, And dreams alone can sometimes now That old Lost Paradise restore. C. P. M. LOVE AND DEATH SWEET youth and love in sparkling wine Fill'd life's fair chalice to the brim ; And oh ! the cup was wondrous fine With figured fancies round the rim. I raised it high in haste to quaff The brilliant liquor flowing free : Behind there shrill'd a grisly laugh, For Death was come to drink with me. I wrestled with his bony hand : His hated breath blew love away, And youth fell wither'd on the sand, Before we closed the weary fray. No more in foamy circles high The liquor sparkles to the brim : The cup is to the bottom dry : All rased the figures on the rim. 63 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN And now methinks you will have read The meaning of this uncouth rime ; How she that was my love is dead, And I am old before my time. B. C. THE VOYAGE (AFTER TENNYSON) WE hired a ship : we heaved a shout : We turn'd her head toward the sea ; We laugh'd and scull'd, and baled her out, We scream'd, and whistled loud for glee : We scull'd, we scream'd, we laugh'd, we sang, Beneath the merry stars of June : Went flute tu-tu, and banjo bang : We meant to sail into the moon ! Far off a boatman hail'd us high : " My boat is named the Bonny Bess ; Old Jack will charge you more than I, For I will charge you sixpence less. My boat is strong, and swift, and taut, But Jack's she is not worth a cuss." We held his terms in scorn, for what Was sixpence, or a crown, to us ? 64 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN We bang'd ; we baled ; we scull'd ; we scream'd The water gain'd upon us fast. We look'd upon the moon : she seem'd As far as when we saw her last. We look'd : no terror did we show ; We did not care a button, we ; We knew the good ship could not go Beyond the bottom of the sea. But one at best he was a lout The same, we guess, was short of chink- Exclaimed in terror, " Let me out, I am quite sure the ship will sink. The leak is quickly gaining height ; 'Twill soon be half-way up the mast." And through the hatch that starry night We let him out, and on we pass'd. Slight skiffs aslant the starboard slipp'd, And jet-black coal-boats, stoled in state, And slender shallops, silvern-tipp'd, And other craft, both small and great. But we nor changed to skiff or barge, Or slender shallop, silvern-peak'd ; We knew no vessel, small or large, Was built by mortal hands, but leak'd. HENRY CHICHESTER HART Beyond the blank horizon burn'd ; The moon had slid below the main ; About the bows we sharply turn'd, And scull'd the good ship home again. Before us gleam'd the hazy dawn ; We scull'd, but ere we shock'd the lea, And paid old Jack, the ship had gone Down to the bottom of the sea. Above the wreck the sad sea breaks, And many a pitying moonlight streams ; And o'er the yeasty waterflakes The snow-white seagull, sliding, screams. If any goods be wash'd ashore, Or cash if any cash be found To us, and not to Jack restore : But then you cannot ; we were drown'd. S. K. C. THE RIME OF LORD RHADNOR " WHAT ho ! ye churls, is there any here That can tell me whither my course to steer ? Room and rest and rustic cheer Are a weary huntsman's want. Tired am I, and in need of food ; My starving hunter has well-nigh chew'd His bridle through. By the Holy Rood, Yours is a homeless haunt ! 66 HENRY CHICHESTER HART " And a woeful welcome this is yours. Do ye live like the heathcock upon the moors ? Well will I guerdon you, stupid boors, An ye'll tell me where I may lie." But the Lord of Rhadnor craved in vain, Room nor goodwill might he hope to gain. He cursed the churls in his high disdain, And they answer'd him mockingly. He had ridden since first he heard " Hunt's up," Ridden in chase since his stirrup cup, Ridden without or bite or sup, Ridden he knew not where. Lost were his friends and lost his way, And he rode for where a steeple lay, Hoping for rest at close of day, Hoping for food and fare. Oft he sounded his cheering horn No answer he got save Echo's scorn ; And he cursed the stag, and he cursed the morn, That had left him in the lurch. An angry, reckless wight was he, Little he laid by sanctity. Straightway he rode as straight might be To the good Saint Avan's church. Never a moment's time he lost, His godless forehead he never cross'd, Cared not he, nor counted the cost, But he forced him through the porch. 6? HENRY CHICHESTER HART He settled himself and his horse to rest Aneath the cross by the good saint bless'd. Never an orison he address'd To the saints that watch us below. But or ever his thoughts might let him be, Borne on the wind all fitfully, Gladder than gladdest minstrelsy, Might he hear both loud and low The notes of his pack, that in musical time Came to him droppingly, clear as the chime Of Saint Avan's bell, and his heart rang rime, And his voice a hale halloo ! On they came to his well-known call, Ringwood, Silver, Lady, and all, And the church was turn'd to a hunting-hall Ere the dawn began to peep. Reckless he was, and fain would see That himself and his dogs might shelter'd be Albeit so sacrilegiously ; And he settled himself to sleep. Saint Avan look'd down from his saintly bliss To the Cambrian shrine of his holiness. Saint Avan he blench'd and started, I wis, And the crown of his glory shook " Was it for this I kept in bounds Passion and pleasure, bore these wounds Was it to stable horses and hounds In my church ? By the Holy Book, 68 EDWARD DOWDEN " A curse shall light on that evil lord : He shall see no more, he shall speak no word, Deaf and blind for this deed abhorr'd Be he and his cursed pack ! " Lord Rhadnor awoke, but all was dark ; He open'd his lips for Halloo and Hark, But they came not no, nor ever a spark Of light all still and black. And there was an end of Lord Rhadnor's sport His days were evil, his course was short. Huntsmen, I pray you, wind a mort In pity of his fate, And bide your time ere ye make a stable Or kennel of church, and as long as you're able Remember the pith of this doleful fable, Nor hunt till it be too late. H. C. H. IN THE LECTURE ROOM OUR doctor lectured divinely ; We felt our bosoms kindle As we thought there really might be A God in spite of Tyndall. Outside the leaves were tossing, The clouds raced over the blue, The lark was in his heaven, And God was there I knew. E. D. 69 JOHN A. CROSS CYGNUS EXPIRANS " Parendum est, cedendum est, Claudenda vitae scena, Est iacta sors, me vocat mors Haec hora est postrema, Valete res, valete spes, Sic fmit cantilena." (For the rest of this poem see Trench's Sacred Latin Poetry, p, 285, 3rd Ed.) DEATH calls away, I must obey, I yield to fate unbending, The lot is cast, Death 's here at last, Time to its close is tending. Farewell to wealth, farewell to health, And so the song is ending. O glorious sun, run, swiftly run, Your course to mortals cheering ; Enough your ray has lit my way, And now it's disappearing ; Now wanes the light 'neath brooding night, My barque the port is nearing. O silver moon, to fail so soon, O golden constellations, O dim-lit star, whose eye from far Peers at the earthly nations, When I am gone, you'll still shine on For future generations. 70 JOHN A. CROSS Well, who need sigh to say " good-bye " To a world that's all deceiving, Its joys so mad, their end so sad, Its wicked ways, and thieving, Its smiles and tears, its constant fears ? I leave it without grieving. The marble dome that crowns my home, Far o'er the landscape showing, Its pictured walls, and ample halls With gold and ivory glowing, I leave them all for the narrow hall Where Death and I are going. The festive throng, the roistering song, No joy to me are bringing, O Priests that raise the hymn of praise, I cannot mind your singing, So loud and near, one song I hear, That the sexton's bell is ringing. The butler's hoard, the furnish'd board, The feast where joy reposes, The torches' light, the garlands bright, The winecup crown'd with roses, But cause me pain, since I must drain The cup that Death proposes. The rich perfumes may scent my rooms, Their costly odours weeping, JOHN A. CROSS My purples bright ne'er see the light, For rust and moth they're keeping. Tis little I'll care in the churchyard there, With the worms about me creeping. At|Fortune's frown come tumbling down High name and fair possession, Small grief to me who soon must see Th' Eternal Judge's session ; Life's pageantry is passing me Like a harlequin's procession. O friends so fond, all friends beyond, Whose like earth shall see never, Soon, this world's great Arch-potentate Our partnership must sever. We meet no more our jokes are o'er, Farewell, at last, for ever. Farewell to you, my body, too, Your rest you're longing after, You shared with me life's pageantry, Its weeping, and its laughter. What yet may be, we soon shall see Of good or ill hereafter. J. A. C. 72 ROBERT H. MARTLEY THE VAMPIRE IT is true ! It is true ! It is true ! I have seen the horrible thing ; Its lips are red, and its eyes are blue And oh how its fingers cling ! I had heard of it times and again, And I thought it an idle tale ; But I tell you it's true, I have felt the pain, Or why should I look so pale ? It fix'd itself over my heart, I had not the power to shrink, It seem'd to search for the tenderest part, To draw off its terrible drink. Night, as the poets sing, Is the time for quiet and rest, But who could sleep with the horrible thing, The Vampire, over his breast ? But the worst of it all was this, That now and then, as it quaff'd, It raised its head from its deadly kiss, And it laugh'd the creature laugh'd. 73 JOHN MARTLEY For here the stories have err'd ; It has not the wings of a bat ; It has not the beak nor the claws of a bird ; It's a hundred times worse than that. Its skin was smooth and fair, And its lips, though steep'd in gore, Were like some lips I know, and I swear I had seen those eyes before. But whatever the creature be, The fearfulest, crudest part Is this, that it fixes its eyes on me, And smiles, as it drains my heart. I hope that death will bring The comfort of quiet rest, But who could sleep with the horrible thing, The Vampire, over his breast ? R. H. M. AMONG THE FLOWERS SHE took my flowers with simple grace, And then I breath'd the truth she knew \ No flush, the while, was on her face ; I ceased, and she was silent, too. At length she speaks, with heaving breast, Of duty owed to adverse powers ; She hints at feelings long suppress'd, And hides her face among the flowers. 74 JOHN TODHUNTER Blest garland ! fleeting years have sped ; Your bliss is past ; your bloom is o'er ; Fades, too, this cheek, this bosom dead, These lips that sue and sigh no more ; Lives, lives relentless Fate alone ; Still Hope is born in leafy bowers, But when the blushing buds have blown, Still finds her grave among the flowers. J. M. FROM HEINE NIGHT lay upon mine eyelids, Upon my mouth lay lead ; With heart and brain stark-frozen I lay in my graveyard bed. I cannot say what ages That sleep to my senses clave ; I woke at last and listen'd One knock'd upon my grave. " Wilt thou not rise, my Heinrich, Now breaks eternal day ; The dead have all arisen, Joy dawneth to last for aye ? " " My Love, yet rise I cannot, For blind, still blind am I : Mine eyes through constant weeping Are quenched utterly." 75 JOHN TODHUNTER " I'll kiss thee, O my Heinrich, The night from out thine eyes ; Thou shalt behold the angels And splendour of Paradise." " My Love, yet rise I cannot, It bleeds, still bleeds, deep-gored My heart, where thou didst stab me With one sharp-pointed word." " I'll lay so light, my Heinrich, My hand upon thy heart ; Twill bleed no more for ever, And heal'd will be all its smart." " My Love, yet rise I cannot, My head bleeds also see Where, through and through I shot it When I was robb'd of thee." " With my own locks, my Heinrich, That wound will I stanch full fain, And back will I press the blood-stream, Thy head to make whole again." So soft it pleaded, so tender, The will to resist was gone ; I strove to upheave my gravestone, And go to this Dearest One. 76 WILLIAM WILKINS Then out my wounds burst newly, Then furiously outbrake From head and breast the blood-stream, And lo ! I am awake. J. T. A REMINISCENCE KISSING wan olive into red rose Black earrings, black eyes, and white white teeth Flashing about like pearls and sloes, As you laughed and struggled my lips beneath Little slim body so clear and fine, And little weak hands held fast by mine Little bright face as keen as wine, Do you remember ? I shall till death. Kissing wan olive into red rose, Like April flushing at once to June Kisses commencing on kisses' close, And laughter on laughter abounding boon. You play'd me a trick by the garden ferry ; But paid me a forfeit sweet and merry, One sunny morning last January Have you forgotten, my dear, so soon ? W. W. 77 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN WILLIE AND WINNIE (AN IDYLL) BY chandler Chawkins at the shop abode Willie and Winnie. Willie was a man, And she a woman ; and the moon was full. Now Willie loved this woman, heart and soul From chignon to shoe-leather, and full fain Had wedded Winnie ; but the girl, because She had so often seen him in the shop, Thought not of Willie. Then there came a day, When Willie called her sire, and said : " O sire, A fourpence and a groat are near akin, But love is nearer to your daughter's heart, Being her whole sole fortune. Listen to me. I love your daughter Winnie. I do think (For I have watch'd her close these many days), That she loves me a little in return. Therefore, an so you grant us leave to wed, And look upon mine asking favourably, We two might live together as one life, In bonds of holiest love until we die. You look astonish'd, Sire : you dream me fool, Ass, idiot, goose ; but such is not the fact. Goose, idiot, ass ? Here on my bended knees, And in the presence of these empty chairs, Kissing my thumb, I swear that it is true." 78 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN The like-suspecting Chawkins smiled, and replied : " Well-spoken, 'sdeath : a right-well-suited match." Then suddenly remembering that a price Jumpt at, on the first offer, makes a ware Appear less goodly in the buyer's eye, Drew back his chair, eyed him askance, and so Head-haughty, in mock-grandeur, answer'd sharply : " My daughter, and with you, sir ; you, sir ; you ; You and my daughter, Winnie ? what a match, Preposterous (for he meant to practise on him), Base, scandalous." For many a year before, While yet an early-rising April sun Shot through the shatter'd shutters of the room, Javelling the folded dusk with spikes of fire, Suddenly from a deep dream Chawkins awoke. Well-nigh at first the light had blazed him blind, But that he closed his eyes ; but afterward Rising, he drew his night-cap down, and so All in the mellow middle of the room, Stood in his long night-shirt, meditating. Then, when his thought was thought, and he had stood Stock-still in his sock-soles for half-an-hour, Musing, he turn'd, doffed cap, shut eyes, crept close, Raised thumb, press'd spring, and softly with all care Sunder'd the shutters, and let in the day. Then down he sat, and up he rose, and jerk'd The red bell-rope that blush'd against the wall. The bell rang. " Hark ! " said Mary, " my lord calls." 79 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN It rang again. "The master 's in a hurry." Down came the rope. Up sprang the dame, and dinn'd Loud at the door. But Chawkins questioning her, And roughly shouting, " Menial, is it thee?" (He never was a scholar), and again, " What kept thee, girl ? " amazed her, and she had Scarce any breath to answer, and yet gasp'd Falteringly, " Me, lord : what is thy will ? " And Chawkins could have wept for pity of her. For harsh in tongue was he, but tender in heart, And well he knew, or ought to know, the dame, Being but human, was not inerrorable ; Moreover, too, he held the dame so dear, That ill to her was ill to him ; yea, more ; Before his life was link'd in love with hers Who now proclaim'd him husband, all his heart Went after her with longing ; for the dame Had served him well for half-a-hundred years, And oft, of old, while yet his youth was young, Had dandled him a baby in her arms. Then softly adding : " Mary, is it thee ? " And, " Is it thee, O Mary ? " and again, "O Mary, is it thee?" he raised the latch, And gently told the dame to tell the boots To tell the pantry-boy to tell the cook That the calf's head, which she had heated twice, Or thrice, who knows ? or may be three times thrice, And served her lord at luncheon and at tea, Not ever should be heated any more. 80 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN " For an she serve it to her lord again, And strive (for cooks are creatures of a month) With her calf's head to break my appetite, By heavens ! " said Chawkins, " I shall break her head." * He ended in a passion, and jump'd into bed again. And in those days he bought a pair of dogs Caesar and Pompey each so like to each, That not one single man in the whole world Could tell the difference. And he made a song, And sang it : strangely could he make and sing. Like is my Caesar, so they say, they say : But Pompey is as like him any day : I know not which is liker, he or him. He, art thou like ? Then liker him must be : He, thou art liker : like is him to he : He, him, if him were liker, he were him. Two eyes has each, and they possess two tails : Neither is feminine, for both are males : Neither can climb a tree, and both can swim. Well-bred is each, for I am sure of that : And his nose is like him's, for both are flat : And both are fleet of feet, and lithe of limb. * Cf. Last Tournamtnt: " Save for that broken music in thy brains, Sir fool," said Tristram, " I should break thy head." G 8l SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN Well-train'd is he ; I never use a switch ; But him is train'd as well : but tell me, which Did we refer the " he " to ; which the " him ? " The " he " of course refers, but nay, I'm wrong : The " him " I quite forget now ; but as long As him and he are happy, what's the odds ? So, on that later morn, When William call'd her sire, and said, " O sire, A fourpence and a groat are near akin, But love is nearer to your daughter's heart, Being her whole sole fortune," in his chair Chawkins (for still the ruth was working in him), Slow-stiffening, spoke : " Young men, whose funds are low, Should be content to wed with lowly maids. Since you would wed my daughter, state your means Aye, state your means, since you would wed my child," And ever like a burthen, " state your means." To whom the other : " Means, sire : said you means ? Means, said you ? Truth, and I shall tell thee true. If what you mean by means be wealth alone, And only wealth is to be rated so, Mean were your daughter, then, to wed with me, Not wedding with your wish : seeing a child In every thing at every time in every way Should work her parent's will, and bear it thro'. And you were meanest man of meanest men, An you were mean enough to ask it of her. 82 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN But if by means you mean that wealth of mind (Mind, if you mean ; but if you do not mean But all is jest and joke among ourselves It doth not maim a tittle of the fact,) That wealth of mind, I say, that makes a man Lord over all of lesser mind than he, Then are there none but few wealthier than I. For wealth is power. And I have power to see (Altho* I see her never but seldom now,) The exquisite beauty of your innocent child, Which never man on earth had power to see, Else, surely she had wedded years ago, Whereto her age bears witness. But if means Be wealth of money, and not wealth of mind, Then wealth of mind and money are the same. For as the mind directs the hand to work (I speak of manual labour) so the hand Without the mind has power to work no more, Or work without an aim. Therefore, O sire, An so your daughter's fortune fled my hands, And the wolf howl'd and prowl'd about our door, I could apply my mind to practical use, Like soul with body, working to one end, To win the golden goal of love and life, Beyond all riches. But if means be money, Myself am not unmean'd ; for my good father, (For dead-in-life to word and work is he, Nor knows, nor sees, nor feels, nor smells, nor hears,) Hath will'd me in his latest testimony 83 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN Full sixty shares in some Peruvian mines, And half-a-league of hills of steel and brass In his broad lands beyond the narrow seas, Under deep mortgage. Such, sire, are my means, Since you would have me state them ; which, I trow, Stated, will please you, as I trow they must, Seeing in whatsoever sense you take them, Well-mean'd am I, yet not one-third so mean As you yourself are mean to think me mean." Then answer'd Chawkins, reddening as in wrath : " I like your little verbal paradoxes, Told in quaint Saxon, with a quibble in it. For jest is good, when jest is seasonable; But surely jest is not in season now, When I and you, in cash and calmness, here Prate for my daughter's fate. Let be your brains, Let be too long already ; since, I vow, When you have need to use them, like a wheel Worn with long rust, you find them, past repair, Used by disuse. I rate your chance with her At nothing. Let me tell thee now a tale. "All in the almond-avenues of Ind, And orange-bearing orchards of the East, There grinn'd upon a certain ash an ape, Kimbo by name ; Kimbo, of the blue face, And man-like features : soon there slip'd a swain Frank-eyed and fleet of feet and lithe of limb With breadth of solid shoulder, like a man, 84 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN Athwart the forest : and the man was mad. At length he rested under an oak-tree, Desiring to be fed on certain nuts That grew beside the tree where Kimbo grinn'd. Then, with nor eye upraised, nor sleeve tuck'd up, But headlong in his youth's impetuousness, He kneel'd upon both knees, and with hot hands Clutch'd a huge crag, and labouring to his feet Face-flush'd and forehead-sinew'd, high on head Whirl'd and re-whirl'd, and with a swing of the arm Hurl'd it among the branches of the ash. The ape well nigh for fright leap'd from its skin, But the huge crag, whirl'd with full force of youth, Plunging and surging like a mighty wave Among the autumn'd crispness of the leaves, And scraggy-scrabby branches of the ash Crash'd : and the ape grew deathly-pale for fear. Beneath its sway boughs splinter'd and twigs smash'd, Flame shot and thunder stammer'd. Thus it plunged, Till now the crag its force of fury spent, Firm between two boughs, wedged like a vice, stuck. But Blobs (for so the swain was named by name, His mother's choice,) when he beheld the crag Hang, like an empty purpose, in mid-heaven, And thinking maybe that the nuts were green, Or he was green, or maybe both were green, Or partly green, or nothing green at all, Rough-reddening in true anger, dash'd himself Flat down on the damp earth, and cried a cry. 85 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN Then, when his cry was cried, and both eyes wiped, Raising his head soon after, he was ware How in an ash beside him grinn'd an ape. Whom, as he thought, not as he ought, the swain Approaching, hail'd : till nearing, flail-in-hand, And grinning at him grinning tail-in-jaw, The rude boy-urchin question'd Jackanapes : ' Come down, O Ape, from yonder ashen height, And, an ye can, into this other tree Scaling, gather me nuts.' But Jackanapes Being right-heavily wroth at the swain's words, And ruffled at the boy's imperiousness, Brisk'd up his back, and clutching tail in teeth, And circling round and round, and whirl'd in an arch, Even on the branch for which he sprang the spring, Low from the bough, jib-jabbering, swung by the tail. Then softly stealing, as a thief that steals Who feels the breath of beagles at his back, The ape kept close, and clasp'd the crag, and out From its firm wedge pull'd it with pain, and back Crouch'd on a crisp ash-branch, cogitating : Then rathe he rose, and gliding, crag in paw, (The rude youth stood beneath, a rood or less,) With a jerk of his jaw out of the ash Plopp'd the huge crag upon him, and squash'd him dead. So died the bumptious boy that aped at nuts. What think you of my story ? Is it fact, Or fable truth or falsehood ? answer." Then That other : " Fact, sire Chawkins : true enow ; 86 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN But vaster-better manners it had been If Kimbo had not thrown the stone at all, But gather'd him the nuts, and given them to him." So Chawkins told, and William sold, his tale, And he perceiving how his tale had turn'd All back like his ape's tail in his own teeth, And thinking, " Fool, belike and like enow I have spoil'd my catch in being overfine To catch my spoil," grasping both hands in his, Allow'd his former asking formally, And kiss'd him for his daughter on both cheeks, (Who, hearing her own name, had slipp'd away,) And call'd him his poor boy, his motherless child, His man of men, his pet, his best of sons, His noblest suitor, and most practicable, Truest and most obedient ; and again Clasp'd, kiss'd him, hugg'd : hugg'd, kiss'd, and clasp'd again ; And left him, clasping, all his daughter's love, And more ; but what was more than any love He left not, cash : for neither he nor she For whom he clasp'd, had any cash to leave, And pass'd away. Then William, like a man Who all life long hath long'd for something sweet, And sickens, never found, but being found, Sickens, till one could die for mention of it, And hearing likewise from a friend in town How that fair mill's credit was breathed upon, Writhed from his grasp, and gasping thro' clench'd teeth 87 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN " Fool tho' I am you call'd me fool I am Not all so neat or so complete a fool As you believe me," turn'd, and went his way, Nor saw before him lying in the way, A peel of orange, random-thrown ; till now, Planting his left foot on it carelessly, The heel of his boot slipp'd on the peel, his head Descended, and his skull was cleft in twain. But Chawkins' life was ended differently ; For he but that was afterwards for so The shackles of an old love straiten'd him, Accepted a free passage to the East. And he that knew a man, that knew the maid, Says that Miss Chawkins married Alfred Smith ; But he, that should know better, says John Brown. Whether this be the Brown that lived in Bath, Or he that scamps among the Scottish hills, I never learnt ; but this I know for truth : It is not he of martial name and fame, The number of whose knapsack no man knows, But whose dead corpse lies mouldering in the grave. S. K. C. 88 HUBERT J. DE BURGH HALF HOURS WITH THE CLASSICS (BY A YOUNG LADY WHO HAS BEEN READING "CLASSICS FOR ENGLISH READERS") AH ! those hours when bygone sages Led our thoughts through Learning's ways, When the wit of sunnier ages Call'd once more to earth the days When rang through Athens' vine-hung lanes Thy ribald laugh, Aristophanes ! Pensive through the land of Lotus Saunter'd we by Nilus' side ; Garrulous old Herodotus Still our Mentor still our guide, Prating of the mystic bliss Of Isis and of Osiris. All the learn'd ones trooped before us, All the wise of Hellas' land, Down from mythic Pythagoras To the hemlock-drinker grand ; Dark the hour that closed the gates Of gloomy Dis on thee, Socrates ! 89 HUBERT J. DE BURGH Ah ! those hours of tend'rest study, When Electra's poet told Of Love's cheek, once warm and ruddy, Pale with grief, with death-chill cold ;- Sobbing low, like summer tides, Flow thy verses, Euripides ! High our hearts beat when Cicero Shook the Capitolian dome. How we shudder'd, watching Nero, Mid the glare of blazing Rome ; How those records still affright us, On thy gloomy page, Tacitus ! Back to youth I seem to glide, as I recall those bygone scenes, When we conn'd o'er Thucydides, Or recited Demosthenes. L'ENVOI (Ancient sages ! pardon these Somewhat doubtful quantities /) H. J. 4 DE B. 90 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN AFTER STUDY FOUR men, in a place of note, Read all a great man wrote. The first man rose, and said : " This is Greek which I have read." One made this memo : " Nearly sound : Treat this man well : he will come round." The second man of the four men cried : " This great man's thoughts and mine coincide." One call'd for paper, and wrote thus : " Number two strait jacket dangerous." The third man of the four men sigh'd : " I can't understand it I have tried." One wrote thus : " Harmless : let him alone : If he ask for bread, give him a stone." The fourth of the four men answer'd bland : " I've glanced through it : there's nothing to understand." The surgeon to the keeper turn'd about : " This man is quite sane. Let him out." S. K; C. 91 OSCAR WILDE AHSI6YMON EPOTOS AN602 (THE ROSE OF LOVE, AND WITH A ROSE'S THORNS) MY limbs are wasted with a flame, My feet are sore with travelling, For calling on my lady's name My lips have now forgot to sing. O Linnet in the wild-rose brake ! Strain for my love thy melody ; O Lark ! sing louder for love's sake, Now my fair lady passeth by. O almond-flowers ! bend adown Until ye reach her drooping head ; O twining branches ! weave a crown Of apple-blossoms white and red. She is too fair for any man To see and hold his heart's delight ; Fairer than queen or courtesan, Or moon-lit water in the night. Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves, (Green leaves upon her golden hair), Green grasses through the yellow sheaves Of autumn corn are not more fair. 92 OSCAR WILDE Her little lips, more made to kiss Than to cry bitterly for pain, Are tremulous as brook-water is, Or roses after evening rain. As a pomegranate cut in twain Her open lips and amorous mouth, Her cheeks are as the fading stain Where the peach reddens at the south. Her breasts are as white melilote Blushing for pleasure of the sun ; The throbbing of the linnet's throat Is not so fair to look upon. O twining hands ! O delicate Fair body made for love and pain ; O House of love ! O desolate White lily, overdrench'd with rain ! God can bring Winter unto May, And change the sky to flame and blue, Or summer corn to gold from grey : One thing alone He cannot do. He cannot change my love to hate, Or make thy face less fair to see, Though now He knocketh at the gate With life and death for you and me. 93 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN II A ring of gold and a milk-white dove Are goodly gifts for thee, And a hempen rope for your own love To hangen upon a tree. For you a house of ivory, (Roses are white in the rose-bower,) A narrow bed for me to lie, (White, O white, is the hemlock flower.) Myrtle and jessamine for you, (O the red rose is fair to see,) For me the cypress and the rue, (Fairest of all is rosemary.) For you three lovers of your hand, (Green grass where a man lies dead,) For me three paces on the sand, (Plant lilies at my head.) O. W. THE IDLE SON " AN' were you at schule, my son, the day ? Would God you were haif as guid as yer brither ! " " O mither, I heerd the parson say That God thinks yane as guid as anither, And I'm his brither." 94 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN " An' are ye baith in the selfsame class ? Or is he in yane, and you in anither? " " O mither, d'ye think yer son's an ass ? We're baith in the selfsame class, my mither, Me and my brither." " But maybe yer brither's yane end of it, son, An' ye, you idle loon, are the ither ? " "O mither, but maybe it's me that yane, An' Jock, my eldest brither, the ither, O dear mither." " But maybe yer end of it's called the fut, While the top, my son, 's the name of the ither ? " " Call it the top, or call it the fut, It does nae alter the place, dear mither, Of me and my brither." " But how do you count, my son, at yer ends ? Don't you count least, and the highest yer brither ? " " O mither, that ailtogither depends On the end ye begin to reckon frae, whither From me or my brither." " An' did the maister scould ye the day, And heap all the praise on yer elder brither ? " " O mither, he did nae scold me the day, But praised me as much as he praised my brither, O dear mither ! " 95 THOMAS W. H. ROLLESTON " An' have ye learnt the lessons he set My sons to learn, baith ye and yer brither?" " O mither, we've learnt the lessons he set Yer sons to learn. I shud think sae, rither, O dear mither ! " " Then let me hear my guid sons say The lessons he set, baith ye and yer brither." " O mither, he set us nae lessons the day, For baith o' us mitch'd frae the schule, my mither, Me and my brither." S. K. C. ON WALT WHITMAN'S "LEAVES OF GRASS" BRING her no crowns of jewell'd gold Such the Republic may not wear Nor summer flowers whose leaves unfold Rich fragrance to the languid air ! But thou hast woven a coronal More meet to deck her brows than all That ever rested there ; Thy wreath of grass is fitter far Than fairest flowers or jewels are. Yet who should offer prayer and praise Or who adore her more than thou ? For lo ! the meed of lyric bays Her hand has bound upon thy brow ! 96 THOMAS W. H. ROLLESTON 'Twas she alone whose name inspired, Whose love fulfill'd, whose glory fired The songs that teach us now How beautiful beyond compare Is she whose word is written there ! Songs for the whole wide earth are thine, Limitless as the clear sunlight : What bridal hymns of love divine ! What converse with the mystic night ! What tempests of the woods and seas ! In passions mightier than these What wild and fierce delight, When through the throng'd exulting street Thunder'd the tramp of soldiers' feet ! And thou hast tears to shed for one Whose death has darken'd like a pall The promise of the peaceful sun When he had led the states through all The night of four distracted years. But thoughts of triumph more than tears Are thine when heroes fall, Like lightning-flashes that illume The fathomless darkness of the tomb. For is not Death's eternal rest Of all the gifts of human life The latest and the loveliest ? Is love with fuller bliss more rife ? 97 THOMAS W. H. ROLLESTON Nay then, for love and death are one, And when these angry days are done With checks and fears and strife, Love looks to death with hope and prayer To find her consummation there. And she, the mistress of thy song, The hope and love of many lands, Has heard the cry go up c How long ? ' For ages past, and still she stands As fair and fearless as of old, With eyes expectant, that behold The years slip by like sands, Yet all their lapse has left no trace Of ruin on that peerless face. And must she wait for ever there ? No, for thy songs hope for a day When she shall rise victorious To purge the earth, and shall not stay Till all the brood of doubts and fears That barr'd her path so many years Be wholly cast away Before her face, beyond recall, And supreme love be all in all. T. W. H. R. 98 OSCAR WILDE 6PHNOIAIA (Eur. Hec., 444-4^3) Song sung by captive women of Troy on the sea beach at Aulis, while the Achaeans were there stormbound through the wrath of dishonoured Achilles, and waiting for a fair wind to bring them home. STPO$H O FAIR wind blowing from the sea ! Who through the dark and mist dost guide The ships that on the billows ride, Unto what land, ah, misery ! Shall I be borne, across what stormy wave, Or to whose house a purchased slave ? O sea-wind blowing fair and fast ! Is it unto the Dorian strand, Or to those far and fabled shores, Where great Apidanus outpours His streams upon the fertile land, Or shall I tread the Phthian sand, Borne by the swift breath of the blast ? ANTIZTPOfrH O blowing wind ! you bring my sorrow near, For surely borne with splashing of the oar, And hidden in some galley-prison drear I shall be led unto that distant shore 99 OSCAR WILDE Where the tall palm-tree first took root, and made, With clustering laurel leaves, a pleasant shade For Leto when with travail great she bore A god and goddess in Love's bitter fight, Her body's anguish, and her soul's delight. It may be in Delos, Encircled of seas, I shall sing with some maids From the Cyclades, Of Artemis goddess And queen and maiden, Sing of the gold In her hair heavy laden. Sing of her hunting, Her arrows and bow, And in singing find solace From weeping and woe. STPO*H B Or it may be my bitter doom To stand a handmaid at the loom, In distant Athens of supreme renown ; And weave some wondrous tapestry, Or work in bright embroidery Upon the crocus-flower'd robe and saffron-colour'd gown, The flying horses wrought in gold, The silver chariot onward roll'd 100 OSCAR WILDE That bears Athena through the Town ; Or the warring giants that strove to climb From earth to heaven to reign as kings, And Zeus the conquering son of Time Borne on the hurricane's eagle wings ; And the lightning flame and the bolts that fell From the risen cloud at the god's behest, And hurl'd the rebels to darkness of hell, To a sleep without slumber or waking or rest. ANTISTPOSH B Alas ! our children's sorrow, and their pain In slavery. Alas ! our warrior sires nobly slain For liberty. Alas ! our country's glory, and the name Of Troy's fair town ; By the lances and the fighting and the flame Tall Troy is down. I shall pass with my soul overladen, To a land far away and unseen, For Asia is slave and handmaiden, Europe is Mistress and Queen. Without love, or love's holiest treasure, I shall pass unto Hades abhorr'd, To the grave as my chamber of pleasure, To death as my Lover and Lord. O. W. 101 JOHN MARTLEY VESPERS AT ST. NICOTINE'S WITHIN I CAN'T remember what I thought At eighteen years of age Of life or fate, of poets' lay, Or grave historians' page. My early love, I know full well, Was beautiful and kind, But how she look'd, or what she said, I scarce can call to mind. I can't remember why I flung My golden prime away, Or why the thing I meant to do Was shirk'd from day to day. I've suffer'd, oh ! a thousand times, From New Year to December, But very few of all my woes Thank heaven ! I now remember. I know not to what sleeve I pinn'd My faith at twenty-three ; Locke, Moses, Buckle, Pascal, Mill, Have had their turns with me. Journals I've kept, which now to read Somehow I never care, They're either lost, or stow'd away, I can't remember where. 102 JOHN MARTLEY One cries " I'm not the man I was," When sickness wears the frame. But can man truly, while he lives, Change all except in name ? In this Identity of Self Does memory weave the chain ? Then why with thoughtful prayers bring back Dead sins to life again ? Perchance the fault 's in gazing back ; A nobler spirit sways, When through the mists of crime and grief We look for better days. Hope whispers " Self-regard must merge In love of class and clan, The Moral System 's but a grand Trades Union, wide as Man. " All types are embryos that may thrive Or perish. Who can say If Good be aught but what must win O'er Evil in the fray ? Yield to kind impulse while you're young, And when you've got gray hairs, Turn to Walt Whitman for your hymns, And Darwin for your prayers." 103 JOHN MARTLEY Alas ! I seem a maudlin rake; But, ladies ! frown not so. Even if your pastors only guess, What do our "thinkers " know ? One day I'll quit the Search for Truth, And own like any " spoon " Some memories, I would not yield For all beneath the moon. Fadeless, beyond the scenes that fade, Our childhood's hues remain, Bright as those tints of early Art, We toil for now in vain Far mountains glimmering with the sheen Of torrents white as snow, Fresh founts of darkening floods that roll Resistless far below ! Oh ! who can tell how much we err When Reason is our god ? Her voice still wavers, as when first On faith and love she trod. Time mars the tell-tale face. Does he The soul's fine curve destroy ? Thus Truth may quit the wrinkled man, To woo the blooming boy. J. M. 104 JOHN MARTLEY POETRY AND COMMERCE MY blood runs cold when I compose A poem for the press : I am too season'd now to stop : I wish to heaven that verse was prose, Or rhymes were less. I have a brother in a shop : And I could wish all rhymes to be Slew'd, crude and good, into the Zuyder Zee. S. K. C. VESPERS AT ST. NICOTINE'S WITHOUT YE winds of Autumn wailing With anguish unavailing, There's a plaintiveness unfailing In your sigh ; There is doubt in your complaining, There is questioning and straining At some mystery remaining Undiscover'd yet on high, Ye are clamorous for gaining A reply. JOHN MARTLEY Ye stars above us thronging With keen eyes, whose hungry longing Idle centuries are wronging As they fly ; In the patience of your glaring Silent all, yet undespairing, There's a listening, a preparing For some revelation nigh ; Where is he that cometh bearing A reply ? Yon mountains heavenward reaching Cling rapt with mute beseeching To the cold clouds for the teaching They deny ; And thou, Sea, dost pine away in Whisper'd prayers that thou art saying, Till thy hoarse waves, surging, swaying, Storm the irresponsive sky, Lash the heavens, that hang delaying A reply. Human hearts for ever heaving, Doubting still, still half believing, Loving, striving, singing, grieving, Till ye die, In your love's unfathom'd yearning, In your fever'd fruitless learning, 106 JOHN MARTLEY There's a passion for discerning What is hid from mortal eye, And your matchless zeal is earning A reply. Deep suspense enthralls creation 'Mid the hush of adoration, 'Mid the agonized vexation Of a cry ; And the soul divinely planted, Deaf and blind as one enchanted, Long, long, hath pined and panted Whither ? whence ? and how ? and why ? Though a quiet voice once granted A reply. When the winds have ceased from wailing, And the fires of heaven are paling, And men's hearts with terror failing, By-and-by ; When the clouds are rent in sunder, And the mountains quake thereunder, 'Mid the thrill of doubt and wonder, In the twinkling of an eye, 'Twill be heard at last in thunder That reply ! J. M. 107 CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY SWIFT ON STELLA " ONLY a woman's hair," Found as such relics are found After long years, when the night Closed on what once had been Swift Stella's, the raven-black tress, Swift's, the inscription, no doubt. Whereat reporters and critics Cast in their Lilliput minds What the dead giant might mean : Was it the misanthrope's sneer, Mocking himself in his pain, Making the love that had died Point one last epigram more ? Only a woman's hair ! Read how the day that she died Swift sat alone in the dark, " Tearless," " unable to think." Not so, reporters and critics ! For in these words are the tears, And the thoughts that would come not that day Were they not somewhat like these ? Only a woman's hair ; All that remain'd of her now, All that was left of a love True through the world, through the years ; 108 CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY Linking his youth to old age, Born with his boyhood, to share Battle and darkness and need ; Glad when the athlete prevail'd, Proud when the victor was crown'd, True when the dark hour came on Smiling to calm the wild eyes Kissing the lips fierce with scorn. Only a woman's hair ! Now he remember'd when first Seen, as it curl'd over eyes Bent on his own, as they two, Under the formal, close-trimm'd, High-Dutch dwarf-trees at Moor-Park, (Types of the pedant, its lord,) Learn'd a new language of soul Breathed a new life that made free Genius and hope, love and youth ! Only a woman's hair ! And he had watch'd it so often Blown by the Laracor winds, Brighten'd by suns that have set Where the stream show'd (does it show Still ?) the gray Parsonage walls, Still the gray walls which that guest, Coming and going made glad, Graced with the charm of her youth Light laugh from merriest lips, Bright glance from kindliest eye. 109 CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY Only a woman's hair ! Has he not look'd at that tress Often at midnight alone, After the feverish day When amid mean men call'd great He, with the sword of his wit, Smote, and that dark tress recall'd Home and her far over seas ; Look'd at it oft as he wrote " Journals to Stella " each day, Each thought of his, each hope, hers ; Soothed with pet names like a child, Trusted as soul trusts to soul ; Never was true love more true, Never were tenderer words. Only a woman's hair ! Here in this house home no more Here where the garden walks wind Under the barbarous, grim, Gothic cathedral's gray tower Here where the bold words were written, Calling the slaves to be free, And in dead Ireland's name, Fronting defiant her foes Here when denounced and proscribed Then when his Dublin rose round him, Guarding " the Dean," and the foe Felt his fierce scorn, and was foil'd no CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY Here was not Stella beside him ! Loved by his country and her : Was it not well with him then ! Only a woman's hair! Not of Vanessa, but hers Not of the meteor that, gleaming Bright on a frivolous hour, Pass'd to its place in the darkness, Leaving remorse and dismay, But of his star that still shone Then when all else was eclipsed, Genius and manhood and wit, Friendship of statesmen and peers, Leaving that wreck of a life Only the love of the poor, Only his country's regret, " Only a woman's hair ! " Ireland ! if yet in the years Being made free, thou shalt think Then of those great ones, thy sons, Building the marble to Swift, Wilt thou not, also, to Stella Build in that day, to his star Star of that great stormy life Star that still shines where he feels " Fierce indignation " no more ? C. P. M. in OSCAR WILDE A FRAGMENT FROM THE AGAMEMNON OF AESCHYLUS [LINES 1140-1173] [The scene is the courtyard of the Palace at Argos. Agamemnon has already entered the House of Doom, and Clytaemnestra has followed close on his heels : Cassandra is left alone upon the stage. The conscious terror of death, and the burden of prophecy, lie heavy upon her ; terrible signs and visions greet her approach. She sees blood upon the lintel, and the smell of blood scares her, as some bird, from the door. The ghosts of the murdered children come to mourn with her. Her second sight pierces the palace walls ; she sees the fatal bath, the trammelling net, and the axe sharpened for her own ruin and her lord's. But not even in the hour of her last anguish is Apollo merciful ; her warnings are unheeded ; her prophetic utterances made mock of. The orchestra is filled with a chorus of old men, weak, foolish, irresolute. They do not believe the weird woman of mystery till the hour for help is past, and the cry of Agamemnon echoes from the house, "Oh me ! I am stricken with a stroke of death."] CHORUS THY prophecies are but a lying tale, For cruel gods have brought thee to this state, And of thyself, and thine own wretched fate, Sing you this song, and these unhallow'd lays, Like the brown bird of grief insatiate Crying for sorrow of its dreary days ; Crying for Itys, Itys, in the vale The nightingale ! the nightingale ! 112 OSCAR WILDE CASSANDRA Yet I would that to me they had given The fate of that singer so clear, Fleet wings to fly up into heaven, Away from all mourning and fear ; For ruin and slaughter await me the cleaving with sword and with spear. CHORUS Whence come these crowding fancies on thy brain, Sent by some god it may be, yet for nought ? Why dost thou sing with evil-tongued refrain, Moulding thy terrors to this hideous strain With shrill sad cries, as if by death distraught ? Why dost thou tread that path of prophecy, Where, upon either hand, Landmarks for ever stand, With horrid legend for all men to see ? CASSANDRA O bitter bridegroom, who didst bear Ruin to those that loved thee true ! O holy stream Scamander, where With gentle nurturement I grew In the first days, when life and love were new. And now and now it seems that I must lie In the dark land that never sees the sun ; Sing my sad songs of fruitless prophecy, By the black stream Cocytos, that doth run Through long low hills of dreary Acheron. "3 OSCAR WILDE CHORUS Ah, but thy word is clear ! Even a child among men, Even a child, might see What is lying hidden here. Ah ! I am smitten deep To the heart with a deadly blow ! At the evil fate of the maid, At the cry of her song of woe ; Sorrows for her to bear ! Wonders for me to hear ! O my poor land, laid waste with flame and fire ! O ruin'd city, overthrown by fate ! Ah, what avail'd the offerings of my Sire To keep the foreign foemen from the gate ? Ah, what avail'd the herds of pasturing kine To save my country from the wrath divine ? Ah, neither prayer or priest availed aught, Nor the strong captains that so stoutly fought, For the tall town lies desolate and low. And I, the singer of this song of woe, Know by the fire burning in my brain, That Death, the healer of all earthly pain, Is close at hand. I will not shirk the blow O. W. 114 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN YOMOY2IA (SWINBURNISM) I TROW, wild friends, God's soul wots well by rote My sweet soft strains, and lovely lays of love, And all the white ways of her sweet sharp throat, Which not right yet I have wax'd weary of. Nathless I wot of glad such things as these, And blent bland lips Christ's blessed kingdom is : Like to scorch'd air blown thro' rich grape-branches Was the hot balmful breeze that breathed her kiss. I never left of kissing her, I well think ; But, wrapp'd in red rich raiment of her hair, Kiss'd her all day, till her lips parch'd for drink, As the parch'd often lips of a flute-player. No maid of a king's blood, but held right high In God's sharp sight, from whom no things are hid : " You must not tell," she sigh'd and turn'd to cry ; " That I should tell your mother, God forbid." Said so, I kept my word ; I never told her. You drink pure water ? I, sir, I drink wine ; Your cool clear brain must needs yield verse-water, But sweet strong drunken maniac-music mine. S. K. C. "5 OSCAR WILDE A NIGHT VISION Two crowned kings ; and one that stood alone With no green weight of laurels round his head, But with sad eyes as one uncomforted, And wearied with man's never-ceasing moan For sins that neither prayer or priest atone, And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed. Clothed was he in a garment black and red, And at his feet I mark'd a broken stone Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees. Now, at their sight my heart did burn as flame ; Then she, who lay beside me : " Who are these ? " And I made answer, knowing well each name, " ^Eschylus, first ; the second, Sophocles ; The last (wide stream of tears !) Euripides." O. W. 116 WILLIAM WILKINS ACTAEON IT was on the mount Cithaeron, in the pale and misty morn, That the hero, young Actaeon, sounded the hunter's horn. Princeliest of pursuers of the flying roe was he, Son of great Aristaeus and Theban Autonoe. Oaklike in massy stature, and carriage of kingly limb, Lo the broad, brave grace, and the fleet fine might of manhood's fair prime in him, Grandly brow'd as a sea-cliff with the curling waves at its base, And its storm-haunted crest a tangle of deep, ripe weeds and grass. And many an Arcadian maiden thought not of a maiden's pride, But look'd on the youth with longing, and watch'd as he went, and sigh'd. And Aegle had proffer'd a jewel that a queen might carefully keep, For a favouring smile of the hunter, and a touch of his beardless lip ; But never on dame or damsel had his falcon glance made stay, And he turn'd from the love-sick Aegle, and toss'd her gifts away. For where was so soft a bower, or where so goodly a hall, As the dell where the echoes listen'd to the noise of the waterfall ? And where was there cheek of woman as lovely to soul and sense As the gracious hues of the woodlands in depths of the stately glens ? And where were there eyes or tresses as gloriously dark or bright, As the flood of the wild Alpheus as it pour'd from the lonely height ? 117 WILLIAM WILKINS So the hero, young Actaeon, fled far from the girl-fill'd house, To rove with the beamy spearshaft through the budded forest boughs. And sweeter than smiles of Aegle or sheen of her rippling hair, Were the heads of his great hounds fawning, or snuffing the morning air; And to tread by the precipices that down from his feet shore clean ; And to mark where the dappled leopard was couch'd in the long ravine ; And to look on the eagle wheeling up peakward, and hear him scream ; And to plant strong steps in the meadow, and plash through the babbling stream ; And to hurl the spear in the thicket and draw the bow in the glade, And to rush on the foaming fury of the boar by the dogs embayed ; And ever in midland valley to smell the leaves and the grass, Or the brine-scent blown o'er the headlands high up to the bare hill- pass, Where lovelier far than Aegle, or her eyes' bright witchery, Was Morning, born of the marriage of silent Sky and Sea. So the hunter, young Actaeon, to the mount Cithaeron came, And blew his horn, in the dank white morn, to startle the sleeping game; Nor thought, as the pealing echoes were clatter'd from crag to crag, That Fate on his trace held him in chase, as a huge hound holds a stag. By rock and by rift and runnel, by marsh, and meadow, and mound, He went with his dogs beside him, and marvell'd no game was found. Till the length of the whole green gorge, and the grey cliffs gleaming on high, 118 WILLIAM WILKINS Rang and re-echoed with horns, and the musical hunting cry. And the hounds broke out of the covert, all baying together in tune ; And the hart sprang panting before them along up the lawns dew- strewn. And a bevy of buskin'd virgins, dove-breasted, broke from the bowers, With spears half-pois'd for the hurling, and tresses tangled with flowers; Their lips, rose-ruddy, disparted to draw their delightsome breath For the chase, and the cheer thereof ringing the rapture of dealing death The fine heads eagerly lifted, the pitiless fair eyes fix'd ; The cheeks, flower-fresh, flush'd flower-like, rich lily, rich rose com- mix'd ; The slender feet flying swiftly, the slight shapes rushing like reeds, When the Thracian breezes of winter descend on the marshy meads ; So swept they along like music ; and wilder'd Actaeon stood, Till the last of the maiden rangers was lost in the leaning wood. As a Bacchanal starts from slumber, on snowy ridges remote, To see o'er the peaks and gorges the silvery moonbeams float, So the soul of the youth was smitten with wildest wonder through ; And a deadly tremor of madness through his quivering members flew ; And a joy that was almost anguish took hold of his breast and brain, And he nothing on earth regarded but to see the nymphs again ; Though the scorn of their arrowy glances should slay him a thousand ways, He would die by their merciless sweetness with an open, adoring gaze. And she, Diana, their leader, the queen of the greenwood glade, The goddess of stainless maidens, herself a stainless maid ; Fair sister of sunbright Apollo, they twain being born at a birth, 119 WILLIAM WILKINS Gold-hair'd children of Jove supreme, and lovers and lighteners of earth ; Phoebe, maiden majestical, sovereign lady most high ; Moon, more lovely, more chaste, than all the stars of the sky ; Cold as the dew on a flower, and pure as the wings of a dove ; Divine the rival of Venus, and more victorious than Love ; Ruler of mightiest waters, and couch'd in them night by night, And soul of the sunless heaven, laving the world with light ; And edging the clouds and mountains with splendour, and tipping the trees, And flying o'er lake and river with brighter feet than the breeze ; And at morn with kirtle and quiver a huntress by field and wood, The swift overtaker, the certain smiter of hart and of pard pursued ; Hater of wantons, and shunner of sloth, and fleer of revels and feasts, And scorner of man through the brutish in man, and lance-bearing slayer of beasts ; Enamour'd of all the freshness that the lonely hills immure, And Queen of Honour, and Patroness pray'd to of women pure ; Modest maidenliness made perfect, immortal in virgin grace, The young Actaeon would see her, and die beholding her face. So the hunter wander'd hapless, not caring to lift the spear, But found not the racing maidens, nor heard in the woods their cheer ; And weary at last of seeking, he cast him adown to sleep, Where join'd a wood and a meadow in greenness heavy and deep Of the water'd Gargaphian valleys, that spread in the noonday heat A welcome shelter for sun-scorch'd eyes, a rest for far-travell'd feet. 120 WILLIAM WILKINS So he dream'd, and lo ! in a vision he saw a lovely place With boughs overgloom'd, and a river that fell down a rock's dark face To a basin brimming with crystal, pebble-paved, mossy-quay'd, Fill'd with the dusky lustre and broken lights of the glade ; For though it was broad a spear-cast and mirror'd a space of blue, The tree-tops caught, and let fall, and caught the streams of sun pour- ing through ; And soothed was the scene with silence, and notes of birds far away, And murmur of leaves, and the constant cadence of cascade spray. And behold, there came through the thicket Diana, beautiful- brow'd ; On her forehead a silver crescent that shone through a golden cloud. And behind came her trooping sisters, unarming apace with glee, And flinging buskin and girdle to rock and sheltering tree ; And fillets were loosed, and broadly were banner-like locks let fly ; And the dell was sown with snowflakes of swan-white shoulder and thigh. Here a maiden, gliding downward, stopp'd breathless, as she set Her small, warm foot, an alighting bird, in the ferns forever wet. And here, dishevell'd, half-cover'd in grasses, with timidest glance, Sat one, as fearful to have unrinded so much hid sweetness at once. And here paced another, wondering, the sward feeling strange to her palm, And strange on her shrinking tenderness the forest's breathing of balm. And here another kneels musing, her slender beauty all bare, Fingering faintly the branches that mix with her long brown hair. A head like a glossy chestnut bends under the chestnut frond, While blushes like chestnut-blossom a face in the shade beyond. 121 WILLIAM WILKINS And thereby lingers a maiden, her stately shape disarray 'd, Yet fain of the clothing dimness of scented leaf-tinted shade. And here, disrobed, from the rushes twin laughing sisters arise Drawing the vagrant auburn from beaming bosom and eyes. And here on her innocent smoothness a maid watch'd shimmer and spin The sun-flecks rain'd from a breach far aloft where a glory of gold broke in. And here, where the slope was coated with close moss daintily sleek, A sweet maid lean'd on her elbow round, and touch'd it with hip and cheek. And here, on the turf, one flushing at kiss of the delicate air, Venus-like, rose from her billowing whirlpool of sea-dark hair ; And here, advancing together, dance maids like a wall of white, Maid girded with arms of maidens, and dark locks flowing with bright ; Intercaressing delicious slim necks they move in tune, and their feet Flutter o'er carpeting flowers, and, lily-like, mingle and meet. Here, crouch'd by the brink, a damsel who peers, but suddenly swerves To see in the tide beneath her the white of her soft full curves. Here steps down a fair girl smiling, lightly borne as with wings, Yet, indeed, like a panther stretching, and swift as a pard that springs. She flies like a cloud of summer, all nakedly bright from the wood, And with round lovely arms high-tossing, Diana first cleaves the flood. Through swirling luxurious water, clear-cold, made mad with her force, With slight neck nervous, with long side shining, she holds her course. And the rings of her plunge are broken, the spray of her splash borne back By the milk-white flight of her maidens, who follow their mistress' track ; And the pool was gorged in an instant with beauty that sprang and swam, 122 WILLIAM WILKINS And struck through the cistern'd freshness with arm, and forehead, and ham.* Here a face, pearl-dash'd, rose-radiant, through the surge translu- cent hurls, Towing by strong oar-pulses the silken raft of her curls, Her hands making silvery fire of the water's voluptuous crests That laugh at the touch of her shoulders and purr at the plunge of her breasts. Here shoots a luminous body far down, skimming under the rocks, And follow'd ever by turning trailing snakes of its golden locks. And here sculls gently a maiden, her soft back bent for a keel, With but lips and eyes over water, and sometimes a ruddering heel. And here lies another, drifting, full-stretch'd in her snowy pride, Enfolded from ear to ankle a marble bar in the tide. And here in the lustrous blackness, that mirrors a wall of rock, A swimmer eclipses her fulgent form that makes of the shade a mock. And sinking in eddies that murmur for pleasure and swirl to her throat, A damsel with spread arms paddles, and basks in the sunshine afloat. And here, in a cove over-shadow'd, a soft shape beams from the gloom, Censer-like shining, and flower-like set amid beds that perfume : Lily of lilies, and tender mouth of the rose-bud's red and its mould, And eyes of the violet's purple, and locks of the asphodel's gold. And beside her the fluttering ripples, deliciously cool, caress The polish'd waists of her sisters who wade to the landing-place. And hard by, to a limpid shallow come three, in the depth to launch A timid swimmer, their captive by ivory middle and haunch. At wrist and at neck she catches. They bear her back from the bank ; She struggles their laughter echoes those mischievous maidens dank. * Cp. Faerie Queene, Bk. II. xxviL 123 WILLIAM WILKINS Their arms interlace. Their whiteness is mass'd like a lily-brood. They rear them, and fling them together with glee in the blissful flood; And while yet the bubbles are bursting, each body and roguish face Rosed as with recent kisses, comes up from the river's embrace. Now the hero, young Actaeon, heard the washing water lap Round the knees and necks of maidens, and on dainty flank and pap, And glad girlish voices mingling with the babble of the stream, Yet was he but half-delighted, knowing all was but a dream. With the effort of a lifetime cramm'd into a moment's throes He achieved his fate through torments, and almost a god arose, Flinging off the chains of slumber ; nor had longer doubt or care, Diana's pure suave contour, the young sunshine of her hair Knowing : even as a god knows the sweet pout of Hebe's mouth When she brings the brimming vintage of no earthly vineyard's growth For the gods to quaff together ; and his joy had naught of fear, Breathing the Gargaphian breezes like a bridegroom's atmosphere ; But for lyres, and friendly voices, and warm scents of orchard bloom, On Actaeon shone the everlasting glory of his doom. Earth's terrible high mane of the mountain nakednesses, The pastoral green plots in the piny glens' recesses, The verdurous descent of the olive-girdled hills, The generous air, the salving light, the voluble sweet rills, The sunshine frank and flowing, the heaven overbow'd With unnumber'd reefs and islands of tender-colour'd cloud, The cheerful fields, the bugling winds, the azure-gleaming bays The cordial of clear manhood, the joy of youthful days, The temple-crested headlands that rise along the shore, Their lover, young Actaeon, left them all for evermore. 124 WILLIAM WILKINS For better than youthful manhood, and better than kingly sway, And sweeter than happy wedlock, and dearer than shining Day, Was to see the Queen Diana with his soul-fill'd maiden eyes, And for her sake set his life at stake, and yield it a sacrifice, That through all the unending ages the nations of men might know How above ground a man was found to honour Diana so. Thus to the thoughts of the hero disrobed was the virgin queen As the moon disrobes to a glorified lake, dispelling the clouds between. And the starlike mortal maidens inurn'd in the cool recess Were too heavenly pure to blush, him thought, or to know unbecoming- ness. So the broad Actaeon thrust him through the thicket's emerald air, And far through the ferns and frondage a tangled creek found there, Where the oaks tower'd more majestic, the scents hung sweetlier sweet, The grass throve thicker and thicker, as feeling Diana's feet. Anemone, crocus, and pansy, in fragrant alleys untrod, Bloom'd ever lusher and lusher, as paving the path of a god ; And hyacinth tufts in the covers made all the undergrowth blue As the eyes of the streamlet peeping its naiad-kept lilies through. And madness shone ever diviner in the hunter's expectant gaze, And the air seemed rain-cool'd about him, so fresh were the forest ways With youngest dew - diamonded herbage, and delicate - burgeoning branches, And deepening river-sounds opening up to the waterfall's glances. Suddenly brighten'd the water ; the flowers of the brim flush'd rosier. Suddenly look'd Actaeon right into the sacred enclosure. "5 WILLIAM WILKINS Suddenly saw he a hundred tapering female shapes lily-pale, Pureness of air and water and soul for their only veil. And fearless of male eyes gazing, Diana through iris'd air Shower'd the clinging crystal from free-tossing limbs and hair. The wave running over her insteps argent, Latona's heaven -eyed daughter View'd her unrivall'd whiteness beneath in the wavering water ; More regally high from the shoulder transparent than all her following vestals, Statelily purest in virgin beauty, the noblest of the celestials ; Musing as muse the immortals upon their unutterable grace, Her vein'd high brow bending forward, a brooding light in her face, Watching the cooing waters that brighten'd and beam'd as they passed her, Glassing the nude refulgence of delectable alabaster. So the hunter, young Actaeon, stood rapt for a little space On the edge of the dell, and panted, his marvelling soul in his face : While upon his temples noble did laurel and cypress meet ; Nor could he speak, nor retire, nor totter to fall at Phoebe's feet. And lo, as the gods thus held him, there flash'd a sudden storm Of dazzling splendour and fearful, from Diana's dilated form, Serene in high indignation, superb in haughtiest scorn, Terrible in its beauty of deadliness heaven-born ; That the constellations of maidens shrank scared in the pools and nooks Nor dared encircle the awfulness of their incensed mistress' looks. The small round neck lifting direly the exquisite menacing head, The curving nostril, the steel-blue eyeball striking the gazer dead ; 126 WILLIAM C. K. WILDE Rejecting his true, pure homage though even her scorn was sweet ; Smiting his life into darkness, and driving his dust from her feet Purity's anger, not pitying, even as python-slaying, Bent the clear bow against innocence, fitting the arrow unstaying. But Jove, the wielder of thunder, who smites for the righteous' sake, Hid the young breath -despoil'd hunter, and placed instead in the brake, To appease the goddess, a roebuck, that bloodied the trampled ground, Shot with Olympian arrows, and mangled by fangs of the hound. W. W. DRAMATIC SONNETS i OUTSIDE THE CONVENT FAUSTINE " BECAUSE bright jewels my fair bosom deck, And Love's hot lips close press'd cling fast to mine, Because rose-garlands crown the cups of wine, And all Love's ministers are at my beck, Think you I mourn repent or aught I reck How tongues wag ? Think you that I weep and pine, Shedding sad tears as bitter salt sea-brine, Because his arms lie warm around my neck ? 127 WILLIAM C. K. WILDE Look you ! we live but once this life I know ; No other wot I of beyond the tomb I laugh to scorn your devils down below Your torture-fires your everlasting gloom ! I seek no heaven, I dread no God above, I fear no hell, save living without Love ! " ii INSIDE THE CONVENT SISTER MARY " BECAUSE my treasure knows nor moth nor rust, Because I live in holy peaceful rest, In sacred maidenhood on God's own breast, And in His loving mercy put my trust, Therefore I fear no taint of sin or lust ; Espoused to Him, in mystic union blest, I work unceasingly in His behest, Whose ways are pure, and sanctified and just. He loves me, and no love of man I crave, At best 'tis link'd with some desire of sin, Whilst here I serve Him, when I pass the^grave, My Bridegroom waiteth me to lead me in To His own place, Lord Christ, who lovest me, Deign to receive my life's virginity ! " W. C. K. W. 128 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN A DIRGE WE stray'd along the shingly shore, I and my second coz ; But never again no never more Will those days come back to us ! We roam'd beside the raging main, My second coz with me ; But never not no more again Shall I ever roam with he ! We gazed across the gloomy tide, Great tears bedew'd each lid ; Then he committed suicide My second cousin did. He sank, like a goblet, into the sea : So frantic was his state ; He rush'd with joy on death, did he But I am content to wait. O days that come not back to us ! Ah, shingle, and O shore ! O me, and ah, my second coz ! O never again no more ! S. K. C. 129 JOHN ORMSBY RITTER TOGGENBURG (AFTER SCHILLER) " KNIGHT, a sister's true affection At your service is, But I can't upon reflection Promise more than this ; Calmly can I see thee leaving, Calmly coming see ; None effect your silent grieving Hath at all on me." Never a word in answer said he, Dropp'd a tear of course ; Arms he flung around the lady, Legs upon his horse ; Summon'd all his jolly Switzers, Told them he must go ; Bade them " Pack up all your kits, sirs " Went to Jericho. There such skill he show'd in sloggin', That the Turk to tame, There was nothing like the Toggen- Burger's awful name ; 130 JOHN ORMSBY Ever did the foeman find him Foremost in the row ; Still the girl he'd left behind him Wouldn't be hisfrau. Just a twelvemonth did he hold out, Couldn't stand it more ; From the army then he sold out, Voted it a bore ; Saw the packet leaving Joppa, Ran along the pier ; Made the captain " ease her, stop her," Sail'd to seek his dear. Managed, guise of pilgrim under, To her door to come ; There the news he heard, like thunder, Smote his tympanum : " She you seek is now a nun, sir, Gave last night the Church Self and chattels every one, sir, Left you in the lurch." Then he left his castle, never To approach it more ; Hung his armour up for ever, Lock'd his stable door ; JOHN ORMSBY Leaving horse and hauberk there he Went incognito ; For, yclad he was in hairy Penance paletot. Like a dismal love-cross'd oyster, Up himself he shut ; And hard by his lady's cloister Built himself a hut. From the morning's early dawning Until evensong, Never winking, never yawning, Sat there all day long. As he sat, a dreary satis- Faction did he find Gazing at his lady's lattice, Till she raised the blind ; Till her mignonette inspecting On the window-stool, Came she, robe de chambre deck'd in, Airy, light, and cool. Oh ! it made him almost happy, Gazing at her pane ; So that after every nap he Rose to gaze again 132 JOHN ORMSBY Years speed on, and find him gazing, Ever gazing find ; Waiting patient, past all praising, Till she raise the blind. Till, her mignonette inspecting On the window-stool, Comes she, robe de chambre deck'd in, Airy, light, and cool. But one morning somehow odd he Seem'd to sit and stare ; Woe is me ! 'twas but a body Sitting, staring there. And the inquest found the knight had Died 'cause he was drove Thereunto by unrequited, Undigested love. But the popular opinion Held it a combined Visitation dire, of mignon- Ette and window-blind. J.O. JOHN MARTLEY MY KING WHERE and how shall I earliest greet him ? What are the snubs that will make him swear ? By what arts shall I learn to cheat him ? I know not now, but in love all 's fair. With a face of sunshine smiling upon him, Scornful anon, till his pride takes wing, I shall tell him some day when I have won him How I checkmated my King ! my King ! I will not dream of him sage and wary ; He that I love must be wild and brave ; I do not say that he need be hairy, Whatever he does, he will surely shave. And he may be Willy, or simply William, Or that short Bill, which is just between ; But whatever he is, he must have a million, And serve in the Army the Queen ! the Queen ! And he must be handsome, he must be scrumptious, Six feet in stature, the youth I spoon ; But whether his manners be mild or bumptious, I care no more than the man in the moon. And I'll have the latch-key in my own keeping, I'll show what " obey " in the prayer-book means ; And when he comes home he won't find me sleeping, If ever he goes to the Queen's ! the Queen's ! * J. M. * The Dublin Theatre of that name. 134 WILLIAM WILKINS STUDY ON THE RIVER DODDER,* NEAR DUBLIN IOTH DECEMBER, 1876 THE lovely sky is seen half-bare, The calm, bright river past us flows ; December holds the evening air As fairest fingers hold a rose, So light, so sweet the touch of chill On clear green mead and winding tide ; The brown trees on the height are still, Nor mourn their plumy summer pride. We feel the quiet Sunday time Sink to the heart. Though far away Be bells that ring the vesper chime, The landscape, restful, bids to pray, As the heart prays without the lips' Weak words, even as before our feet The unruffled water, dreaming, slips From glassy sheet to glassy sheet. We know this place. The poplar lone, A tall, dark pillar but it gleams By moonlight, the white arch of stone, The open green between the streams, * Between Rathgar Bridge and the gateway of Rathfarnham Castle. 135 WILLIAM WILKINS The gateway grey amongst the trees That sweep between us and the south, The cascade's murmur on the breeze, The low bridge at the brooklet's mouth, We know them all. They show to us The dearness of a dozen years ; Twined memories multitudinous Of happy smiles, of bitter tears. Rock-seated on the river's brink, In sabbath twilight, strange is it To watch the cool, full stream, and think Of last night of the excited Pit * Fill'd with our lusty College crew, Red-ribbon'd, loud in Irving's praise, Young Hamlet full before our view, To haunt us till our latest days. Breathless, we watch'd him move and muse. The gilding and the gas were lost Out of our minds. Who would peruse The imperfections of the Ghost, Or shovings-on of Elsinore towers, While Irving held us by a spell ? A thousand hearts were tranced with ours, A thousand bosoms rose and fell * Of the Theatre Royal, Dublin, occupied by the students of Trinity College, on the "College Night," 1876. 136 WILLIAM WILKINS With Hamlet's sigh, with Hamlet's jest, The house was rapt. The galleries high Lean'd listening heads. The actor paced, Bearing the praise of every eye. And after that the play was play'd, After the uproar of acclaim That through the sleeping city bray'd Its fanfare of the player's fame, I grasp'd the fine-wrought, eloquent hand, I talk'd with Hamlet, friendliest-voiced ; Anon he took the table end, The healths went round, and we rejoiced ; And the great heart's great gratitude For loving homage nobly won And freely given, seem'd more good To pledge, than aught beneath the sun. Indeed, well-pleasing was the feast That fill'd the flying hours of night ; But now this river's argent breast, The pale, sweet sky, the tender light Steal on the sense, and drink the soul ; The clear west opens, calm and broad ; The deep peace deepens, and the whole Stirr'd spirit nestles up to God. W. W. 137 JOHN MARTLEY OUR LADY OF GAIN MILD maxims that hold just for one day Hard hearts that grow soft for an hour, Stale tenets that thrill on a Sunday From the lips of a preacher of power ; When these have gone by with the tories, Our crescunt dolores refrain Shall be changed into cresdt dolores, Our Lady of Gain ! On Mount Sinai, as Exodus shows us, Apollo of old was outdone ; Ten commandments were given by Moses The Muses were fewer by one ; And none of those laws was a wee thing, But the handmaids of Phoebus were strong ; For they broke one a-piece, just bequeathing The tenth for my song. We are clad in new hats and clean linen, While unwash'd, with a cap on his head, Comes thy servant, and toys with the tin in Our pockets, till, lo ! it hath fled; Or we play with a coin, and we cast it On high, and make bets, and complain, When 'tis gone from us, yea, when thou hast it, Our Lady of Gain ! 138 JOHN MARTLEY Still jewels there may be to steal, or Locks, newly-invented, to pick ; What new work wilt thou find for the peeler ? What ruse ? what manoeuvre ? what trick ? What sells that they know not a word of, Whose hats into helmets have grown ? What weapons undream'd of, unheard of, Unmodell'd, unknown? Could you hurt me, police, though I hurt you ? Touch gold, and ye change in a trice The medals and mildness of virtue For coin and connivance at vice ; The gold door of escape recollect, if They catch thee, and try thee, and chain ; Ah ! viewless and venal detective Our Lady of Gain ! How Advertisement ramps in all places, O'er all that is right riding rough ! See our Railway guides hid like oases In deserts of trade-mark and puff; And ere Punch with a bon-mot can please us, Our eyes are regaled, on the back, With the physic for dismal diseases, Prepared by a quack. JOHN MARTLEY Fruits fail, and crops die, prices raising ; Thou art fed with perpetual bread, And alive, after infinite grazing, Thy rent never paid but in lead. What pestilence art thou a prey to ? What, beetle, what blight, or what bane Can attack thy unfailing potato Our Lady of Gain ? Our landed and liberal gentry Call visions of beauty their own, Seen from hills, where their friends may have entry, By order, on week-days alone. The high trust that we yield them they keep ill, When heaven-favour'd heaths are untrod On the day we preserve for the people, And name after God. Are the parsons or lawyers thy chosen ? The doctors or pliers of trade ? They have all found the secret to cozen, For this, this alone are men paid. They alone, they are wise and none other, Who smile, and are villains in grain, And love thee more than wife or than mother Our Lady of Gain ! 140 JOHN MARTLEY But alas ! when with age we grow callous, The pleasures of pillage must fail, And a gaol may at last be our palace, Our palace might pall like a gaol ; For as Fate or the juries determine, We lapse into convicts or peers, And lawn, cat-o'-nine-tails, and ermine Make barren our years. The maidens who wile our hearts from us, Their bondage of old, is it past ? Free and fervent as fire, while they promise, Yet feel they no fetters at last ? Yea, with kisses and vows though they greet us, We fight with fair weapons in vain ; For like Satan behind, thou wilt cheat us, Our Lady of Gain ! " Dost thou dream in a respite of slumber, In a lull of the fires of thy life, Of the days without name, without number, When thy will stung the world into strife," When thy standard led Punic invaders O'er river and Alp to old Rome, Or cruciform dragg'd the Crusaders From country and home ? 141 JOHN MARTLEY We can blow up a ship in mid ocean, Or butcher a friend in the Bank, Deal an agonized death by a potion, Or slay with a bullet point blank ; But the rascals of ages gone by, whose Achievements we envy in vain, Were the sons, not of guns, but mitrailleuses Our Lady of Gain ! What ails us to fear over-measure, To praise thee in timorous tone ; When each man is robbed of his treasure, Each man will have more than his own. We shall love one another, and cherish, We shall not learn war any more, When the rights of proprietors perish On sea and on shore. Who has known all the sins that we write of, We bards, the enigmas we weave ? Though our meaning men come not in sight of, Or blushing, that shadow perceive ; Though the heathen of old will outlive us, And our powers and performance are twain, Ah ! forgive us our verses, forgive us, Our Lady of Gain ! J. M. 142 WILLIAM WILKINS 22 T. C. D. UP here I sleep in the hawthorn scent, It swims through my windows from lawn to lawn While June's first nights with their deep content Possess my spirit from dusk to dawn. I lying here, alone, a king, In the centre of pleasances green and sweet ; Hearing the tree-tops murmuring, Hearing the far-away sounds of the street. With only to lean o'er the garden-bed, To see steadfast Jupiter shine in the south, To see Arcturus hang overhead, And the stillness of spars o'er the river-mouth. Eastward, westward, spread in the dark An acre of grass, an acre of daisies : Northward, a square ; to the south, a park ; Mine is the midmost of pleasant places. Hence I can see, as the midnight wears, The first blue tides of the morning steal Between shores of cloud, among fleets of stars, Blanching the coigns of the Campanile, 1 43 WILLIAM WILKINS And all the divine repose that looms Through the College Courts as the sweet hours go ; Palatial piles and their cloister'd glooms, And dormer, and terrace, and portico. While the sea-like city is laid asleep, No motion or sound in its mountain heights Of dark, vast waves, or its furrows deep, Sown with the lines of unnumber'd lights, Till the blue turns grey, and the grey turns gold, And the sea and land taste the new day's breath ; And I hear the joys of the young morn told By the wakening birds in the boughs beneath. And thus in the city, I scarcely sigh For hollows that eglantines perfume, And speedwells make like an under-sky Peering through clouds of chestnut bloom. For I know my part in the treasure-trove Of the glad green meads where the June winds roam, As I knew the looks of my fair first love, As I know the shapes of our hills at home. And so I sleep in the hawthorn scent That dwells with me here like a haunting passion, And so in the city I wait content While the time draws on to the long vacation. W. W. 144 OSCAR WILDE WASTED DAYS (FROM A PICTURE PAINTED BY MISS v. T.) A FAIR slim boy not made for this world's pain, With hair of gold thick clustering round his ears, And longing eyes half veil'd by foolish tears Like bluest water seen through mists of rain ; Pale cheeks whereon no kiss hath left its stain, Red under-lip drawn in for fear of Love, And white throat whiter than the breast of dove Alas ! alas ! if all should be in vain. Behind, wide fields, and reapers all a-row In heat and labour toiling wearily, To no sweet sound of laughter or of lute. The sun is shooting wide its crimson glow, Still the boy dreams ; nor knows that night is nigh, And in the night-time no man gathers fruit. O. W. OSCAR WILDE REQUIESCAT TREAD lightly, she is near Under the snow ; Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow. All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust. Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew. Coffin-board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast ; I vex my heart alone, She is at rest. Peace, peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet ; All my life's buried here, Heap earth upon it. O. W. 146 OSCAR WILDE SALVE SATURNIA TELLUS I REACHED the Alps : the soul within me burned, Italia, my Italia, at thy name : And when from out the mountain's heart I came And saw the land for which my life had yearned, I laughed as one who some great prize had earned : And musing on the marvel of thy fame I watched the day, till marked with wounds of flame The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned. The pine-trees waved as waves a woman's hair, And in the orchards every twining spray Was breaking into flakes of blossoming foam : But when I knew that far away at Rome In evil bonds a second Peter lay, I wept to see the land so very fair. O. W. OSCAR WILDE THE TRUE KNOWLEDGE THOU knowest all ; I seek in vain What lands to till, or sow with seed : The land is black with briar and weed, Nor cares for falling tears or rain. Thou knowest all ; I sit and wait, With blinded eyes and hands that fail, Till the last lifting of the veil, And the first opening of the gate. Thou knowest all ; I cannot see ; I trust I shall not live in vain ; I know that we shall meet again In some divine eternity. O. W. 148 OSCAR WILDE THEOCRITUS A VILLANELLE O SINGER of Persephone ! In the dim meadows desolate Dost thou remember Sicily ? Still through the ivy flits the bee Where Amaryllis lies in state ; O singer of Persephone ! Simaetha calls on Hecate And hears the wild dogs at the gate ; Dost thou remember Sicily ? Still by the light and laughing sea Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate : O singer of Persephone ! And still in boyish rivalry Young Daphnis challenges his mate : Dost thou remember Sicily ? Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee, For thee the jocund shepherds wait, O singer of Persephone ! Dost thou remember Sicily ? O. W. 149 OSCAR WILDE THE DOLE OF THE KING'S DAUGHTER SEVEN stars in the still water, And seven in the sky ; Seven sins on the King's daughter, Deep in her soul to lie. Red roses are at her feet, (Roses are red in her rose-gold hair) And O where her bosom and girdle meet Red roses are hidden there. Fair is the knight who lieth slain Amid the rush and reed : See the lean fishes that are fain Upon dead men to feed. Sweet is the page that lieth there, (Cloth of gold is goodly prey) : See the black ravens in the air, Black, O black as the night are they. What do they there so stark and dead ? (There is blood upon her hand) Why are the lilies flecked with red ? (There is blood on the river sand.) WILLIAM WILKINS There are two that ride from the south andjeast, And two from the north and west ; For the black raven a goodly feast, For the King's daughter rest. There is one man who loves her true, (Red, O red, is the stain of gore !) He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew, (One grave will do for four.) No moon in the still heaven, In the black water none, The sins on her soul are seven, The sin upon his is one. O.i, 1 IN THE ENGINE SHED THE air was heavy with greasy vapour ; The walls were like cinders ; the floor, of slack : The engine-driver came to his labour, A good-humour'd corpulent old coal-sack, With a thick gold chain where it bulged the most, And a beard like a brush, and a face like a toast, And a hat half-eaten by fire and frost, And a diamond pin in the folded dirt Of the shawl that served him for collar and shirt Whenever he harness'd his steed of mettle, The shovel-fed monster that could not tire, With limbs of steel and entrails of fire ; Above us it sang, like a big tea-kettle. WILLIAM WILKINS Now, I wouldn't have him think I'd note it, Much less ever dream that I wrote it, But he came to his salamander toils In one of the Devil's cast-off suits, All charr'd, and discolour'd with rain and oils, And smear'd and sooted from muffler to boots : Some wiping, it struck him, his paws might suffer With a wisp of threads he found on the buffer ; (The improvement, indeed, was not very great) ; Then he spat, and pass'd his pipe to his mate. And his whole face laugh'd with an honest mirth, As any extant on this grimy earth, Welcoming me to his murky region ; And had you known him, I tell you this Though your bright hair shiver and shrink at its roots, O piano-fingering fellow-collegian You would have return'd no cold salutes To the cheery greeting of hearty Chris, But ungloved your hand, and lock'd it in his. The icy sleet-storm shatters and scatters, And falls on the pane like a pile of fetters ; He flies through it all with the world's love-letters : The master of mighty leviathan-motions That make for him storm when the nights are fair, And cook him with fire and carve him with air, While we sleep soft in the carriage cushions, 152 WILLIAM WILKINS And he keeps watch on the signal red O's. Often had Chris over England roll'd me ; You shall hear a story he told me Of tender grace and the dewy meadows : THE STORY We were driving the down express Will at the steam, I at the coal Over the valleys and villages ! Over the marshes and coppices ! Over the river, deep and broad ! Through the mountain ! under the road ! Flying along ! tearing along ! Thunderbolt engine, swift and strong, Fifty tons she was, whole and sole ! I had been promoted to the express : I warrant you I was proud and gay. It was the evening that ended May, And the sky was a glory of tenderness. We were thundering down to a midland town It makes no matter about the name For we never stopp'd there, or anywhere For a dozen of miles on either side : So it's all the same Just there you slide With your steam shut off, and your brakes in hand, Down the steepest and longest grade in the land At a pace that I promise you is grand. 153 WILLIAM WILKINS We were just there with the express, When I caught sight of a muslin dress On the bank ahead ; and as we pass'd You have no notion of how fast A girl shrank back from our baleful blast. We were going a mile a quarter a minute With vans and carriages down the incline, But I saw her face, and the sunshine in it, I look'd in her eyes, and she look'd in mine As the train went by, like a shot from a mortar, A roaring hell-breath of dust and smoke ; And I mused for a minute, and then awoke, And she was behind us a mile and a quarter. And the years went on, and the express Leap'd in her black resistlessness, Evening by evening, England through. Will God rest him ! was found, a mash Of bleeding rags, in a fearful smash He made with a Christmas train at Crewe. It chanced I was ill the night of the mess, Or I shouldn't now be here alive ; But thereafter the five-o'clock out express Evening by evening I used to drive. And I often saw her that lady I mean That I spoke of before. She often stood A-top o' the bank : it was pretty high Say twenty feet and back'd by a wood. She would pick the daisies out of the green, WILLIAM WILKINS To fling down at us as we went by. We had got to be friends, that girl and I, Though I was a rugged, stalwart chap, And she a lady ! I'd lift my cap, Evening by evening, when I'd spy That she was there, in the summer air, Watching the sun sink out of the sky. Oh, I didn't see her every night : Bless you ! no ; just now and then, And not at all for a twelvemonth quite. Then one evening I saw her again, Alone, as ever, but deadly pale, And down on the line, on the very rail, While a light, as of hell, from our wild wheels broke, Tearing down the slope with their devilish clamours And deafening din, as of giants' hammers That smote in a whirlwind of dust and smoke All the instant or so that we sped to meet her. Never, O never, had she seem'd sweeter ! I let yell the whistle, reversing the stroke Down that awful incline, and signall'd the guard To put on his brakes at once, and HARD Though we couldn't have stopp'd. We tatter'd the rail Into splinters and sparks, but without avail. We couldrit stop ; and she wouldn't stir, Saving to turn us her eyes, and stretch Her arms to us ; and the desperate wretch I pitied, comprehending her. 155 WILLIAM WILKINS So the brakes let off, and the steam full again, Sprang down on the lady the terrible train She never flinch'd. We beat her down, And ran on through the lighted length of the town Before we could stop to see what was done. I've run over more than one ! Dozens of 'em, to be sure, but none That I pitied as I pitied her If I could have stopp'd, with all the spur Of the train's weight on, and cannily But it wouldn't do with a lad like me And she a lady or had been. Sir ? Who was she ? Best say no more of her ! The world is hard ; but I'm her friend Stanch, sir, down to the world's end. This is a curl of her sunny hair Set in this locket that I wear. 1 pick'd it off the big wheel there. Time's up, Jack. Stand clear, sir. Yes ; We're going out with the express. W. W. 156 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN LITERARY MERITS FROM A LAUREATE TO AN AUTHOR You tell me how, in thundering speech, As tho' you will'd all earth to hear, You deem my poems very dear, Calf-bound, at six-and-sixpence each. You deem them dear : I may not tell : I only know I hear you prate, Day after day, about the rate At which your own effusions sell. I prize your worth and boundless wit : I hold you great : I know you learn'd : I read your volume, and return'd To him from whom I borrow'd it. My larger genius holds you high ; For you, however large your mind, Must hold your larger life resigned To live a lesser life than I. I chime but when the public choose : You flash from chance-lit fires within : We toss : you turn up heads : I win. We toss : I turn up tails : you lose. 157 JOHN MARTLEY You chant at chance, and stock the shops, While I retail, with timelier luck, For lilliputian mouths to suck, My literary lollipops. A pupil, as my patrons list, I write : and they, to win repute, Find some fine sense in every foot, And see strange charms where none exist. You lie unread : from land to land My work, on wings of fashion flies : Each churl some latent charm descries : " How grand : how deep : I understand." S. K. C. THE DESERTED CITY SUGGESTED BY THE STATUE OF GOLDSMITH IN FRONT OF COLLEGE SWEET Dublin, loneliest is the prospect seen, Where applewomen sat in College Green ; Where longing school-boys loiter'd on their way, And eyed the fruit for which they could not pay. Dear ancient dames, whose innocence and ease Attracted youth for ever prone to tease ; How often have I paused on every charm, The shelter'd lamp that kept the tea-pot warm ; The never-failing mug, the batter'd can, 158 JOHN MARTLEY The rusty tray, long guiltless of japan, The umbrella huge with seat beneath its shade For talking age and whispering gossip made ! How often have I watch'd at parting day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, Some frisky Freshman from the Hall set free Upset stall, fruit, umbrella, lamp and tea ; Loud was the scuffle there beneath the shade, The old contending, while the young survey'd. Sweet ducal palace, lovely Leinster Lawn, Thy lords are fled, and all their pomp withdrawn ! Amid thy flowers the nursery-maid is seen, And squalling children squabble o'er thy green. One Exhibition grasped thy whole domain, Where half-a-crown admission might obtain. No more let glassy domes reflect the day, For Exhibitions here will never pay ; Within those rails there stands a worthy guest, Dargan, in all things save his sculptor blest. Near yonder Bank, where Curran once inveigh'd, And still, where many a current coin is paid, There, where a few street lamps the place surround, The statue of our native bard is found. A man he was to all the country dear, But, "save me from my friends," he well might sneer. Unwieldy form, behold him from afar With finger raised to scold, or call a car ! When summer's friendly dust conceals his grace, 159 JOHN MARTLEY None e'er have wash'd nor wish'd to wash his face. Heedless of fame, his Art our sculptor plies, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. How blest is he, the Hero of the Nile, Above the ken of critics on a pile ! By the Post Office, where with chiming song The clock tells every hour, and tells it wrong, The gallant sailor stands, and thither oft Our country friends repair to go aloft. From these the keeper poor, but never proud, Claims sixpence each, and has his claims allow'd. Pleased with his guests, the good man lets them in; They laugh, and laugh again to hear the din ; He points them to the steps that upwards wind, But while they climb, he wisely stays behind ; And, as a bard each art ennobling tries, To tempt his grovelling readers to the skies, He gives them light, and speeds them as he may, Himself too old a bird to lead the way. And then, the summit won, what waits them there? To see from Patrick's Close to Rutland Square, To see the peerless palaces of gin, Where countless lilliputian men go in, And cake-shops, where full many a darling son, His mother leads to eat a currant bun. Soon the spectators feel their spirits rise, To see their fellows so reduced in size, Till with sublime philosophy they think How mean a thing it is to eat and drink. 1 60 JOHN MARTLEY McSwiney, twice Lord Mayor, the very spot You laid the famous stone is now forgot. Near Carlisle Bridge, beneath the lamps close by, Where once the sign-board caught the passing eye, Low lies that stone, and thirteen years have run Since great O'Connell's statue was begun. Imagination fondly stoops to play Around the glories of that festive day ; The Lord Mayor's coach, the banners of the trades, The coal-barge men with green and white cockades, The harp of paste-board, miracle of art, Borne by a minstrel butcher on his cart, His robe a lawyer's gown, sublime he sat With bays of green wall-paper round his hat. Vain transitory splendours ! must we own That monument is still a sunken stone? Ill fares the Town, to hastening ills a prey, Whose Councillors the part of statesmen play. Princes and lords may flourish and declaim, Merchants, of course, are free to do the same ; But some of them should study fields less wide, Or else resign ; their place can be supplied. A time there was ere Erin's griefs began, When limpid as a brook, the LifFey ran : Then nets were spread to catch her wholesome store : She gave what Life required, but gave no more. But times are alter'd ; buildings spread about Usurp the stream, and dispossess the trout. M 161 JOHN MARTLEY That sparkling wave where shining salmon rose Unsightly now with cumbrous hulks it flows, And every woe to pestilence allied, For Death sits brooding o'er the noisome tide. But all forget in chilly spring-time's bloom, The breeze that fann'd a harvest for the tomb. Those hopeful schemes that fill'd the daily press, Floodgates and sewers to make the nuisance less, These all await their season as of yore, Till swooning Chiefs adjourn the Courts once more. Oh ! cherish'd Dolphin, famed for beer and wine, Retreat from Care where juniors love to dine ; How blest is he who crowns in summer's drought, A plate of lobster with a pint of stout ! Who quits a Court, where stifling odours are, And since 'tis hot for walking hails a car ; Not like his seniors paid to work and weep, Who crowd the coffee-room like flocks of sheep, Where surly waiters round the doorway spar, And spurn imploring famine from the bar. But he in peace reviews his latter end ; Briefs soon will come, for time will prove his friend, The whole will pass with unperceived decay, And resignation gently slope the way. Thus prospects brighten as he plies his blade, And heaven commences, when his punch is made. 162 JOHN MARTLEY Oh ! ye who fuse by Acts without a flaw Wild Equity with most uncommon Law, Will Courts of Justice now more nearly vie With heaven above because we call them " high"? " Fused " are the famed tribunals of our youth, " Divisions " of one perfect whole forsooth. Words even beyond the scrivener's wish abound, Our law reforms, if nothing else, are sound. But count our gains ; this boon is but a name, That leaves our litigation still the same. Not so the loss ; some clerk, a rustic swain, Will tinker pleas, which tax'd the lawyer's brain. Our future Judges, wrapt in silken sloth, Will rise no more by learning's gradual growth. Meanwhile the peasant, " rooted in the soil," Impatient spurns frugality and toil ; O'er the wide world his fired ambition flies, For all the luxuries the world supplies ; And though on clods the ploughman's feet must tread A Christy's hat will soon adorn his head : Thus the poor land, assigned to paupers all, In Governmental mortgage waits the fall. As some young rake, devoid of proper cash, Resolved while credit stays to cut a dash, Flies every clamorous tradesman that pursues, Nor shares with duns the tribute of the Jews. But when those duns draw near, for duns prevail, When time advances, and advances fail, He then walks forth, solicitous to bet 163 JOHN MARTLEY In all the glaring impudence of debt. Thus fares the land by statesmanship betray'd, In Nature's robes of wealth at first array'd, But spoil'd by long neglect each boon receives And every specious flattering tale believes ; Then when recurring failure brings its train Of shame, disease, and famine once again, Plays her last card, Rebellion, like a fool, And cries Young Ireland ! Tenant-right ! Home Rule ! Politics, ye cursed by heaven's decree, Small trivial themes are dearer far to me ! How have I sped in many a bygone year To meet my lady fair on Kingstown Pier ! Beneath that tottering roof at Westland Row, 'Mid scenes long cherish'd, still I love to go. The jarvey fierce, the fare that will not pay, The proud policeman, doubtful what to say, The mongrel cur, sad victim to the mange, The throngs that leave no time for counting change, The boys that loudly and more loudly bawl " Thay ' Weekly News,' " which no one buys at all ; The man who seems a double debt to pay, Waiter by night, and ticket-clerk by day ; The folk that peep at Judy on the stall, The lady with the curls, who greets them all : While these in wild confusion play their parts, 1 view my train, but not before it starts. 164 JOHN MARTLEY Sweet intercourse of fogies, club-delights, Departed joys of tedious winter nights, Could even our social Dublin not resist The fatal spell of never-ceasing whist ? No more the doctor's news, the parson's tale, No more the schoolboy banter shall prevail ; No savant now his eloquence will air With ease of style upon an easy chair ; No more acrostic-solvers, race unique, Will read through half the poets once a week, Till the coy word, unwilling to be guess'd, Beams upon one, who tells it to the rest. Losers may now regret, though winners hate Those genial circles, all forsworn of late, Abandon'd for the whist club, where no joke Dispels the gloom, except a stray revoke. When first mankind a game with nature play'd, The ace of trumps was Adam's garden-spade, " To sleep, perchance to dream " the quiet " rub," Till Cain rufTd hearts for ever with a club ; And oh to me more soothing rest from toil Are tea and talk than Cavendish and Hoyle : Spontaneous jests and theories unconfined, Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind : But the misdeal, the honours all unclaim'd, The call unanswer'd and the culprit shamed ; The " volunteer " we lead without a cause, The luck that crowns with ill-deserved applause, In these, ere "duffers" half the game acquire, 165 FITZGERALD ISDELL They lose enough to purchase half a shire, And while the creamlaid, flowery cards decoy, The heart distrusting asks if this be joy. Sweet Dublin, doom'd in slavery to cower, Thy thoroughfares confess the tyrant's power ; In many a silent street policemen stalk, And tire the echoes with unvaried walk ; Crown'd are their heads with classic helmets all, And oft on ours their vengeful batons fall ; As some bold critic, pompous, though an ass, With empty head array'd in classic brass, Who for the dread V.R. and 20 D. Dons the imposing editorial " WE," Lays his almighty stick about our brains, And breaks the very law that he maintains, Deeming our grammar quite defective shown, Because it differs widely from his own : But parodists in Phoebus' force I call The shrewd detectives ; bribe me, poets all. J. M. THE STUDY OF ASTRONOMY I SWING about and in and out On slow celestial axes, While Aries and false Libra flout Me with their parallaxes. 166 FITZGERALD ISDELL I wander softly in a node With gentle aberrations, And then I climb an endless road Gold-sprinkled with lunations. I give to gibbous Jupiter A distant cold nutation ; For all his broad diameter, He's but a mean equation. And now I see with sadden'd gaze The lunar periodic, Still chasing in a circling maze The retrograde Synodic. The belted hunter shines afar, Orion with his gladius ; His total length 47rV, Divided by the radius. The vertical, that comrade prime, Fills achromatic glasses ; We clink, and drink in varied time Proportioned to our masses. Then by degrees my drowsy head Gives way to gravitation, I wonder where I'll find a bed, And what is this rotation. F. I. 167 GEORGE WILKINS (ATALANTA OUT OF CALYDON) WHEN winter comes, making blue our faces, Much mud is mix'd in highway and lane, While scavengers smoke in shelter'd places Out of the way of the riddling rain ; And the old umbrella voluminous Is sought, and settled, and spread by us ; Though vanished mayhap are its pristine graces, And rift and rent in its plumes are plain. For all the smiles of summer are over, And bands, and flirtations, and strolls by the sea, And twilight walks of lover and lover, With speeches spooney as spooney can be ; And business remember'd is love forgotten, To other people and things you cotton, And though you be call'd a faithless rover, That makes no odds, between you and me. And learning by day and forgetting by night Brings towards his B.A. the fleet-foot gib, With foot-ball, and hockey, and such delight As bursteth blood-vessel and staveth rib ; 168 GEORGE WILKINS And though landsmen hold their noses and shiver, The gig-oars dash in our unsweet river, And the oarsman exulteth, oblivious quite Of vigils o'er Euclid and Giles's crib. With petticoats toss'd and ribbons a-flutter, With veils that escape and scale to the sky, With hats that trundle along the gutter, The bleak November comes blustering by ; And, gasping, we grin as the wild wind fleet, Along the stricken straight stretch of the street, Dishevels bare heads, whose mild mouths mutter Blessings benign on the things that fly. The rude wind ravishes Beauty's hair ; The lost nymph shudders and hides her eyes ; The sunny snare slipping away leaves bare No matter what but the coiffeur sighs ; The curls take flight like the autumn leaves, And never a hair-pin catches or cleaves To the scalp despoil'd, the sights that scare Mars who follows, Adonis who flies. G. W. 169 ARTHUR PALMER EPICHARIS "Atque interim Nero recordatus Volusii Proculi indicio Epicharim attineri ratusque muliebre corpus impar dolori tormentis dilacerari iubet. At illam non verbera, non ignes, non ira eo acrius torquentium ne a femina spernerentur, pervi- cere quin obiecta denegaret. Sic primus quaestionis dies contemptus. Postero cum ad eosdem cruciatus retraheretur gestamine sellae (nam dissolutis membris insistere nequibat), vinclo fasciae, quam pectori detraxerat, in modum laquei ad arcum sellae restricto indidit cervicem et corporis pondere conisa tenuem iam spiritum expressit, clariore exemplo libertina mulier in tanta necessitate alienos ac prope ignotos protegendo, cum ingenui et viri et equites Romani senatoresque intacti tormentis carissima suorum quisque pignorum proderent." TAG. ANN. xv. 57- MOTIONLESS, in a dark, cold cell in Rome, A woman, bruised and burnt, but breathing still, Lay all alone, and thus her weak, wan lips Whisper'd to high Jove from that dungeon floor " I am a poor weak woman, O ye gods, And now I ask forgiveness, lying here, (I have no strength to rise upon my knees), For all the heavy sins that I have done. Remember, O just gods, that this is Rome, And I a woman, and the weakest born. Could such a woman, nursed in such a city, Live righteously, as high-born maidens live ? A poor, fair slave, on Rome's waste ocean thrown, I had but heaven to turn to in distress, And heaven always turn'd away from me. 170 ARTHUR PALMER But if I have offended by my life, let me make atonement by my death ! 1 bore the torture yesterday, kind gods, Bravely, and would have died before a word Escaped me ; but my cunning torturers, Seeing the ensign of my ally death Advancing swiftly, seeing me still dumb, Released me, hoping that another trial Would quell me : and I fear, I fear, it may, For O the pain was horrible : but yesterday A sort of trance was on me all the time That let me triumph over any pain, And made me secretly deride the fools For wasting all their cruel toil in vain. But to begin the agony again The burning bricks, the red-hot plates, the scourge Kind gods assist me ! let me not die a traitor ! Take from me this weak breath, or give me means To stop it, so men may say when I am gone, ' This was a poor weak woman, but no traitor ! ' And so, perhaps, when poor Epicharis Is cast away, without a grave or name, Some man, who fears the gods, and loves not traitors, May come and lay a penny on my lips, That I may want not Charon's passage fee, Nor flit for ever by the bank of Styx." She ceased for very weakness, but her words Mounted as high as heaven from the stones, And on the moment Nero's messengers 171 W. C. K. WILDE Came in to lead her to the torment-room ; But finding that she could not stand, they brought A litter, and so bore her through the streets. And thus the gods granted the harlot's prayer ; For in the litter's roof she spied a ring, And quickly loosed the band that bound her waist, And did it round her neck, and through the ring, And calling up her torture-broken strength, Crush'd out her little life a faithful girl. And on the soldiers bore her through the streets, Until they reach'd the hall of doom, and there Open'd the litter's door, and she was gone ; More nobly dead, though but a freed-woman, Than many a Roman, swoln* with pedigree. SALOME (FOR A PICTURE) THE sight of me was as devouring flame Burning their hearts with fire, so wantonly That night I danced for all his men to see! Fearless and reckless; for all maiden shame Strange passion-poisons throbbing overcame As every eye was riveted on me, And every soul was mine, mine utterly, And thrice each throat cried out aloud my name ! * Cf. Juv. Sat VIII. Tumes alto Drusorum stemmate. 172 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN "Ask what thou wilt," black-bearded Herod said. God wot a weird thing do I crave for prize : "Give me, I pray thee, presently the head Of John the Baptist." 'Twixt my hands it lies. " Ah, mother ! see ! the lips, the half-closed eyes Dost think he hates us still now he is dead?" W. C. K. W. LADY-BIRD HER life was like the life of birds, When birds in May have met : Her language and her voice were words To music set. To tripping song she tripp'd along : And Death, that still'd the nest, Came sweetly, in her sweet life-song, A bar of rest. The bar of rest that comes betwixt A bird's last lullaby, And that first song, with morning mixt, It sings on high. S. K. C. 173 OSCAR WILDE "LA BELLE MARGUERITE" BALLADE DU MOYEN AGE. I AM weary of lying within the chase, While the knyghtes are meeting in market-place. Nay, go not thou to the red-roof d town, Lest the hooves of the war-horse tread thee down. But I would not go where the squires ride : I would only sit by my lady's side. Alack ! and alack ! thou art over-bold, A forester's son may not eat off gold. Will she love me less, that my father is seen Each Martinmas Day in a doublet green ? But your cloak of sheepskin is rough to see, When your lady is clad in cramoisie. Alack ! and alack ! then, if true love dies, When one is in silk, and the other in frieze ! Mayhap she is working the tapestrie ; Spindle and loom are not meet for thee. If it be that she seweth the arras bright, I might ravel the threads by the fire-light. 174 OSCAR WILDE Mayhap she is chasing of the deer ; How could you follow o'er hill and meer ? If it be that she hunteth with the Court, I might run behind her, and wind the mort. Mayhap she is praying in chapellrie (To her soul may our Lady show gramercie ! ) Ah, if she is kneeling in lone chapelle, I might swing the censer, or ring the bell. Come in, my son, for thou look'st sae pale, Thy father will fill thee a stoup of ale. Oh, who are these knyghtes in bright array ? Is it a pageant the rich folk play ? It's the King of France from over the sea, That has come to visit our fair countrie. But why does the curfew toll sae low ? And why do the mourners walk a-row ? Oh, it's Hugh of Durham, my sister's son, That is lying stark, for his day is done. Ah, no, for I see white lilies clear ; It is no strong man that lies on the bier. Oh, it's good Dame Alice that kept the Hall : I knew she would die at the autumn fall. 175 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN Dame Alice was not a maiden fair; Dame Alice had not that yellow hair. Oh, it's none of our kith and none of our kin; (Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin). But I hear the boy's voice chaunting sweet, " Elle est morte, la Marguerite ! " Come in, my son, and lie on the bed, And let the dead folk bury their dead. Oh, mother, you know I loved her true : Oh, mother, one grave will do for two. O. W. A SUPPLEMENTAL EXAMINATION Low in the tower toll'd the bell: The gown'd jib bow'd the trembling knee; He knew his classics passing well, But of his science nothing he : A yard of sums was up his sleeves ; A band of scrip around his cuffs; And in his shoes were frequent leaves, And scraps of scientific stuffs. For the mother was anxious Her boy should pass : And his father alarm'd For the fees of the class : 176 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN And the father had promised A five-pound note ; And the mother with science Had padded his coat. And one said tremblingly, " To pass I trow it is no use to try ; Let us go hence and drain the glass." To whom another, " No, not I, For be our brains obtuse or quick, I hold it true, whate'er befall, 'Tis better to go in and stick, Than never to go in at all." And thro' the gates, As soon as they sunder'd, The raw undergraduates Stumbled and thunder'd, All in a fluster, Like sheep in a cluster, A marvellous muster, Nearly six hundred. And thro' the open doors he pass'd, And forth he paced into the hall; And on a bench his body cast, In one dark corner of the wall. 177 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN At little-go or term exams, He scarce could stick, so stocked was he With scientific diagrams, And multifarious formulae. And the boy was contented, His corner won. For all supervisors, Sane or demented, Fear he hath none. "Sizars, O sizars, None of your capers : Hand us the papers, And let us have done ! " And forth with stealth the scraps he drew, And books that were for chance alarms, Tied to elastic bands, which flew Up with a spring into his arms. He fear'd no scare from cube or square, Since coat and cuff held stealthy store; He knew the very sums were there, And he could pass for evermore. Almost of science Nothing he knows, All his reliance Lay in his clothes, With scrips in his pocket, With slips in his locket, 178 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN And sums in his shoe, Nothing could stand him : Nil desperandum, Little boy blue ! And soon the flimsy sums he floor'd, And conn'd the conies thro' and thro' ; But, at his boasted classics, scored Out of a dozen only two. O blank his brain, but bland his luck, For, tho' long coach'd in classic leaves, He had most certainly been stuck But for the science in his sleeves. Lecturer, lecturer, How have I pass'd ? Answer, O answer, Tell me the worst. Where am I reckon'd ? How am I class'd ? Not in the first, No, nor the second; Last in the last ! And swift unto his home he hied, And arms about his parents cast : And, " O sweet father," leapt and cried, And, " O sweet mother, I have pass'd. 179 OSCAR WILDE O strange and true the tale I tell, And true as strange, and strange as true, Altho' I knew my classics well, It was my science pull'd me through." And his father was happy, And gave him the note ; And his mother embraced him, And stitch'd his coat. S. K. C. AVE MARIA WAS this His coming ? I had hoped to see A scene of blinding glory, as was told Of some great god who in a rain of gold Broke open bars, and fell on Danae ; Or a dread vision, as when Semele Hungering with love and unappeased desire, Pray'd to see God's clear body, and the fire Caught her fair limbs and slew her utterly. With such glad dreams I came into this place, And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand And look upon this mystery of Love. " A kneeling girl with passionless pale face, An angel with a lily in his hand, And over both, with outstretch'd wings, the Dove." O. W. ST. MARCO, FLORENCE. 180 JOHN VERSCHOYLE DANAE I'D paint, but ah ! 'twould need a master's hand, The extreme splendour of those virgin charms That drew the Thunderer captive to her arms, Whom in the brass-bound cell a sire's command Coffin'd from love and life. The sea-breeze fann'd Softly her tear-tired eyes ; half drowsed she lay, While strange sun-shafts, more bright than beams of day, Stol'n through the bars, her beauteous body spann'd, Toy'd with the rippled chestnut of her tresses, Spent all its soul upon her rosebud lips, And lover-like that golden glamour presses Her bright white breast, and each sweet secret sips. Smiles fleet but sweet answer those charm'd caresses, Love lovelier ne'er had Zeus than now he clips. J.V. 181 THOMAS W. H. ROLLESTON IlfiS OY XPH KAI AOIAON EN EIAPI KAAON AEI2AI WIND, O wind of the Spring ! thine old enchantment renewing, Strike from my soul, like a lyre, billowy music to birth Like as a harp's strings clash when struck with the sword of the spoiler So, at the shock of thy might, wakens a cry within me. Out of what wonderful lands, never trodden by man, never heard of Burning with quenchless desire, fierce with a madness divine Comest thou, breathing like flame till the whole earth flames into blossom, Quickening the sap of old woods, swayed in thy stormy embrace ; Rousing, in depths of the heart the wild waves of an infinite longing, Fervent for freedom and life, yearning for springs that are dead ! Surely the far blue sea, foam-flecked with the speed of thy coming, Brighten'd in laughter abroad, sang at the feet of the isles, Stirr'd in a tumult of joy, as my soul stirs, trembling with passion, Trembling with passion and hope, wild with the spirit of Spring. Something remains upon earth to be done, to be dared, to be sought for ; Up with the anchor once more ! Out with the sails to the wind ! Out to the shock of the seas, that encircle the Fortunate Islands, Vision of souls that are free, home of the wind of the Spring. T. W. H. R. 182 HARRY CRICHTON WEIR VENUS VICTA WHATEVER moonstruck poets say, Love, shorn of humbug and pretences, Is, as we see it every day, A mere delusion of the senses. I've felt myself the transient glow, And even now I well remember How ardently it burn'd, although The month was, as I think, December. I sigh'd just then to find some nice Unfeathered angel, and adore her ; So, meeting Alice on the ice, I fell an easy prey before her. Yes, fell for, giving her my hand, I stumbled, slipp'd, and willy-nilly Saluted what she trod on, and Look'd most unutterably silly. However she was very kind, And courteously suppress'd her laughter ; And, neither seeming disinclined, Of course we met again soon after. She smiled, and I began to see Through blinded optics of affection, And soon her merits seem'd to me A very full and choice collection. 183 HARRY CRICHTON WEIR Her French had just the native twang, She play'd sonatas most divinely ; Like Patti, I averr'd, she sang ; And whilst she play'd (I thought) so finely, She painted, and to me she seem'd A female Titian Vandyke Turner ; Her manner, as I rightly deem'd, Had nothing of the plodding learner. In church her style of giving the Responses was affecting, very ; Her acting always seem'd to me Quite to eclipse Miss Ellen Terry. Her dresses were a thing apart From all experience past all praising ; Her insight into Shakspere's art Was something really amazing. She scribbled verses, and I swore She rivall'd Byron, Keats, and Shelley; I vow'd that nothing could be more Delicious than her apple jelly. I hung upon her repartees, I doted on her tiny bonnets ; I worshipp'd the triumphant ease She show'd in salads and in sonnets. 184 HARRY CRICHTON WEIR I wrote a ream of verse about "Twin souls " and "passion's wasting fire," And had it neatly copied out On paper at twelve pence the quire. I dedicated it to her She was my Muse, my inspiration And sent by special messenger The precious, precious lucubration. I wonder what became of it ? I wonder did she ever read it ? Perhaps so. Flattery apt and fit Is food for girls. They seem to need it. And she was worthy. Yes, I vow, I've rarely met with such another. But why discuss the matter now ? She's married and a triple mother. And yet I cannot choose but think Had time and chance made the suggestion- How near I once was to the brink Of putting the important question. The answer in the negative, I should have vow'd upon my honour A moment longer not to live, And laid my tragic end upon her. '85 JOHN MARTLEY That leaf of life its earnest fun Ah ! did she once for ever close it ? Or does she still remember one Who made himself a fool and knows it ? Perhaps, contented with her lot, She harbours no such recollections, It's just as well that she should not : The husband might have grave objections. H. C. W. THE PAYMENT OF THE RENT OH Paddy dear, and did ye hear the news that's going round ? No honest man will be allow'd to live on Irish ground. Now all who lay their money out in Ireland will repent, For there's a cruel league again' the payment of the rent. I met with Doyle the tailor, and said he, " Who'll care my wife When I am gone ? for I have lost the savings of a life. On a score or two of acres in the Land Court they were spent, And the tenants now will shoot me if I ask them for the rent." The land God gave to feed us all is what the tenants crave ; The rest may have a little share, enough to make a grave. If every lord that brings us trade be hateful as a Turk, Are there no men but farmers that are poor and do their work ? When rogues can make the forest trees grow level with the weeds, And they can make a harvest rise who never sow'd the seeds, Then to give up all my earnings to the cut-throat I'll consent, But till that day, please God, I'll have my acres or my rent. 186 J. M. JOHN MARTLEY THE INDEFEASIBLE TITLE I'LL sing you all a song that was made by an honest pate, Of a fine old Irish gentleman, who mortgaged his estate To a bluff old English mortgagee, who swore he couldn't wait, But would sell the lands at any price and at an early date, Like a business-like old Englishman, all of the olden time. But when a purchaser was sought, the title was so queer That people thought at any price the bargain would be dear ; Then this offhand Englishman pooh-pooh'd, and answer'd, " Never fear, For I'll create a brand-new court to make the title clear." Like a politic old gentleman, all in the famine times. Then in this novel auction-court the land was sold ding-dong, And Justice Christian made a speech that we'll remember long, How the Act against all comers made the title stand so strong, That even the very child unborn might chance to suffer wrong, Like a caustic, tart old gentleman, the censor of his times. So the new owner gloated o'er his title from the Crown, And plumed himself that nevermore on him would fortune frown, And gave his tenants all a spread, and took the train to town, And went to see the pantomime, and bought his wife a gown, Like a jubilant old purchaser, all in the piping times. But after years the Fenians rose and made a great to-do, And, worst of all, in Manchester a poor policeman slew, And made a very loud report, which frighten'd London too, At which mishaps the Englishman quite agitated grew, And felt he could no more resist the current of the times. 187 JOHN MARTLEY Farmers there are, like other men, who like a little game, Which is to get their neighbours' goods, not paying for the same, So they passed an Act to satisfy the Irish tenant's claim, (" Compensation for Disturbance " was the euphemistic name), Which gave him what his landlord own'd in less enlighten'd times. And when the tenant thus was well-nigh rooted in the soil, About the fixing of the rent there rose a great turmoil ; And to fix the rent at nothing was the outcome of the broil, Whereat the poor old owner felt his blood begin to boil, Till at length his feelings found relief in writing to the " Times." Then the honest Englishman replied, " My friend, consider well, You've bought a fine fat oyster cheap, and now you won't rebel If we give your oyster to the poor, and leave to you the shell, With a title none will e'er dispute not even the bold Parnell," Like a very dry old gentleman, who made a joke at times. To the old parish church, long left without a clergyman, This ruin'd landlord bent his steps, the Bible's page to scan, And found a passage there by chance, and this was how it ran : " Put not your trust in princes, nor in any child of man," Did this broken-hearted gentleman, who'd fallen on evil times. Thus round the wealthy Englishman while hungry creatures prowl, He throws his children to the wolf that gives the loudest growl ; Nor, when the landless labourer in turn begins to howl, Will the farmer fare much better than the " coroneted Ghoul," At the hands of this old gentleman, who always serves the times. J. M. 188 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN IDAD.ECA* COALS are again announced to rise, Idadaeca : I cannot half believe my eyes, Idadaeca. Here, as I grope and freeze and hark The listless curs ayont me bark, Idadseca, At the great moon that gilds the dark, Idadaeca. Ah, when will these things have an end, Idadasca ? I call to thee, as to a friend, Idadaeca. Already prices range so high, I cannot, with my income, buy, Idadaeca, Food, light, or fuel ; no, not I, Idadaeca. So in the dark I starve and freeze, Idadaeca : I hear the knocking of my knees, Idadaeca : * See advertising columns of London press. 189 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN There is none other help for me, Nor will there ever likely be, Idadaeca, Except I find that help in thee, Idadaeca. Twinkle, twinkle, little star, Idadaeca : How I wonder what you are, Idadaeca : On ledge, on wall, on window-frame, In spots unknown, in haunts of fame, Idadaeca, I see huge placards with your name, Idadaeca. Oh, say, whatever can you be, Idadaeca ? The governor-general of Fiji, Idadaeca ? Some horse's name some favourite foal, Or may be, (peace, my panting soul,) Idadaeca, Some good cheap substitute for coal, Idadaeca ? Some new-style " dolman " for the spring, Idadseca ? Another " Idyl of the King," Idadaeca ? 190 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN Some highly-recommended tea ? Or, (hence, ye frisky fancies, flee,) Idadaeca, Another Ouida novelty, Idadaeca ? Alas, I cannot make thee out, Idadaeca ! My mind is clouded with a doubt, Idadaeca : But Time, which raises bards to fame, (And murder,) I suppose the same, Idadaeca, Will solve the mystery of thy name, Idadaeca. S. K. C. MY OULD CLAY PIPE OF the sorrows and strife of a journey thro' life, It's myself could unfold you full many a tale : Of the friends of my youth, some are dead, in good sooth, And some have got married, and some are in jail. And some have gone hence at the country's expense, And some on the gallows departed this life. Oh, the only ould friend that has stood to the end, My faithful companion, thro' sorrow and strife, 191 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN Is my ould clay dhudeen, from sweet Ballyporeen, So famed for its bogs and its cabins of clay ! Oh, my darlin' ould pipe, which I made of a wipe From the walls of my father's mud cabin one day ! One day, when I went for to beg off my rent, From the murderin' landlord (who granted my prayer), A case, neat and clean, for my darlin' dhudeen, I cut from the leg of his dinin'-room chair. And that evenin' at nine, when he sat down to dine, Down crash'd the ould chair, and he lost his ould life. Oh, the only true friend that has stood to the end, My faithful companion, thro' sorrow and strife, Is my ould clay dhudeen, from sweet Ballyporeen, So famed for its bogs and its cabins of clay ! Oh, my darlin' ould pipe, which I made of a wipe From the walls of my father's mud cabin one day ! By aspirin' to fame, by desirin' a name, Some folks are deceived, till for death they are ripe ; But my old clay dhudeen tells me just what they mean Bright bubbles of soap in the bowl of a pipe ! And one night when in bed (I was smokin' they said), The clothes caught on fire, and cremated my wife. Oh, the only true friend that has stood to the end, My faithful companion, thro' sorrow or strife, 192 ROBERT YELVERTON TYRRELL Is my ould clay dhudeen, from sweet Ballyporeen, So famed for its bogs and its cabins of clay ! Oh, my darlin' ould pipe, which I made of a wipe From the walls of my father's mud cabin one day ! You may boast of your birth, and your titles of earth, But yet you're no more than my ould clay dhudeen ! Of clay you were made, and in clay you'll be laid : So, friends, when I die, in some case, neat and clean, Lay me gently to rest, with my pipe on my breast, Till I wake some fine morn, and rekindle my life. Oh, the only ould friend that has stood to the end, My faithful companion thro' sorrow and strife, Is my ould clay dhudeen, from sweet Ballyporeen, So famed for its bogs and its cabins of clay ! Oh, my darlin' ould pipe, which I made of a wipe From the walls of my father's mud cabin one day ! S. K. C. ANOTHER WAY OF ART (ON READING "ANOTHER WAY OF LOVE" A TRANSCRIPT) i SULTRY December With steaming rain Was drenching her roses That passim blew, o 193 ROBERT YELVERTON TYRRELL When a man I knew, But do not remember (I won't be plain : The true Bard poses), Taking a volume of poems up, And pausing, as 'twere 'twixt the lip and the cup, Said, If this is a riddle, I give it up. ii What's all this " June " about, June and her bosom, As thorny with prickles As the Flight of the Duchess ? I know just as much as The man in the moon about What mean the blossom And masstime and trickles. So the man thinks, in the midst of his curses, Of things once described as the rudders of verses, Wherewith certain poets still pilot their courses. in And then, if for triumph A rhyme be too khalepon, It is not surprising (In one who hails sperm-oil 194 FREEMAN WILLS To jingle with turmoil} To find that with hi humph The Poet can gallop on ; And the thought keeps arising, That if, with experience of June and her lover, Art use her art-rhymes for the passions that move her, And stop Introspection why, Art may recover. T EWIGKEIT WE sat together on the shore, And saw the ships sail out to sea, And slowly sink to Evermore And fleets of clouds pass'd grand and free Till they were lost to her and me. We sat and watch'd an airy flight Of gannets fleck the central blue, Until they task'd the straining sight, And into motes of distance grew Then faintly faded from the view. I said, They pass : the clouds fleet on : Full sail to Thule go the ships : To Ewigkeit the birds are gone : Each in that orb of purple dips To dust come love and loving lips. 195 C. K. POOLER One only thing is fix'd : while I Am clasping you in loving might, A moment all in sea and sky Must stay upon relentless flight Give all for this to Ewigkeit. F. W. THE DRAUGHT FERISHTAH smiled : " I, poet and something more " Premise the sage merest hedge-schoolmaster Grew his own style though, forced i' the hot-bed, eh ! Heat's your true motive, care not for the source Weeping (his wont), verse mouth'd, had paused abrupt. Whereat some fool the ass's jaw, which late Drove through the surreptitious apple, perk'd To scoff his betters : " Explicate, Sir Sage, Your verse ' mix'd nothings, clouds of fuzz,' says one, ' No Kosmos, chaos rather ' verse which helps, No less, man's life, probes sense, I grant, to heal, How comes it halting, knotted, gnarl'd, confess'd Confusion of rough-strung parentheses ? Were not the higher art to triumph down Just such obstructions, give us (Samson you), As says the Jews' book, sweetness from the strong. Put case. Our Indian doctor whirl'd in silk, Four horses proffers universal cure ; ' Your mark's a tonic,' quotha, ' steel's the tip ' 196 C. K. POOLER Obtruding what ? A shovelful of nails ? Or, for a bolus, say, a cannon ball ? Nowise, I promise you ; ensuring what Prompt answer ? ' Peptics that endure, survive Cast-iron, were they better'd by any leech ? ' Put case once more, sir. You have nuts to give ; What ! for the kernel ? or to test the teeth, Strengthen the cheek's strap ? Crack your proper jaw, But do your guest the grace of leverage Resistance midmost nut-crackers, in fine." Ferishtah smiled : " I, poet and something more, Witness that verse, ' How twinks thine eye, my Love ! ' (You know it, and it takes you. Well ! should take) In morals (mark you) easily allow'd Judge, jury, advocate, put case (conceive) Or cases, such as serve ; not yours i' faith, My John a Noakes or John o' Stiles. For why ? A rustic call him Noodle Cupid's fist Thrust full i' the throat of him no word will come, Shuffling, or dangling wi' the t'other heel, Leers ; meanwhile, Dulcinea dusts a chair, Snickers, the huzzy, sees her trick will bite. Down plumps Sir Noodle smother'd expletives Attest sense outraged fumbles, finds, you ask ? What but a pin, set fast i' the soft of him ? ' Corker,' you call it crook'd a' purpose too ! But I (Gadzooks, you thought you had me, sir) Choose chair to suit, dust it myself (believe !). No cloud to-day on neighbour Hafiz' brow ; 197 C. K. POOLER Full sunshine there ! Well, yesterday, his boy, With hand so to be graphic placed athwart Just where gripes thicken most i' the father's husk, Shins to the Hakim asks advice, in brief, What does Sir Leech you've mark'd him, hand on pen, Airing his Latin. 1^ for recipe ; Mag. Sulph., four ounces; Glycyr. (Ext.}, a half; Tinct. Sennae, two-an'-a-half; Tinct. Card. Co., ten (Drams, mark you, these) ; Inf. Sennae ad a store. M. F. M. sumat cyathum, and the rest. Home scuttles, lighter by a few dinars, Bearing the billet, who but Hafizy?/.y? Gripes regnant (tell me) what does Hafiz pere ? Fumble and focus ? Find no sense in it, Twirl'd so i' the fingers? You mistake the man. Off scuds our youngster, rather hump'd for speed To what's Parsi for 'Pothecaries' Hall ? Draught, wax, string, paper, so much (cash !) Our friend (Stark nought were else all 'pothecaries) finds Prompt action in a phial. Smiles to-day. Nay more, this billet snug in 's Zendavest Baffles the prying, serves another's turn ; Why rouse the Hakim when a neighbour groans ? Well, revenons twig the lingo, French, no less Has no Ferishtah-Fame Society, (My 'pothecaries grip of tooth and claw For disentanglement) ? My craft (perpend) Is verse. ' Fit audience let me find, though few,' Said Milton, so do I say. Great wits jump." I9 8 C. K. P. A. C. MEREDITH FROM THE GERMAN fj,d\.a ye rot TO /teyaAas vyefas axopeoTov re/5/ia, vdcros yap aei yeiVwv 6/iOTOt^os epei'Set. Ac. Two chambers hath the heart : There dwelling, Live Joy and Pain apart. Is Joy in one awake ? Then only Doth Pain his slumber take. Joy, in thine hour, refrain Speak softly, Lest thou awaken Pain. T. W. H. R. THE VOICE OF THE HEIGHTS (FROM HEINE) THROUGH the cleft of the heights, in strange, sad wise, Journey'd a warrior brave ; " Go I," he cried, " to my lady's eyes, Or go I to the dark grave ? " And the heights' voice answer gave, "To the dark grave." 199 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN He sigh'd full sore, and hasten'd on Upon his knightly quest ; " Go I," he cried, " to the grave so soon Ah, well, in the grave is rest ! " And the voice thereat confess'd, " In the grave is rest." Down the cheek of the warrior, ruefully, One salt, hot tear-drop fell ; " In the grave alone is rest for me, For me in the grave 'tis well." And the voice was like a knell, "In the grave 'tis well." A. C. M. LOCKSLEY HALL HOTEL THE MORNING AFTER WAITER ! please to clear the table, ere as yet 'tis break of day ; Clear the table, and bereave me of your jocund company. Stow the empty brandy-bottles underneath the tufted floor, And consign the vacant goblets to the press behind the door. Waiter ! I am supper-sated : I am dying for a doze : Let me sleep, and when you want me play upon me with the hose. 'Tis the room, and all around it, where we supp'd the night before; And the only sole survivor is my friend upon the floor. 200 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN I have seen the spruce Ojibways swallow vitriol for sport, And the almond-eyed duennas dancing jigs to pipes of port. I have seen the double Dutchman play such fiery pranks with gin, That the juniperian berries sprang, in spring-time, from his skin. I have seen the cow-like Lascar chew his alcoholic cud, And unwholesome alligators wallow in unfathom'd mud. But a tongue of tougher metal, or a throat of wider bore, I have never yet encounter'd, than my friend's upon the floor. He is snoring so profoundly, with his head within the bowl, Like a china nightcap round him, peace to his convivial soul ! Who, or whence, I wonder, is he ? for I only saw my friend Drinking, all night long, in silence, at the table's further end. Drinking deeply ; but whenever, one by one, the board was reft Of my messmates, and, at midnight, he and I alone were left, Filling up one last huge draught, he drain'd it with one mighty toss, " Here's to our next merry meeting, and our better 'quaintance, boss ! " Thus he spake; then smiling blandly, went, without another word Like a mainmast in a whirlwind by the hospitable board. Hark ! I hear some rusty rooster, to the dawn, reveille crow : Hark ! I hear the lusty landlord totting up the score below : And I fancy that the total lies beyond my income's scope : But the door, behind my messmate, opens streetward and I slope. 201 S. K. C. WILLIAM HEAZLE SALLUST CATILINE, CHAPTERS I TO VI IT becometh all men who ashpire Other animals for to exshel, To labor through wather and fire To make hashte an' to larn for to shpell ; Lesht in silence their lives they should pass Like cattle that thinks but of atin', Or like jackasses feedin' on grass, That all the shmall boys do be batin' An' proddin' wid nails an' brash pins. For the whole of the strinth that we boasht In the body an' sowl quite complate is, But the sowl does be rulin' the roasht, While the body is diggin' the praties. For our sowls, sure, we share wid the gods, That are free from all troubles an' crosses, But our bodies, poor divils, are sods, Wid the mazely boneens an' owld horses, Afther sellin' their brishtles an' shkins. 202 WILLIAM HEAZLE So I think 'tis a far better plan To be famous by manes of the janius, Than by fightin' as hard as ye can Wid blaggards that to touch would demane yez. An' sence we can't live whin we die, An' dead min is too shtill to beshpakin', We should do somethin' here mighty high, An' not always be dhrinkin' an' rakin', An' shpilin' our owld dacint name. For money's the divil to keep Good looks may be shpiled by the small-pox But vartue's etarnally deep, As the sarmints at Gregg's or at Alcock's. But min a long time did inquire Whether it was by fishts or by science, That O'Brallaghan bate Pat Maguire, When he guv him the mortial defiance At the Patthern of Ballynagrame. So before ye begin, ye musht think, An' whin ye've done thinkin', must hurry, Or, begorra, before ye can wink Ye'll be gettin' yerself in a flurry. Thus aich wan is wake whin alone, But they're illigant fine things together (Like hot wather an' owld Inishowen Mix'd wid shuggar, to keep out the weather, An' there's many worse things than that same). 203 WILLIAM HEAZLE An' so thin, at first, ye see, kings (For that was the name that they gave 'em), Though they'd different idayas of things, Would grab all ye had if ye'd lave 'em. So^some used their wits an' their sinse, Which manes that they chated their nabers, While some by the fishts did dispinse The prosades of the waker wans' labors, Which happens sometimes to this day. But in owld days their lifetime was shpint Widout any desires fit to mintion ; To the fairs an' the pattherns they wint Widout e'er a rookawn or contintion. Thin aich wan, well plazed wid his own, To the childer an' wife kep' attindin', An' no soart of shkamin' was known, For they'd nothin' worth shtalin' or lindin' That robbers could carry away. Whin the Danes war all bate by Boru, At Clontarf, by the side of the wather, An' the gallant O'Nale overthrew The Saxons wid terrible slaughther, Whin min guv up fightin' for love, An' kep' lookin' afther the plundher, An' iVry shpalpeen thried to shove Himself up an' all other min undher, Then follow'd a change most complate. 204 WILLIAM HEAZLE For 'twas seen just as straight as a rule, That the head was the thing for the fightin', That a gossoon might bate Fin MacCool Thro' the manes of the readin' an' 'ritin'. Thin larnin' began for to shpread, An' sojers to carry dispatches Sure Caesar himself, it is said, By his janius did win all the matches That he fought to be head of the shtate. But if monarchs, an' all sich big-wigs, An' sojers all paceful together, Would turn to the raisin' of pigs, An' to watchin' the signs of the weather, Affairs would go shwimmin'ly on, We'd be free from tithe-procthors an' thraitors, An' iv'ry son of a gun Would have work for his own masticathors, An' potteen would flow for a song. For 'tis aisy to keep a thing fasht, If ye howld it as well as ye grabb'd it, But if ye get lazy at lasht, 'T won't be long afore some wan has nabb'd^it. So 'tis always the knowinest chap Gets the betther of iv'ry shpooney, An' laves oh the divil a rap Wid the stupid, misfortunate looney, But pitches it into him sthrong. 205 WILLIAM HEAZLE So vartue is always obey'd By farmers an' by navigathors. But she's shoved, poor dear sowl, in the shade By all yer great shleepers an' aithers, Who take iv'ry thing aisy an' cool, As if they wor goin' to thravel, But, for all that he's worth, such a fool Might as well be laid undher the gravel, Wid an owld bit of shtone at his head. But the chap wid a notion of life Is him who keeps close to his thradin', Or to fightin', or coortin' a wife, Or any way glory is made in ; For in all the quare thrades that is goin', Such as sojers, an' sailors, an' tinkers, It is nathur herself does be showin' Iv'ry man what is fit for his fingers, To help him in arnin' his bread. Tis an illigant thing to be kilt, Av wan's name 'ud be put in the papers, Or to tell of the blood that was shpilt, Is found for to pay well, by Japers ! Keepin' quiet, or raisin' a fight A man, sure, can make himself famous ; What the chap didrit do, he will write, Or else (like Dutch Billy an' Shamus), He'll get up a scrimmage himself. 206 WILLIAM HEAZLE And tho' thim that tells of a row Don't get much of the honor an' glory, Yet it's no aisy task anyhow To make out a responsible shtory ; An' the rason of this is bekase You must make out it all was delightful, Or iv'rywan that you don't praise Will say you were cranky and shpiteful, An' that's why he's laid on the shelf. An' when of a hairo you shpake, Iv'rybody will listen, my shaver, Till there's somethin' for which they're too wake, Thin they'll call you a bloody desaver. Ever sence that I was a gossoon I niver yit miss'd an election, But I guv my vote wanst rather soon, An' was sarved wid a writ of ejection So I cut the political thrade. An' sure it was well that I did, For the dhrinkin' an' fightin' wor shameless, An' oceans of money wor bid To support a blagard musht be nameless. So as my own sowl did deshpise Sich thricks an' sich bribes an' desthruction, I kep' myself out of their lies In all the confusion an' ruction, Tho' 'twas bittherly hard, I'm afraid. 207 WILLIAM HEAZLE An' whin afther that / came to grief An' wint down to the counthry for quiet, I didn't go look for relief In huntin' or farmin' or riot ; Not I I knew betther nor that And wint back to my Latin an' larnin', Down to histhory-writin' I sat So I'll tell yiz the shtory consarnin' Mishther Catiline's shindy of owld. An' the rason this shtory I pick Is bekase 'tis by far the unfairest An' wickedest soart of a thrick That iver I heerd, an' the quarest. An' before we commince for to tell Of the bizness in all its whole bearin', Perhaps it 'ud just be as well To shpake a few words of the rarin' That med him so vicious an' bowld. Lucius Catiline kem of a shtock That always wor dacint an' civil ; He was cute, an' as sthrong as a rock But a regular limb of the divil. To him, from his tindherest years, Faction-fightin' an' robbin' wor plazin' ; He shpint most of his time, it appears, In such practices out of all rason, The misguided, misfortunate rake. 208 WILLIAM HEAZLE He could fasht all the day till the night, An' all night till the mornin' be dhrinkin', An' no wan would believe what a sight Of cowld he could shtand widout shrinkin'. He was shkamin', an' cunnin', an' hot, An' the broth of a boy for humbuggin' ; He'd shtale an' thin shpind all he got, An' the girls he was niver done huggin', An' nonsinse galore he would shpake. His covetious sperrit desired Things always beyant his resoorces, An' whin Misther Sulla retired To the place that was jue to his coorses, This pure boy detarmined to plan How he'd tare the whole counthry asundher ; An' he didn't care wanst he began By what manes he'd git howlt of the plundher, As long as he'd make himself king. He hadn't a minnit of pace Whin he found that he hadn't a farden, An' his frinzy an' rage would incrase Through the manes of his constant blaggardin'. Of them thricks that I sed wor his curse, Some new patthern he always was givin', An' what med him twinty times worse Was the way that the ginthry was livin', Rich naygers not good for a thing. 209 WILLIAM HEAZLE An' now sence of mor'ls is our talk, The sarcumstance seems to remind us To go a bit back in our walk To the jolly ould times long behind us, An' to tell in a couple of shakes All our ansisthers used to be doin', Whether workin' hard for their own sakes, Or mischief for furriners brewin' ; An' well they did both, I go bail ! An' how, by their shkamin' an' pluck. They med the shtate sthronger an' sthronger, An' handed it, not a bit shuck, To their childher to keep it up longer. An' how they, poor baists, nivir know'n' How to manage so grate a vocation, Let it maner and waker be grow'n', Till they brought it to pure ruination, An' all thro' the want of Repale ! W. H. 210 H. CRICHTON WEIR MILITAVI AND so you've been refused, my boy, And come to me to share your sorrow. Well don't be hurt I give you joy, And you will think with me to-morrow. I'm twenty years your senior, yet The facts remain, though names may vary ; Just twenty years ago I met And fell in love with lovely Mary. Ah, Mary was a thoroughbred ; Where'er she came, the men were staring ; Eyes like a cloudless dawn, a head Of Juno's poise, a queenly bearing, A bust like Hebe's firm and full ; A hand, white, sensitive, and slender ; Her lips a rosebud dewy-cool, A voice of music rich and tender. I loved at sight, I loved with all A boy's embarrassing devotion. She took the homage of her thrall With witching grace in every motion. My suit was rather in the rough A boy's first passion, crude, unmellow : She took it graciously enough, And then she took another fellow. 211 H. CRICHTON WEIR I storm'd, I raved, I almost tore My hair at that time somewhat thicker ; And, if my memory serves, I swore To take my life or take to liquor. Three days the desperate fit endured, Then with a merry crew I started For other scenes, returning cured, Nigh half ashamed, and quite whole-hearted. Ah, many a time, my boy, have I, Since Mary first my fancy vanquish'd, In sadness heaved the lover's sigh, And like a lover moped and languish'd. But soon the fervour of my flame Began to show a tinge of mocking, And each successive shock became By several degrees less shocking. And after Mary, who for me Personified complete perfection, I never met with any she Whose " diamonds " defied detection. Whatever beauty clothed her form, The mocking fiend insinuated There was a foil to every charm, Her gold was only copper-plated. 212 H. CRICHTON WEIR Yet no. Once more, at manhood's height Such weakness after all is human I fell in love, but not at sight, With one who seem'd a pearl of woman : Refined, well-read, but not a blue, A medieval saint in feature, Kind-hearted, gentle, bright, and true, A genuine hall-mark'd human creature. That was no boyish whim or craze j I loved her soberly, sincerely ; I told my love in lover's phrase She wept, and proffer'd friendship merely. Again the world grew dark with cloud On cloud of tragic desperation : It pass'd. I never since have bow'd My soul to woman's fascination. Yet Life has solace friends, a few, Whose faith I have no cause to question ; My cottage with its charming view ; My horse and dogs, a sound digestion ; Books, pictures, curios, odds and ends, That help to keep a man contented. Yes, Life has made me fair amends, And Fate, I feel, has quite " relented." 213 L. E. STEELE But you with youth's unreason think, Because your suit has been rejected, That Life hangs tottering on the brink Of ruin one small word has wreck'd it. Life, you will learn, is no such stuff That sentimental shocks should mar it. You'll find that weed a pleasant whiff, Come, help yourself, and pass the claret. H. C. W. BALLADE OF CONVERSATION IN Psychical Science much credit I've won ; I yearn with Impressionists, pant for " the light " ; And have read all the theories Darwin has spun, Out of times when our ancestral Apes were still tight In the matter of clothes, and when might was the right ; With a sprinkling of dado, ascidian and frieze, I strive to impart to my friends some delight ; Bah ! Society's motto is, " Chatter to please." To Phoebe and Phyllis I talk of the sun, Of his weight, of his speed, luminosity bright ; And Chloe, like them, shows a liking to run, When I start on a subject at all recondite. Gurney, Myers, Blavatsky (to me subjects trite), I've tried upon Polly and Ann and Elise ; They don't want to learn I'm convinced of it quite ; Bah ! Society's motto is, " Chatter to please." 214 R. F. LITTLEDALE They Buddha contemn worship Jones's coarse fun, " Hypothesis nebular," say " is a fright ! " To the Vedas, Koran, prefer Smith's wretched pun, And for Brown's comic songs, my philosophy slight ; Patter verse to the banjo, when sung by that Wright, And songs sentimental on " lovers and leas " They applaud as though Browning's I'm sure out of spite ; Bah ! Society's motto is, " Chatter to please." ENVOI O Buddha ! consider and pity my plight ; I hoped to have raised them through many degrees, By knowledge occult, to serene astral height ; Bah ! Society's motto is, " Chatter to please." L. E. S. THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER (LUDWIG UHLAND) Es zogen drei Biirsche wohl iiber den Rhein IT was three students that cross'd the Rhine, And fared till they came to a tavern sign. " Ho ! landlady, hast thou good wine and beer ? And where hast thou hidden thy daughter dear ? " 215 R. F. LITTLEDALE " Of beer and wine good store have I ; My daughter dear in her coffin doth lie." Into the chamber they've ta'en their way, Where in her coffin the maiden lay. The shroud from her face the first one took, And gazed upon her with wistful look. " Ah ! wert thou living, thou maiden fair, Henceforth thou only shouldst be my care." The second drew over again the veil, And turn'd him away with a grievous wail. " Alas, thou liest upon thy bier, And I loved thee well full many a year ! " The third has the shroud again withdrawn, And press'd a kiss on the lips so wan. " I love thee now as I loved before, And I'll love thee, maiden, for evermore." R. F. L. 216 CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY LYRA EVANGELICA THE SAINTS' COMEDY.* A FRAGMENT Dramatis Personae SAINT GOBATIUS, Bishop and Aggressor. The REV. MR. SLIM, his examining Chaplain. AL-JERICHO, Pasha of Jericho. BEN TAUM SUN, a converted Arab Crossing-sweeper. AL-YESSIR, Mohammedan Waiter at a Coffee-house in Jericho. LADY VANE, a serious British Female of Rank. GEORGINA, her daughter, engaged to Mr. Slim. ZULEIKAH, Al-Jericho's Chief Wife. Chorus of Evangelical Aggressors. Semi-Chorus of Pluralists. Soupers, Tract Distributors, Mutes, and Soldiers. PROEM Sleep again, thou age of tract and sermon ; Sleep, thou creed of railways and of rents ! Draw repose from Scotch divines and German ; Rise, my soul, as rise the three per cents ! Tell not how of yore the dear old ladies, Our grandmothers, when they heard Gobat * This fragmentary poem, which has recently come into our hands, is one of a good many (some, in our judgment, of much merit) written about fifty years ago, and dealing with questions which then agitated the English Church. As they re- flected at least the opinions of one class of churchmen in Trinity College, Dublin, at that interesting epoch, we have decided to introduce the most characteristic of the pieces which have come into our possession, under the general title Lyra Evangelica, They emanated from a set of men who formed a club called " The Jokers" and whenever there is any uncertainty about the authorship, we adopt the signature "Joculator" 217 CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY Swear he'd never dream of making converts, Little thought of what he would be at : Tell not how the four Most Reverend Fathers Say they think what Bishop Gobat means Is all right, and that they quite believe him, Tell not this, or tell 't to the marines ! ACT I. SCENE I. A room in Belgrave Square. A number of the RECORD lies on the table, which is covered "with tracts and nice little books in blue and gold. GEORGINA, sola. I don't know what to think. This agitation, This ceaseless anguish, baffles consolation. What is the cause I really cannot tell, I only know I'm seriously unwell. These blessed tracts. I'll try hard to resume one. [Reads'] " On Finchley Common lived a washerwoman, Whose little son, when just from school released, Was once encounter'd by a Romish priest, Who most insidiously essay'd with cake The infant's Protestant belief to shake, And jesuitically strove, with particles Of toffy, to seduce him from the Articles." [ Yawns.] Enter LADY VANE. L. V. Have you seen Mr. Slim ? Georgina, tell me quick. He call'd just now. 218 CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY G. Oh, ma, I feel so sick ! Last night my dreams were full of horrid shapes. Such frights ! L. V. Perhaps, my love, it was the grapes. G. No, not the grapes, mamma. Z. V, Well, then, the tart You ate at supper. G. No, ma, 'tis my heart ! Oh ! read these words, and see my grief eternal ! You know the Record? L. V. "Tis a godly journal. But, as for heart or grief, my dear, don't heed it. G. Here, mother, take your spectacles, and read it. There in the right-hand column at the top. [Gives the Record. L. V. [Reads] "To those who shave, use Mechi's Magic Strop." G. No, no, not that. L. V. [Reads] " In aid of the Society Established for Promoting Foreign Piety, Which needs assistance, as our readers know well, A sermon will be preached by Canon Stowell. The aristocracy of the West End In numbers are expected to attend ; Also the Bishop Gobat, and with him His late appointed chaplain, Mr. Slim, Who are collecting funds wherewith to go To their new diocese at Jericho." G. [wildly] He goes to Jericho ! Mamma, we sever ! O mother, did you ever ? Z. V. [emphatically] No, I never ! 219 CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY SCENE II. Exeter Hall. The platform densely crowded. BISHOP GOBAT, MR. SLIM, and a host of sympathizing friends. CHORUS OF AGGRESSORS. A bishopric before us, Exeter Hall behind, Our ship shall go to Jericho, When once we raise the wind. Great Deans and fat Archdeacons For fresh subscriptions cry ; And we vow and swear we'll all forbear For proselytes to try ; Till the Catechists and Soupers Throughout the holy town, With tracts of might, and dollars bright, Shall do the Patriarch brown ; Till on the hill of Holborn Shall Bishop Gobat stand, The Deans of Cork and Bristol Shall guard him on each hand. There shall he dodge the natives With promise and with wile, And pour on all the Papists The tracts of Mr. Ryle. 220 CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY SEMI-CHORUS OF PLURALISTS. Our forms are fat and gouty, Our Church opinions low, And yet to this subscription list The cash we love must go. We won't support our Curates, We'll neither fast nor pray, Yet here the gold, for which we sold The Church, is given away ! II. CONVOCATION, 1854. Ye Catholics of England, who guard our native Sees In College and Incumbency, in Halls and Deaneries, Come from each Chapelry and Church throughout old England spread Where the prayers are sung in the vulgar tongue, and the service daily said, Where the people meet in each open seat, for the service daily said. The spirit of our fathers shall start from every nave, From altar tomb and sculptured brass, from arch and architrave ; With us before the altar bow, or thro' the cloisters tread, While the prayers are sung in the English tongue, and the daily service said, While the surpliced priest kneels towards the east, and the prayers are daily said. To-day we dare them to the strife as in the days of old, Foes unconceal'd in open field, false friends within the fold. We dare them now as Hoadley then, and by the vows they bear, 221 EDWARD SULLIVAN And by each creed they've sworn to teach, and by each holy prayer, That they fear to speak save once a week, but which should be daily said, Or which should be sung in the English tongue where'er the rubric's read. On us the Sign they hate was laid for twice nine hundred years, As now through schism and sacrilege, through tyranny and tears, 'Tis lifted on our spires to heaven, 'tis burning in the east, In the golden hues of stained glass, where kneels the bending priest. And their penal laws, their venal state, may rob us as they will, But the Cross they shall not tear away, the Creed they shall not still ; For we'll chant it daily in their ears, till the Catholic faith be spread, Till from Prime to Nones in Gregorian Tones shall the daily prayers be said. C. P. M. THE KING OF THULE (FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE) IN Thule dwalt a king of old, Love-leal to his latest day ; An' his lady she gied him a tassie o' gold What time she dying lay. 'Mang a' his gear was naught sae dear, Never feast but its fill drain'd he ; An' aft as the cup to his lips cam up The saut tear blint his e'e. 222 CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY An' when his hour was come to die, His cities' tale he told A' his warl's ware he gied his heir, But never the tassie o' gold. At the royal board his seat he's ta'en Wi' mony a knight beside ; In the hall where his sires to feast were fain, In their castle aboon the tide. Uprist he there, that toper gray, An' a last glad draught drain'd he Then hurl'd the cup he cherish'd sae Adown into the sea ! He saw it to fill, as he saw it to fa', Aneath the waters ta'en An' the light frae his e'en it flicker'd awa', Nor a drap drank he ever again. E. S. THE EXAMINATION HALL 'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old the porters loll, Velvet-capp'd and gaiter'd, guarding the Examination Hall. College Hall, that in the distance overlooks the College Park, Whence the daring Senior Freshman scales the railings in the dark. Many a morn from yonder casement, as I can remember well, Have I look'd on boozy Sutton sloping slowly towards the Bell. 223 CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY Many a time I saw the graduates, tangled in their sheepskin hoods, Looking like a drove of donkeys with a pack of woollen goods. Here beneath the classic cloister did I spend my early days O'er the Elements of Euclid and the metres of Greek plays. Here I studied Vulgar Fractions, vainly striving to get off What would pass my Term in Science and the long results of Gough. Then I dipt into the future with anticipating eyes, Seeing visions of Gold Medal and of mathematic prize. In the Term the seedy grinder wishes he had newer clothes, In the Term a deeper purple tinges Dr. Luby's nose. In the Term to Jude and Kinsley heavy debts the students owe, In the Term the Freshman's fancy turns towards his Little-go. Then his form was plump and squatter than was meet for one so small, And as I perused his face, I did not like his looks at all. And I said : " My Mickey Roberts, let me pass, and pass me quick. Trust me, Mickey, if you do so, I'll consider you a brick." On his chubby cheek and forehead came a colour and a light, As I've seen the ruddy liquor mantle in " the Shades " at night. And he turn'd, his utterance broken with a sudden storm of damns, Or at least with language borrow'd from the more emphatic Psalms, Saying, " I your note will alter to a very different song." Saying, " Do you think I'll pass you ? " swearing " then I think you're wrong." 224 CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY O, my Roberts, stony-hearted ! O, my Mickey, mine no more ! O that odious, odious Livy ! O that horrid, horrid bore ! What is this my tutor tells me ? I am caution'd,* and what for ? Just because I couldn't date that wretched Second Punic War. " Yes, yes, yes, my poor, dear fellow, it has given me much distwess. You've been pluckt by Mr. Woberts yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes." What is this ? Mick's face is smiling : he may let me off at last. Go to him : it is thy duty. Tutor, get me, get me pass'd. He will answer to the purpose easy things to understand Better I had never enter'd than have come beneath his hand. Better had I turn'd to commerce, and avoided this disgrace, Vaulting counters at McBirney's, or at Manning's selling lace. Cursed be the Murray's Logic which confounded my poor brain ; Cursed be the " Locke's Abridgment " which I stew'd so long in vain ; Cursed be those books of Homer which, forsooth, they call divine ; Cursed be tangent and co-tangent, radius, secant, and co-sine ! What profession shall I turn to, lighting upon days like these ? Every door is barr'd by custom, and but opens to Degrees. So my heart leaps up within me, beating strong against my ribs, To be in some sort of college, in among the throng of jibs * "Cautioned," in Trinity College, means "plucked." The word cave, appended on the list to the name of the "plucked" candidate, gave him the name of Lord Antrim's (antrum) prizeman. Q 225 CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY Jibs my brothers, jibs the workers, ever mugging something new, All the books they stew'd but earnest of the books that they shall stew. I will drop my term in Dublin, go to one among those three Colleges that constitute a so-call'd University. Smaller competition in them, thinner classes, many a prize Which will glad the student's spirit, and delight his parents' eyes. Never thither comes a Proctor, there no tutor e'er is seen, There the jibs live out in lodgings, dreading ne'er a Junior Dean ; There, methinks, would be enjoyment more than in these classic halls, 'Mid the Night-rolls and the Chapels, fines and " catecheticals." There my genius, cramp'd no longer, shall at last unfetter'd be; I will take some steady grinder, and will read for my degree. Fool ! again the dream, the fancy, what I've said is all a fib, For I count the Queen's Professor lower than the Dublin jib. I to herd with dull provincials, stupid dolts with addled brains, Dull as ere the yearly cleaning are the College window-panes. Not in vain my tutor nags me ! harder, harder, let me stew. I'll go in for the post-mortem, and I'm certain to pull through. Through the shadow of my " Caution " I shall sweep into my work : Better portership in Dublin than professorship in Cork. C. P. M. 226 GEORGE F. SHAW % ULTIMA SHE dwelt among the traces Of former hopes and fears, And praised the vanish'd graces Of long departed years. She said the Dead come round me From grassy graves afar, No griefs can now confound me They have been and they are ! To her no vow was plighted. No tender word was said ; Her smile, her kiss, were slighted, But still remain'd the Dead. She loved those phantom faces, And knew that they loved her, Nor sigh'd for new embraces They had been and they were. The sweet fall time she cherish'd, Inhaled its pensive breath For the bright things were the perish'd ; The beauty was all death ! She sang, in some old measure, Of a spring she yet might see ; But the dead were still her treasure, Who had been and would be ! G. F. S. 227 EDWARD SULLIVAN THE DEDICATION TO FAUST (FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE) YE come again, dim forms, as in the past Ye floated once before my troubled eyes : Shall I make bold e'en now to hold you fast ? Doth my heart yield to your old sorceries ? Ye crowd around ! Come then, in mist and shade, Your ancient influence o'er my soul to gain : The fires of youth my throbbing breast pervade, Fanned by the magic of your airy train. Ye bring me back the scenes of happy time, And many a darling form doth now draw near ; Like to some old and half-remembered rhyme, First Love and Friendship hand in hand appear : Old pangs awake, while sorrow's cry rings o'er The mazy windings of life's daedal ways ; And tells the tale of dear ones gone before, Bereft by cruel fate of happy days. For them no more my latest strains shall sound, The souls for whom I tuned my first-born lay ; In vain I look for loving forms around ; The old old echoes long have died away. My notes now fall upon a stranger throng, Whose praise but galls the heart it cannot cheer ; And they that hung delighted on my song, If living still, are scattered far from here. 228 CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY Dead yearnings rise that fill me with desire For that still, solemn land, the spirits' home ; And, like the murmurs of the ^Eolian lyre, In half-formed tones my faltering numbers come. Fear holds me fast ; tear follows tear apace ; My stout heart yields its strength has ceased to be ; The present fades in dimness on my gaze, The past is now reality for me. E. S. THE HOUSE THAT BESS BUILT THIS is the House that Bess built. This is the Scholar, that lived in the House that Bess built. This is Bolton J. Waller, the chum of the Scholar, That lived in the House that Bess built. This is Mr. Potter, a foe to riot, Who gave the party so steady and quiet To Bolton J. Waller, the chum of the Scholar, That lived in the House that Bess built. These are the cowardly rascals four, That lay in wait outside the door Of Mr. Potter, a foe to riot, Who gave the party so steady and quiet To Bolton J. Waller, the chum of the Scholar, That lived in the House that Bess built. 229 CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY This is M'Dowell, and Kidd of the goats, Who came in drunk, with mud on their coats, To help the cowardly rascals four, That lay in wait outside the door Of Mr. Potter, a foe to riot, Who gave the party so steady and quiet To Bolton J. Waller, the chum of the Scholar, That lived in the House that Bess built. This is the merry and excellent Chief, Who so very nearly came to grief At the hands of M'Dowell and Kidd of the goats, Who came in drunk, with mud on their coats, To help the cowardly rascals four, That lay in wait outside the door Of Mr. Potter, a foe to riot, Who gave the party so steady and quiet To Bolton J. Waller, the chum of the Scholar, That lived in the House that Bess built. These are the Porters, all forsworn, Who told such lies on the Saturday morn Against the merry and excellent Chief, Who so very nearly came to grief At the hands of M'Dowell and Kidd of the goats Who came in drunk, with mud on their coats, To help the cowardly rascals four, That lay in wait outside the door 230 CHARLES PELHAM MULVANY Of Mr. Potter, a foe to riot, Who gave the party so steady and quiet To Bolton J. Waller, the chum of the Scholar, That lived in the House that Bess built. This is the Board, so shabby and mean, Who sack'd ten bob by that scandalous scene, By the help of the Porters all forsworn, Who told such lies on the Saturday morn Against the merry and excellent Chief, Who so very nearly came to grief At the hands of M'Dowell and Kidd of the goats, Who came in drunk, with mud on their coats, To help the cowardly rascals four, That lay in wait outside the door Of Mr. Potter, a foe to riot, Who gave the party so steady and quiet To Bolton J. Waller, the chum of the Scholar, That lived in the House that Bess built. This is J. J., with his glass in his eye, Who made them all eat humble pie, Both the Board, so shabby and mean, Who sack'd ten bob by that scandalous scene, And the Porters, all forsworn, Who told such lies on the Saturday morn Against the merry and excellent Chief, Who so very nearly came to grief 231 EDWARD SULLIVAN At the hands of M'Dowell and Kidd of the goats, Who came in drunk with mud on their coats, To help the cowardly rascals four, That lay in wait outside the door Of Mr. Potter, a foe to riot, Who gave the party so steady and quiet To Bolton J. Waller, the chum of the Scholar, That lived in the House that Bess built. C. P. M. EPITAPHIUM BIONIS (FROM THE GREEK OF MOSCHUS) WHEN winter's withering blast blows cold the mallow fading lies, The anise sheds its fleecy leaf, the parsley's colour dies ; Yet mark, when Summer comes again, their wintry sleep is o'er, And in their beauty's bloom they rise to glad the fields once more. And we, the great, the strong, the wise, pass like the flow'rs away, To lie beneath the vasty halls of earth in long decay ; To us, alas, no summer comes, to wake us with its breath ; Too deep the sleep that dulls our sense, the endless sleep of death. E. S. 232 GEORGE H. JESSOP A BUTTERFLY ON BROADWAY WITH a shimmer of sun on its wonderful pinions, Twin beds of the softest and silkiest down, It flitted away from the summer's dominions, And lost itself here in the dust of the town. What rivulet flowing, what spring zephyr blowing, Could ever have led it so widely astray ? Whence came it, what brought it, and where is it going- This butterfly lost upon busy Broadway ? It hovers, it lights upon beauty's soft bosom Do butterflies know that Eve's daughters are fair ? Ah, no : the attraction it finds is the blossom, The bunch of late violets half-hidden there. Alas ! a delusion. It learns, with confusion, That waxen and cold are those flowers so gay. Poor waif ! all in vain was thy daring intrusion, For all is not real we meet on Broadway. The stages roll past, and the murmur of traffic Goes up through the tramp of the hurrying feet, As, poising aloft like a presence seraphic, The butterfly, wondering, watches the street. Will it stoop to the shadows or soar to the meadows ? Will it rest on the pavement or perch on the spray ? It flies no, falters these false El Dorados Attract our poor butterfly back to Broadway. 233 EDWARD SULLIVAN 'Tis lost in the throng of the comers and goers ; Its corpse will be found in the mud of the streets ; But never again will the innocent flowers Yield up to its kisses their hearts' hidden sweets. The cold, cruel city, with no touch of pity, Engulfs its light form as it flutters away 'Twas graceful and innocent, lightsome and pretty, But not the first butterfly lost on Broadway. As light wings as these in the dust have been trailing, As innocent creatures have flutter'd along ; Home's faintly heard summons has proved unavailing They soar'd, stoop'd, and vanish'd, engulf d in the throng. Alas for their lightness, their beauty, and brightness ! Alas for the impulse that led them astray ! The mud of the city can smirch any whiteness, And thousands of butterflies fall in Broadway. G. H. J. "BRITTLE LIFE" LA vie est breve, Ah, life, how fleeting ! Un peu d'amour, Love's glimmering ray ; Un peu de reve, A dreamland greeting, Et puis bonjour. And then, good day. La vie est vaine, Ah, life, how hollow ! Un peu d'espoir, Hope's shimmering light ; Un peu de peine, Brief tears to follow, Et puis bonsoir ! * And then Good night ! MONTENAECKEN. E. S. * By permission of Messrs. Chappell and Co. 234 GEORGE H. JESSOP ANOTHER VIEW OF IRISH DISTRESS THE broad lands stretch to the swelling tide, Acre on acre, a noble fee ; For may you fare ere the hills subside In the level sand of the western sea. From your path starts whirring the mountain grouse, Mingling his crow with the snipe's shrill call. 'Tis a grand domain, and a noble house, On the wind-swept sea-coast of Donegal. The broad lands stretch to the ocean side, Acre on acre, a noble fee ; But every rood is truss'd and tied In the lawyer's tape of the mortgagee. When the half-year's interest is paid, I wis, The half-year's income is poor and small. There's many a property such as this On the heathery mountains of Donegal. Famine in Ireland, rents unpaid, And the landlord muses on what he owes. He loves each mountain, each wood, each glade, And almost weeps as he sighs " foreclose," Must his hale old age from the homestead part ? Must he watch the roof-tree of centuries fall ? And Jack (the darling wish of his heart) Will never be member for Donegal. 235 GEORGE H. JESSOP For the heavy rains have not ceased to pour, And the west winds bear in the fatal rot, And the kelp crop fails on the barren shore, And the tuber melts in the garden plot. He has done his best, he can do no more, His favourite hunter has left its stall ; The wolf is howling at many a door, And famine lies heavy on Donegal. The ghosts of the mortgages he owes Will not be laid by any rule. Well, the girls must wear last winter's clothes, And Tom must go to a cheaper school. And Jack had best exchange to the Line He can't keep pace in his corps at all. And the table well, they must banish wine. Alas ! for the glories of Donegal ! And the broad lands stretch to the ocean side, Acre on acre, a noble fee ; And faint in the shadows of eventide The hills mix mistily with the sea. " That bird is happy," the old man said, As he heard a curlew's mournful call, That flitted seaward over his head ; " He has no duties in Donegal." G. H. J. 236 GEORGE NEWCOMEN MICKEY FRERE ON THE NEW CAB REGULATIONS [NOTE. By a regulation of the Police Authorities in Dublin, it was arranged that after April 1st, 1892, the fare for a drive accomplished in ten minutes should be sixpence. Apologies are tendered to Mr. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Mr. Paul Revere.] WHISHT for a minnit until you hear Iv the wondherful dhrive iv Mickey Frere ! On the first iv April, in Ninety-two ! It's a wondher I'm here to tell it you ! Upon that remarkable day an' year I was on me stand at the Leeson Brudge, Thinkin' how mane the world had grown : How the quality dhrive in thrams, an' begrudge To take a respectable car iv their own. While thus I pondhered, a sound did jar On me ears, as somebody screech'd out, " Car ! " Thin I dhruv to the foot-path, where there stood An elderly lady. She, firstly, view'd The mare's two fore-legs, and murmur'd, " Good ! ' Secondly, slowly she mounted the sate I noticed that she was iv no slight weight Lastly, I heard her these words repate : " It's a little better than tin to wann ; But ere tin minnits are past an' gone 237 GEORGE NEWCOMEN I must get to the Broadstone upon your car, For I start, be the warm, for Mullingar ! " I touch'd me hat, as I said, " Ma'am, I'm Just thinkin' we haven't got too much time ! I'll thry. If we're bate, it'll be no crime ! " A hurry iv hoofs in Leeson Sthreet, A crack iv a whip on the ould mare's sides, An', like gr'ased lightnin', off she glides ; Tail up, and hoofs flying fearless an' fleet. That was all ! And yet, such a break-neck pace Was never seen in a throttin' race, In Ball's-bridge, or London, or any place ! Aye ! for the mare was a bad wann to beat ! We were tarin' along, be the aisthern side Iv Stephen's Green, on our awful ride Iv Stephen's Green, where the swans an' geese, An' the divin' ducks, an' more quare fowls Swim, as the Vartry so gintly rowls Divin', an' playin', an' feedin' at ease. It was six to wann by the College clock, Whin I pass'd the portals iv Trinity. A bread-van gev us a ter'ble knock (I damn'd the dhriver, and he damn'd me). Thin the scint iv the Liffey was wafted nigh ; An' the polis thrembled as we tore by O'Connell Brudge tareanageously ! 238 GEORGE NEWCOMEN It was four to wann be Chancellor's clock, As we gallop'd away, now onward sthraight, Now in and out, through a crowded block Of thrams, careerin' like lightnin' gr'ased. Ould Findlater's Church, so tall and bare, Gazed at us with a ghostly glare, As if it didn't at all feel pl'ased To see us goin' at such a rate. 'Twas a minnit to wann by the Station clock Whin we gallop'd up to the Broadstone gate, An' the ould, mare nigh fell down wid the shock Iv pullin' up sudden before the dure. Th' ould lady lepp'd down, like a three-year-ould. Says she, " You've done it, me jarvey bould ! " She smiled till me heart grew as big as a plate ; I thought I had earn'd me three bob sure. I'll tell you the rest Says the lady thin, " Jarvey I you've done it in minnits TIN ! Your fare is Sixpince ! Here it is ! " Never an answer to me lips ris. I felt so sick, I was like to fall, As the lady flew like a cannon-ball Flew, and divil another word, Only just waitin' to fix her skirt. Thus far for a sixpence dhruv I, Mick Frere ; But if once more I that dame could see, Be tunder and turf ! an' the Powers that be, 239 EDWARD SULLIVAN I'd put in her heart iv Heaven some fear ! Mind ye, through that ould sixpence a hole is bore, An' I keep it by me for evermore. But down below, whin her life is past, Chain 'd to a fiery car, and fast, That hurries along, at the divil's speed, In a place of darkness, an' peril, an' need, May she dhrive, that lady, from year to year, And think how she thrated poor Mickey Frere. G. N. A NIGHT WI' BURNS (BORN 25x11 JANUARY, 1759) AT last, fair Scotia, land o' Burns, Within your realm I find me. The Lon'on folk, their fog and smoke, I've left a wee behind me. Sae, landlord, as ye love your soul, An' wad be deemed good fellow, Just fetch me here a brimmin' bowl O' something rare and mellow. Hech ! man, the taste is unco guid ; Sure 'tis a winsome liquor ; 'Twill stir, methinks, my sluggish blood Lang ere I drain the bicker. 240 EDWARD SULLIVAN And 'chance 'twill wake a slumberin' thought To blossom ere I know it. But here's a right guid-willie waught To Scotland's lyric Poet ! Aboon my cup his spirit hings, And as I quaff the measure, I catch the echo'd murmurings That took the warld wi' pleasure ; And though without the ingle-nook 'Tis cauld, and may be snowin', The airts that blew for Robbie Burns About my head are blowin'. Around me seem the hills to rise, Aflame wi' purple heather The heights that kenned his wanderin' steps, In Autumn's dreamy weather The Ayr that gurgled at his feet, Seems now beside me flowin', And what, amidst a scene sae sweet Wad haud my pen from goin' ? From pathless wild, from wimplin' burn, From Logan braes sae bonnie ; From where in ither days lang syne The wild bee gathered honey. 241 EDWARD SULLIVAN From sunny leas, from greening trees, Where Catrine's doves are cooin', I catch the echoes of his song, The music of his wooin'. Sure, landlord, 'twas a luscious grape That fathered wine sae bonnie ; I never quaffed sae brisk a cup, Though I hae drained fu' monie. It fills my soul wi' words that rush From out their habitation ; E'en sic a draught as Robbie loved, Brimmin' wi' inspiration. It gars me loose a stammerin' tongue, To show how weel I cherish The land that Robbie loo'd and sung In words that winna perish ; And aiblins, wakened from the past By my poor rhymin' blether, The winsome lassies that he knew, May gather here together. Soft as the flow of Allan stream, Beyond sun-steep'd Benledi, A shimmerin' train o' misty forms Around me crowds already. 242 EDWARD SULLIVAN From winding Nith, from Ballochmyle, And monie a famous dell, come The souls the Poet sang erewhile, To bid a stranger welcome. Lo ! risin' through the mist I see, Aboon my half-drained tassie, A lightsome form wi' gladsome e'e I greet ye, bonnie lassie ! Yet late, I trow, by monie a day, Ye seek the arms that held ye What time the burnie dashed wi' spray The birks of Aberfeldy. The lassie wi' the lint-white locks Comes sidlin' in wi' Jenny ; Comes Anna of the melting form, Still heedless of her minnie ; And fair as beauty's fabled queen Comes Phely, still unwary I greet ye a' but maist of a', Immortal Highland Mary ! And here is ane aboon the lave, That smiles and winks and a' that ; She comes to find her willing slave An' wha a crime may ca' that ? 243 EDWARD SULLIVAN For a' that, and a' that, Stream soon her tears for a' that ; Fu' late she kens bards gang agley, And there be nane may thraw that. But lo ! the morn is breaking grey, My thoughts from dreams to banish ; My phantom comrades fade away, My phantom landscapes vanish ! Farewell ! the blithesome hour must pass, And passing, ne'er returns Sae wi' the last drap in my glass, I greet ye, Robbie Burns ! And so I bid ye, Rob, good-night ! Good-night, to ilka lassie Whose face ye loo'd, whose name ye pledged Whene'er ye raised your tassie. Though o'er your graves the rowan waves, Wi' monie a modest daisy, Yet never will ye taste o' death While one poor bard can praise ye. E. S. 244 GEORGE H. JESSOP TjHE FARO-DEALER'S STORY ABOUT the game's morality I think that's neither here nor there ; It's pretty much like other games When dealt upon the square. If men have coin and want to play, The law won't hinder them a bit ; In time they learn it doesn't pay, And then they sometimes quit. I've dealt the game for thirty years I've left it now ; I didn't fail I sicken'd at one sight I saw, And thereby hangs a tale. Some three years since I ran a game, A high-toned one dead on the square ; If I'm not wrong, you know the place ; I think I've seen you there. Well, sir, I ran a thriving game, And dealt for half the bloods in town : I've had as much as five lay-outs, And no chance to sit down. 245 GEORGE H. JESSOP One evening a young chap stroll'd in Fair hair, blue eyes, and clear-cut face, So fresh that you could see he was A stranger in the place. He was at home, though, for I saw In his blue eyes the love of play ; And after that first evening's deal He scarcely miss'd a day. He play'd his pile right up and up, And never growl'd if luck was hard ; He'd stack the limit up in blue On every second card. His luck was bad sometimes the worst I ever saw, and I've seen lots ; I've seen him in a single deal Lose seven double shots. Business for me, of course ; and yet Sometimes it almost seem'd too bad. Of course I couldn't say a word, But still I liked the lad. He'd lots of cash, though ; I should think He must have dropp'd, since the first day, A hundred thousand, first and last, Before he gave up play. 246 GEORGE H. JESSOP We both quit gambling the same night : He, poor boy, for sufficient cause ; And I because I loathed the game And this is how it was. He didn't have much coin along ; It gave out in a deal or two ; So he put up a diamond ring To see his ill luck through. The chips soon went. A pin he had, A flaming stone in massive gold : Without a word he pass'd it in, And drew five hundred cold. So help me, God ! I wish'd him luck, As did each player in the place. But no ; his last check came my way Upon a losing ace. He handed in a watch and chain, And drew, I think, three hundred more, And tried again his line of bets The luck was as before. My God ! I never shall forget The pale, drawn look upon his face ; But still he never spoke a word, And never left his place. 247 GEORGE H. JESSOP His hand lay where his chips had been, And moved, at times, as if to bet : A thin, worn circlet of dull gold Was on his finger yet. At last it caught his eye ; he stopp'd And look'd at it a little space ; And a dark wave of crimson blood Pass'd hotly o'er his face. And then he drew it off it came Reluctantly, this worn old ring Far closer than the flashing gem That circlet seem'd to cling. He handed it across to me ; " I don't know what its value is, But I'll redeem it first of all : What can I have on this ? " I took the ring : it might have cost Five dollars it was worthless then ; But I pass'd out a fifty stack To let him try again. He plank'd the pile down in the pot, Then low upon the table laid His head upon his folded arms ; And so that deal was play'd. 248 GEORGE H. JESSOP Well, the luck changed ; he won three times ; I told him when the limit barr'd ; He took no notice so we play'd Three hundred on each card. Would you believe it ? in that deal The pot won out, and never lost ; And still the winner hid his face Upon his two arms cross'd. The deal was out I spoke to him He did not stir I raised his head ; And there, amid his piled-up gains, The boy was sitting Dead ! I've often wonder'd to myself What thoughts were flitting thro' his mind When he bent down his fair young face, And hid it from mankind. What pledges of a better life, Regrets for fortunes spent in vain, And loathings of his bygone course, Were burning in his brain. We do not know it is as well. Such pangs we guess at, do not feel. His face show'd countless years of hell, Lived through in that brief deal. 249 C. K. POOLER It was not till the inquest sat That I learn'd all remorse's sting : The ring that changed his luck and life Was his dead mother's ring. Poor boy ! had his sad lot been cast With different or better men, He might be living now. For me I never dealt again. G. H. J. ECHOES FROM THE EAST (A BARRACK-ROOM BALLAD) I, THE scorner of the feeble, and the champion of the strong, I, the singer of the sinews and the heart, Goes it blind on Mr. Atkins, 'ears the cry go hup : " 'ow long Will you snigger at 'is notions of 'igh art ? " (Chorus) But it's, Tommy, keep your pecker up, It's make the cinders fly ; The Colonel's gals is slingin' of your language on the sly ; An' the loudest toff in London, If 'e knows above a bit, Will be shortly seen paradin' in a cast-off kit. When a beggar of a hill-man is a lancin' Tommy's jaw, When 'e feels 'isself houtside a nigger's knife, It's nasty, but it's nothin'. Wot gets 'im on the raw, Is the thought of 'ow to break it to 'is wife. 250 C. K. POOLER (Chorus) But it's, Tommy, keep your pecker up, It's make the cinders fly ; The Colonel's gals is slingin' of your language on the sly ; An' the loudest toff in London, If 'e knows above a bit, Will be shortly seen paradin' in a cast-off kit. True, the canteen porter 's bloomin' slops, the canteen butter 's lard ; The commissariat cam-u-el 's a skunk ; But neither one nor other makes a Tommy sweat as 'ard As treatin' 'im irreverent when 'e 's drunk. (Chorus) But it's, Tommy, keep your pecker up It's make the cinders fly ; The Colonel's gals is slingin' of your language on the sly ; An' the loudest toff in London, If 'e knows above a bit, Will be shortly seen paradin' in a cast-off kit. But the Moosik 'all 's a callin' and the Western 'eart 's aflame, Fann'd to fury by the spirit of the Heast ; With the grit and thews and passions that exalt the larger game, Man is struggling to the level of the beast. (Grand Chorus) So it's dame ! dame ! dame ! For the boys are raisin' Cain, An' the bugle blows Revelly, an' the earth is young again ; Keep a cleanin' rod for niggers, When you're not upon the burst ; An' you're sure to dwell 'ereafter where you're safe to raise a thirst. 251 C. K. P. A. C. MEREDITH LINES WRITTEN IN MY GREAT AUNT'S COMMONPLACE BOOK THE times are changed, good Auntie, dear, And commonplace books grown uncommon ; We shun " the sympathetic tear," Nor poetize of " lovely woman " ; In fact to tell you grieves me sore The age has grown as hard as iron, We reckon Mr. Pope a bore, And "shoddy " is our term for Byron. No more, with " direst anguish wrung," We pause to catch at Night's dark portals The Thoughts of Dr. Edward Young. There 's ups and downs among the Immortals ! Shelley you're shock'd I know with you He wasn't quite the thing precisely Is just emerging into view, And Johnny Keats is doing nicely. Bowles Bowles what Bowles ? The Sonneteer Whom Coleridge sang and Byron slated ; He's gone the way that poets fear, And, like his lovers, much belated. Montgomery, Rogers, once loved well, Are now not even themes to sport on ; They're all forgot like L. E. L., And Caroline Lamb, and Mrs. Norton. 252 A. C. MEREDITH Behold your gods ! Ah, could you see What clever things we say and do, dear, You'd give your very eyes to be With us in 1892, dear. Ours is an age that passeth not, Nor change nor death shall find it human, Till Tennyson shall be forgot, And not a tongue shall prate of Newman. Our Popes, our Byrons, and our Bowles (Not one, like all of yours, a cipher), We reckon them, I guess, by shoals, Carlyle and Morris, Watts and Pfeiffer ; With whatsoe'er of classic page Ennobled hath in house and hovel The age when Langtry boss'd the stage, And Mrs. Humphry Ward the novel. But hold ! You've heard enough, you say, Materials are in no wise scanty Your queer old world has pass'd away, And nothing's left you cared for, Auntie ! Love, scandal, politics, and prose, And verse alike are all uncertain ; The play is play'd, the actor goes, Up comes the light, and down the curtain. A. C. M. 253 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN EPITAPH ON AN ATTORNEY Here lies Misther Quirk, Still at the ould work ! J. S. D. LOCKSLEY HALL HOTEL AFTER THE SUPPER Colloquy between " the last survivor" and a plain-clothed Policeman " COMRADE ! you are faint a little : you are feeble in the feet : Take my arm ; and if you love me, keep the middle of the street. " I have travell'd East, for trading : I have wander'd West, for fun ; And I hold the doughty walrus daintier than the railway bun. " But a mouth of tougher metal, or capacity for more, In a self-supporting Christian, I have never seen before. " I would sooner stand a Templar banquet, say, for sixty-two, Than a single liquor-luncheon for a limekiln, such as you. " Gay the city ; dull the country ? right you are, my beamish boy ! Better half-a-day in Dublin than a fortnight in Fermoy. " Home ? you've none. Your name ? forgot it : second-cousin to an earl? Sober ? dazed with sorrow jilted by a shallow-hearted girl ? 254 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN " Never heed her ! devil speed her. Wed a nigger. Let her go, On the other side of Jordan, to the town of Jericho ! " Thus he spake : to whom the other overcoat and pantaloons Moving to the muffled music of the clink of silver spoons : "Wed a nigger? well, I never ! 'zounds, sir ! such astounding cheek Would revivify a dodo, and would drive the dumb to speak ! " Were you not a man of mettle, every muscle like a flail, I would hang you, I would draw you, and would quarter you in jail. "Ho! you whistle! dream me drunken? and some whistling thief replies : Silence ! 'tis no whistling matter, pal, or peeler in disguise ! " Which ? who knows ! these times ? deceitful ! when the plain policeman plays Aesthete, tailor, masher, sailor, shadowing ? I suppose it pays. " I, to mash a thick-skull'd humbug, three-times blacker than my hat? I must ask you, sir ! this instant, to apologize for that. " I, to wed a howling savage, with a louder-howling sire I, the much-respected leader of the Ballycuddy choir ? " I, to marry a mulatto ? I deny it, if you can The recipient of a post-card written by the Grand Old Man ? " I but such a thought is madness I, a masher and a swell, To prefer a swarthy savage to an Enniscorthy belle ? 255 ROBERT YELVERTON TYRRELL " Friend ! if I have drunken deeply, there is truth, I hold, in wine : And the water-wits of Solon are as soapsuds unto mine. " Erin ! isle of guile ! my country ! where the faithless and the fair Drive their landaus to the Dargle, and their lovers to despair ! " I will leave thee, tho' it grieves me : I will slope beyond the sea, To some clime whose courteous canons tolerate polygamy. " I will strike my tent to-morrow : I will sail for foreign parts, To some fit and proper climate for a Bachelor of Arts. " I will move away, by moonlight : I will dumbly disappear, By the first Pacific liner, sailing anywhere from here. " For I see a land of promise looming in the rosy west, Where policemen vex no longer, and the weary are at rest. "See a land that looms with plenty, where champagne, like water, flows." But the prison-van approaches, looming likewise and he goes. S. K. C. CALIBAN UPON KOTTABOS ['Will sprawl, now that the cricket's coming on, On flat o' back i' the mid o' the day 'po' the grass-banks And, while he chews stem o' black halfpenny clay, Looks out o'er yon much mire o' the football-ground, Billowing with blackish sea o' mud-made furrows A bad gigantic smile o' the brown old earth And talks to his own self howe'er he please 256 ROBERT YELVERTON TYRRELL Touching that other Thing call'd Kottabos ; Because he sent a song-thing to the Editors They wouldn't have, "unsuitable," such as that; Because to talk about Them vexes ha, And it is good to slang the Pair, and gibe, Letting the rank tongue blossom into speech.] Kottabos, Kottabos, and Kottabos ! 'Thinketh, 'twas made for dons and dryasdusts. 'Thinketh, there 's far too much of Greek and Latin, Of -dt, -do, -dum, supine and gerund grinding. 'Thinketh, a bob's too much to pay for It, Equals by chop or barter a dozen smokes, Two glasses o' whiskey or four do. o' beer. 'Thinketh, the Editors should a' ta'en my song-thing, Which my dam Sycorax thought " so good and clever." 'Wisheth dam Sycorax was the Editor, Or Robert Browning, who'd have understood it. 'Thinketh, I'll borrow Kottabos in future, Or steal it from the Phil, or the Historical. Put case unable to borrow or to steal, 'Lieveth, I'll e'en make shift to do without It. 'Saith, his dam held the Editors are cruel, (The Editors, the Something over Kottabos), Are strong themselves compared with yonder jibs That march from Entrance to the Littlego ; And do in envy, littleness, or spite, Put twenty in, refuse the twenty-first, Loving not, hating not, just choosing so. s 257 EDWARD SULLIVAN 'Saith, It is terrible : watch Its feats in proofs ! One Druckfehler spoils a jib's six-months' work. 'Hath made this song-thing : " Browning must be frowning, TM once in glory drowning, since disowning, Their master Browning, from Christ Church to Downing, All the Societies have stopped crowning Browning" 'Hopeth that some day Kottabos will die, Die o' misprints, or parodies o' Browning, Or Greek and Latin verse, or prose o' Newcomen ; Or doze decrepit, doze as good as die. What, what ? O there, there, there, there, there, there, there ! A clap ! " Well hit ! " Yon blazer'd dandiprat Letteth out at a ball to square-leg, hitteth Caliban, Who saith one plain word first, then, stupid-like, Lo ! lieth flat, and loveth Kottabos ! ] R. Y. T. BACONIANISM " To what base uses we may return, Horatio ! " TIME was when Will's immortal verse Was deemed the flower of inspiration, Ere slipshod learning's blighting curse Assailed his matchless reputation Or ere a pippin-squeezing school, With slander growing daily rifer, Had preached that plays are writ by rule, And but to advertise a cipher. 258 EDWARD SULLIVAN Macbeth, ye gods ! the vengeful Dane, Shrewd Touchstone, passion-tortured Juliet ; Cordelia, flouted in her pain, Manly Horatio (though at school yet) ; Perdita, Falstaff, Imogen, The homeless Lear, the Dromio brothers All these, forsooth, the sandwich-men Of Mrs. Pott, Judge Webb and others ! They're lettered folk it must be so Who torture letters, words and phrases, To snatch the bays from off a brow That wore the world's unstinted praises ; And heedless of the curse that lies On those that wreak such desecrations, Stuff silly mortals to the eyes With their ephemeral lucubrations. That which, while Will lived, no rash fool Had dared to whisper by the Avon In days when stocks and ducking-stool Had wholesome terrors for the craven Now all may do that wield the pen To air a fad, or prop a fancy, Shielding themselves within a den Of Rosicrucian necromancy. 259 EDWARD SULLIVAN Dick Turpin, if report be true, Ne'er spoil'd the dead though slack his morals ; And would have scorned, as all his crew, To rob a poet of his laurels ; For ne'er to them was Honour dumb Some pride then had the mask'd Bezonian ; Yet what they spurned has now become The heritage of the Baconian. Dreamers of dreams, they print so fast Their baseless fabric's weird concoctions Each going better than the last, Like bidders at our City auctions, That some who never read the Bard By Webb and Mystery get taken ; And some who are not yet disbarr'd Pretend at least to favour Bacon. In vain is learning, logic, lore, When with such disputants contending ; Their senseless tenets by the score Have been demolish'd times unending ; Yet never budge they from their place, But, dosed with allegoric jalap, Still hurl their ciphers in our face From founts of type and Mrs. Gallup. 260 BRABAZON M. CASEMENT Yet stay if mere words have the force These theorists declare they carry, Others may do as they, of course, And so contrive their thrust to parry. Be this our solace then we find, For all the silliness they cram on, That Pott and Bacon when combined Are like, at best, to give us gammon. E. S. NATURE'S RELIGION To me no shrine with walls of clay, No dome engirt with marble towers ; I worship thee in the open day Amid the meadows and the flowers. The shadows of the mighty trees To me are dim religious light ; To me the murmurs of the breeze Are voices of the infinite. B. M. C. 261 CECIL BROOKE WELLAND THE BOUQUET 'Tis in a heavy-scented eve I take the garden's flowers. Ah me ! the sun is fading fast, All shadowy the hours. But ever in the perfumed copse, And 'midst the Rose's sleep, I think of her whose ivory vase The dainty blooms will keep And now the yellow Lady's-shoe Blends with Forget-me-not, To pay their court to one more fair Who hath my homage got. The shaded blue of Clematis I consecrate to her, From noise of revelry apart Too lone a wanderer ; Or by the brook whose quivering flood Beads every drooping fern, Where frothy hawthorn fills the hedge, A maiden sadly stern ; To her the lithe Laburnum spray, Like golden waterfall ; To her the milky Jessamine ; I consecrate them all. 262 CECIL BROOKE WELLAND Was it for her that tournaments Were lit with flashing state ? Was it for her the city rang A virgin potentate ? Who now looks, musing in her soul, From turret to the moat, Where, like a thing of life bereft, A beechen bough doth float The wine-hued Rhododendron cups She '11 tilt upon her lip ; On trumps of waxen Hyacinth Her hand will softly slip. Dear Lily ! with thy satin tube, Tiara-Mignonette ! Pert Tulip ! splash'd with summer blood, In my fond bouquet set, Speak low to her of earthly calm, Of meads with clover lush ; If oaks prove faithless, whisper her, To try the flower'd rush. So now, as through the driving dusk She leans the waters o'er, Tell her to tempt no darksome main Nor spurn this spangled shore. Ay ! we are unto weary days By flowers reconciled The breathless fancy of a man, The play-things of a child. 263 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN Sweet bowls of luscious honey-wealth, Stray stars in heaven's dyes, Ye breathe of things that are not earth, And rear you to the skies. Call to my lady, Pansy dark ; Call to her, Lavender ; Call to her, pallid Elder-bloom ; And gently comfort her. C. B. W. ON THE LINKS FIVE friends were we : two ladies, fair as stars, Two men, and I, a scarless son of Mars. Loudly to dinner bangs the jingling gong, And thither, smiling, march the thirsty throng. From travel's stain, by scent and soap, released, Behold them, now, attack the festive feast ! The flashing fork the knife the splendid spoon, On plate and platter, tinkle, like a tune. Down daintier mouths the dainty morsels slip, And ruby wine is kiss'd by rubier lip : Fair women, there, are toasted by brave men, " And eyes speak love to eyes that speak again " : Dessert soon finds its own deserted place, And savoury viands vanish into space. 264 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN The banquet done, upstairs the ladies hie, To regions nearer to their native sky : While those two men, and that raw son of War Wend their low way to billiards and the bar. At break of dawn, a tray of goodly things, To bedroom doors, a yawning waitress brings ; Crisp toast, choice tea, with cream, six inches deep, And eggs, just laid by startled hens in sleep. While thus the ladies, dewy fresh and sweet, Enjoy, at cock-crow, their teetotal treat, From far-off rooms, proclaiming man at work, Floats the gay music of the popping cork. (Would I were there, to drink my Muse's health !) Then slowly thence, in darkness and by stealth, Their feeble way two Knickerbockers feel, Arm'd, as for war, with clubs of gleaming steel. Hold ! madmen, hold ! peace, rivals ! ruffians, peace ! No duels here ! ho ! waitress ! boots ! police ! On on, unheeding, steal the stealthy pair, Their lances gleaming in the dawning air : Wildly they talk and walk, with panting breath : Follow them ! track them, to the place of Death ! Where will they fight ? on yon lone sands, methinks ; But no ! they rush rush wildly to the LINKS ! They are they are not duellists, but sad Victims of Golf, Golf-stark, Golf-staring mad ! O Golf! King-Golf! to whom all mortals bow, What canny card, what knave of clubs, art thou ? 265 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN Who art thou, lynx-eyed Scot ! who turnest all The great world round to one huge golfing-ball ? What art thou, save, with slightly-alter'd law, And clubs for thumbs, a game of hole-and-taw ? Rousing worn wights, ere dawn, from slumber's thralls, To trudge for miles, and hole two tiny balls Sweating and swearing, as they wildly go From hole to hole, thro' thunder, sleet or snow O Golf ! what art thou, but a holy show ? The rivals now, arrived upon the scene, Take early breakfast on a putting-green : A grand high-tee the best of earthly fare To drive away the leaden ball of care : Then by the tees, on little piles of sand, Place their small balls, and, glaring, take their stand. First his huge club, aloft, with swollen veins, Mars swings, and strikes. But still the ball remains. Again he strikes : like spray from surging surf, The stroke is follow'd by a shower of turf. Again he strikes : the club, in wild despair, Flies into space. But still the ball is there. Another club another frantic flail And lo ! the ball bounds over hill and dale Then, like a sailor in the gulfing wave, Finds, in a rabbit-hole, a nameless grave. Then rain descends : but Mars, from fears aloof, Stands still, like Patience in a waterproof : 266 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN A hundred caddies, hurrying to his call, Tunnel the warren for the wandering ball : But all in vain : and thus a pleasant hour Is spent, at Golf, beneath a spouting shower. Brief respite, now, from this great game of games, Lunch, served behind a sheltering bunker, claims. " Success to Golf ! " the jolly toast goes round, " Success to Golf ! " the hollow hills resound. " Success to Golf! " they drink, and drink again, In merry bumpers, mix'd with sleet and rain. But nought, for long, Golfs raving fever baulks : Once more they wield their warlike tomahawks. At the small ball, once more they wildly lunge : Again, thro' river and morass, they plunge : Careless of rain, sleet, thunder, storm, or snow, In oilskins and sou'-westers, on they go ! For Golf, like Cupid, drives all men insane, Changing his links to links on love's gold chain ! O Cupid-Golf ! when ladies grace the scene, What is thy " putting " but a " Gretna " green ? To make poor man, O who, but you, have power, Trudge five-mile links, before his breakfast hour ? O Love ! O Golf ! the world and you are one : Golf Love at cockcrow, ere the rising sun : Golf Love at dawn, our clubs thy Cupid's darts : Golf Love at morn, thy " holes " our punctured hearts ! Golf Love at noon, our " tees " Love's teazing wiles J 267 SAMUEL KENNEDY COWAN Thy Cupids, caddies, showering frowns or smiles ! Golf Love at eve, for sinner and for saint, And Golf by night, with balls of luminous paint ! Enough ! enough : the scarless son of Mars Golfs, with his rival, till the rising stars : On ever on, thro' mingled sleet and snow, At every pore perspiring, as they go : Till now the worsted warrior, fury-fired, (Likewise, perchance, by dinner-dreams inspired) Striving in vain to drive a bunker'd ball, Cleaves his wild club against the chapel wall. Five thousand Golf-clubs, draped in crape, were seen Seeking, that night, a churchyard putting-green : Cleeks, in hysterics, led the mournful way, Timed to a donkey's melancholy bray : Behind them paced two thousand local bards, Strewing the path with black-edged scoring cards : While countless caddies, circled round the bier, With tears and torches, follow'd in the rear. As on they paced, the thronging crowds increased, For all men knew, and honour'd, the deceased The whole world's friend the favourite of all A little innocent worn-out Golfing-ball ! When they had reach'd the seventh league of links, One of the poets cried : " Hands up for drinks, We're at Bushmills ! " At this untimely joke, Mars scowl'd, and clutch'd his bedpost, and awoke. 268 JOHN E. HEALY All was a dream. So Golf, by day and night, Yields health to body, and to mind, delight. Golf-clubs, like drumsticks, beating, day by day, Trouble's Dead March so pass'd the hours away : Muscle and mind, in rivalry of love, Heedless of shine and shower, while, born above, Friendship's bright rainbow spann'd the healthy green, As tho' Heaven's promised Peace enshrined the scene. Thus, love-link'd, may we live each winner's zeal Being the honour of each loser's weal : Bearing the strokes, with minds serenely-great, Of brassy Fortune and of iron Fate, Till the Grand putter, Death, makes great and small Like as we lie beneath his sombre pall, Whence, far and sure, may Bliss await us all ! S. K. C. SEA-ROSES WHERE the sea-roses grow down to the sea, And where the white ripples laugh up to the roses ; Where the gorse and the heather are nodding together, And the bud of the pimpernel opens and closes ; Where the curlew dips to the kiss of the wave, And the grey-green wings of the plover whirr By the languorous motion and swaying of ocean, There I am dreaming of her. 269 EDWARD SULLIVAN Sweet sea-rose, you were always sweet. Yellow of petal, and greenly glowing In warm sea-places 'mid soft embraces And tender touches of night-winds blowing. The first full ray of the moon on you Falls in the quiet of night begun ; And lovingly tender, in slanting splendour, The first red shaft of the sun.. Ah, but now you are queen of the flowers, Queen of the queens of the summer weather ; For here where the plover were wheeling above her, Here in your glory we met together. Rose, you were happy, but happier far I, as I thrill'd with ecstasy, When she pluck'd you stooping, her dark eyes drooping, Pluck'd you, and gave you to me. J. E. H. FRANCESCA DANTE, Inferno, V. " BESIDE the shore my native city keepeth Her sea-girt seat, where the Po softly falling Peaceward with all its gather'd streamlets sweepeth. Love that for gentle hearts hath swift enthralling Ensnared him with my beauty ere 'twas blighted Its dread defeature still my sense is galling 270 EDWARD SULLIVAN Love, that with less than love is ne'er requited, So drew my soul to yield me to his willing, That, as thou seest, we're now for aye united. Love-led we went to death, one doom fulfilling : Cain's place is his that wrought our life's unlinking." Such were their words wafted in accents thrilling. When that I heard these wounded souls, low sinking I bowed me down, so long mine eyes inclining, That my guide spake and said : " Of what art .thinking ? " And I : " Ah me ! I seek in vain divining What dreams of love, what madness of desire Could lure them to the verge so fraught with pining." Then to those spirits spake I, moving nigher : " Francesca," I said, " thy lot so sorrow-clouded Wrings from me tears of grief and pity dire ; Yet say, when at that hour with sweet sighs crowded, How, and by what, came love to unscreen its treasure, And rend the veil from yearnings darkly shrouded." And she to me : " Remembering days of pleasure What time the heart in wretchedness is breaking, Is woe's last woe ; thy guide hath gauged its measure. Yet if with such strange earnestness thou'rt seeking The seed wherefrom our love burst into flower, I'll do as one that weepeth e'en in speaking. We read one day, to while an idle hour, Of Lancelot constrained by love's subduing : We were alone, nor dreamed we passion's power ; And oft our colour waned, the tale pursuing, And eyes met eyes in rapturous glances blending ; 271 GEOFFREY CLARKE But one point, only one, wrought our undoing. When that we read how to her loved smile bending, That lover kissed the lips that lured him ever, He here that will be mine for years unending Kissed my mouth trembling as it trembled never. Galeotto was the book and he that penned it : That day we read no more." And weeping ever, Her comrade mourned even till the tale was ended, So piteously on my compassion calling, I swooned away as though in death extended, And fell, even as a lifeless body falling. E. S. A FLATTERING ILLUSION " I THANK you for the flowers you sent," she said. And then she pouted, blush'd, and droop'd her head. " Forgive me for the words I spoke last night : The flowers have sweetly proved that you are right." Then I forgave her, took her hand in mine, Seal'd her forgiveness with the old old sign ; And as we wander'd through the dim-lit bowers, I wonder'd who had really sent the flowers. G. C. 272 ROBERT YELVERTON TYRRELL OYEZ [Our readers will be glad to hear that the very most modern poet, Mr. Francis Thompson, in addition to enriching the language with words like acerb, crocean, ostenls, lampads, preparate (for ready), conflagrate (for burning), reformate (for reform), and many equally desiderable vocables, has determined to touch up the more popular songs of the obsolete poets, so as to make them intelligible to the readers of his own poetry. He has selected our pages in which to present to the world the first-fruits of his method. At least he has done so, if our correspondent, who signs himself ZOILUS, is not playing upon our credulity and our known inca- pacity to appreciate the up-to-date school of poetry.] BY fonts of Dove, ways incalcable, Did habitate A virgin largely inamable And illaudate. A violet by a muscose stone Semi-occult, Formose as astre when but one Ostends its vult. She lived incognite, few could know When she cessated. But now, alas ! she lieth low Contumulated. T. 273 J. EWAN MARTIN THE BUGLE BAND (CANTAT, MULTA PROLUTUS VAPPA, MILES) I'M a bloke as likes good moosic ; an' on Guest-nights always stand In the barrick-square a-smokin' an' a-list'nin' to the band, Wen beneath the mess-room windows, all a-blaze with yeller light, The cornet-player's solo is a-throbbin' on the night, Like a woman's voice a-sobbin' ; or the piccolo is 'card Comin' floatin' through the darkness like the singin' of a bird. Yes s' 'elp me ! I likes moosic as I does a glass o' beer B'r'll-organ good pi'any or them bloomin' songs ye 'ear At them Temp'rance gaffs for soldiers, organized by 'oly Joes, Were they fills ye up with tea and buns an' magic-lantern shows. Yes ! I likes all sorts o' moosic but there's none so sweet, I know, As the rowdy-dowdy chorus that the band o' bugles blow. For it's 'appy an* it's gay wot the band of bugles play, They're so cheery to the weary On the 'ot an' dusty way, With their callin' an' their singin', Now a-fallin' now a-ringin' Wy they'd make a bloomin' cripple march 'is twenty mile a day! There is some as doesn't like 'em can't abide 'em anyhow Wot ! There ain't no moosic in 'em ? Think they makes an 'orrid row? 274 J. EWAN MARTIN Well p'r'aps you'd think as I does if you wore a jacket green Follow'd 'em as long as I 'ave, and bin cheer'd as I 'ave been By their saucy, springy quickstep wen the sun would fire a shell Wen beef was short, an' water scarce, an' I wish'd myself in 'ell I remember wen we got the route for the Heast in eighty-three, An' march'd in the dark an' pourin' rain to the troopship by the quay. We cheer'd as we went through the empty streets but my word, wen you rise at five, Yer voice comes up from the soles of yer boots, and you feel more dead than alive. We raised such a feeble cackle that I 'card the Colonel say " Hi ! stop that blawsted 'owl in front, an' let the bugles play ! " For it's 'ip, 'ip, 'ooray wen the band o' bugles say " Don't you mind ye wot's behind ye, All the future's bright an' gay ; Chuck off sorrow an' a-sighin' For the morrow will be fly in', And afore you're 'alf-awaken'd all its light will pass away." Then if I 'ear some bloomin' chump jeer wen the bugles play, I wish 'e 'd bin with twelve o' us on escort-dooty-lay With eighty murderin' Chins in front, and wimmen an' sick behind, An' 'card the bugle-band approach, 'e 'd change 'is bloomin' mind ! We'd twenty rounds apiece no more an' arranged, with langwidge dumb, The nineteenth round for the wimmen-folk wen the final rush should come Wen Bugler Connors one o' the sick who'd bin firin' next to me, 275 C. K. POOLER Says "'Ullo Tom! there's the bugle-band a-soundin' loud and free." I thought it a sick man's fancy, till I sees the leadin' four Of a column comin' towards us, with a bugle-band before. Then 'e pointed to the Bugles with a most on-Christian pride, Cough'd up a pool o' blood, an' larf d, an' turn'd around, an' died. They seem to one to say in their brazen, jerky way " Where we need ye there we'll lead ye, We will bring ye where we may Whether up beyond the sky Or down where sinners fry Yer soul is bound to follow where the bugles lead the way ! " J. E. M. A ROUNDEL CALL me, Dear, if a spider crawl, Call if a beetle or mouse appear, Only thee will I heed, though all Call me, Dear. Beetle and spider and mouse I fear, Crawler and creeper alike appal, Yet if these or their kind be near, Sun may lighten or shadow fall Late as early my heart will hear ; Call me but often, and when you call, Call me" dear." C. K. P. 276 EDWARD SULLIVAN TO THE DEAD LAURA " Discolorato hai, morte, il piu bel volto" TRANSLATED FROM PETRARCH THOU hast uncrimson'd, Death, that fairest face, And blurr'd the matchless lustre of its eyes ; A soul aflame to virtue's ecstasies From lightest, tenderest, bonds didst thou displace : Thou didst my cherished all at once efface, And still the dulcet tones that ne'er may rise, Leaving me sorrowful. Woe now supplies Whate'er mine ears may catch, mine eyes may trace. Timely thou com'st to comfort my unrest, Lady, that pitying dost look back on me : I have no help in life save thee alone. And were it mine to voice thy brilliancy, Echo thy words, not only human breast, But tiger's heart, love's burning sway would own. E. S. 277 H. S. MACRAN MEAOZ 0AYMA2TON AAONT02 TAfi [For the following exquisite verses we are indebted to our honorary official poet, who kindly provides us, on application, with something eminently characteristic of the outgoing nineteenth century. ] By what extreme or unimpassion'd border, Disrobed of thunder, by the storms unriven, We marshall'd in environing disorder, Who see with but Life's dark, mysterious glasses The weird stars in the trenchant night of Heaven, 'Neath th' unimagined eyes of that grim warder : While all the loud vacuities are numb, Th' abysmal gulphs, where evermore we've striven, Whilom bereft their nameless army passes Forlorn, Innumerous, Dumb, So roll the hungering years, a hundred millions Smirching the pureness of their margent snows, Dead years resistless to their white pavilions O'ercanopied as that tremendous legion, And character'd like music's mourning close, Fold over fold, a river-shining region, In still contentions of outworn repose. H. S. M. 278 PART II PROSE THE OXFORD SOLAR MYTH A CONTRIBUTION TO COMPARATIVE MYTHOLOGY (DEDICATED, WITHOUT PERMISSION, TO THE REV. G. w. cox, M.A.) A VERY singular tradition, possibly due to the influence of classical Paganism in the course of study, still preserves, in the Oxford of the nineteenth century, the evident traces of that primeval Nature-worship whereby the earliest parents of the Aryan race marked their observance of the phenomena of the heavens. As so often occurs, the myth has assumed a highly anthropomorphic and concrete form, has gradually been incrusted with the deposits of later ages, and has been given a historical, or rather a biographical dress, which thereby veils, under modern names and ideas of the West, the legends current four thousand years ago on the table-lands of Transoxiana. The legend takes its not infrequent shape of celebrating a great teacher passing from his Eastern birth-place on to the West, making his home therein, achieving great triumphs, and yet succumbing, in his chiefest struggle, to a power mysteriously identical with that which gave him being. The symbolical name by which the hero was deified, even in our own days, is Max Muller. The purely imaginative and typical character of this title appears at the first glance of a philologist. Max is, of course, Maximus, fteyco-ros, identical with the Sanskrit maha. Muller, applied in the late High German dialects to the mere grinder of corn, denotes in its root-form a pounder or crusher. It comes from the radical mar, "grinding," or "crushing." At once, then, we see that the hero's name means simply "Chief of Grinders." There are 279 R. F. LITTLEDALE two explanations of this given. The more popular, but less correct one, identifies grinder and teacher a metaphor borrowed from the monotonous routine whereby an instructor of the young has to pulverize, as it were, the solid grains of knowledge, that they may be able to assimilate it. The more scientific aspect of the question recog- nizes here the Sun-God, armed with his hammer or battle-axe of light, pounding and crushing frost and clouds alike into impalpability. We are not left to conjecture in such a matter, for the weapon of Thor or Donar, wherewith he crushes the Frost-giants, in Norse mythology is named Mjolnir, from at mala, " to crush " or " mill." Thus far, however, there might be a merely accidental coincidence of name, or the title might be a hereditary one in a priestly family devoted to the Sun-God's service. We require more exact data before we can with authority allege that Max Miiller is indeed the Sun, or rather the Dawn, himself. But these data are accessible and abundant. In the first place, the legends are unanimous in representing him as a foreigner, travelling from the East, but making his home in the West, and received there by all as though native to the soil. This is very important. If he were depicted as indigenous, or as coming from North, South, or West, the difficulty to be overcome, though by no means insurmountable, would be considerable. The Eastern origin, however, obviates any doubt of this nature. Next, fable has not been slow to localize his birth-place. He is invariably called a German. This looks, at first, as though merely denoting the rough way in which an untutored people is content to transfer the origin of any strange thing to the nation nearest to itself in the direction of transit, just as even still the inhabitants of Norway suppose storms to be sent them by the wizards of Lapland and Finland. Germany, being the nearest country to the east of England, may thus have naturally been selected 280 R. F. LITTLEDALE as the Sun-God's birth-place ; but a deeper idea seems to underlie the title. The duality of the Sun and Moon is too remarkable a phe- nomenon ever to have escaped popular attention ; and we find them represented in almost every known mythology as brother and sister, Helios and Selene, Apollo and Artemis, Janus and Diana, and the like. Here, then, is a clue. It is not nationality, but brotherhood to the Moon which is denoted, and Miiller the German is neither more nor less than the Germanus Apollo of Latin poets. Again, having invented his birth-place, it was necessary, as the myth became more concrete, to provide him with a father also. The legend relates that his father was one Wilhelm Miiller, a poet. Herein a very singular aspect of the solar myth, common to all its purest forms, appears. Darkness is the parent out of which the Dawn comes, a parent dethroned by its offspring, as typified in the story of Kronos and Zeus. Wilhelm is simply Will-hjselm, the " helmet of force," or " of strength." What is this helmet ? We have it over and over again in our nursery legends ; as the " cap of darkness " (tarn-kappe) worn by Hasan of El-Basra in the " Arabian Nights," by Jack the Giant-killer, and by Dwarf Trolls in Norse and Teuton stories, and above all, by Sigfrit in the Niebelungen Lied. It is thus simply the covering of clouds and obscurity which overspreads the heavens when the Sun has disappeared ; and William Miiller is only the Night, hidden but power- ful, the vefaXrjytptTa Zevs, who is father of Apollo Helios. Night is typified as a poet, because all sounds are heard so clearly and distinctly during its course, just as the song of the primeval bard was the only voice loud enough to make itself audible in the stillness of pre-historic ages. The Sun-God appears next, but still in the same relation, in his other character of teacher and enlightener, an idea symbolized by Max 281 R. F. LITTLEDALE Miiller editing the Vedas at the instigation of Bunsen = Bundcs-sohn, (vinculi filius\ another Teutonic hero, who typifies the offspring of that darkness which chains the world in the prison of night. Max is not called and this is noteworthy the author of the Vedas, or books of knowledge, but only their editor or translator. The meaning of this is plain. Sunrise does not create the sensible world for us at each recurrence, but it makes it visible and knowable by us. Bunsen sending Miiller to achieve the task is only another form of the myth which makes Wilhelm the father of Max. 1 The next point of interest in the fable is the place where the Sun- God fixes his sacred abode. It is noteworthy that in no case do we find the special shrine of Apollo in the chief city of any land. Athens was the beloved home of Pallas Athene; Sparta, of the Dioscuri; Ephesus, of Artemis ; Rome, of Jupiter Optimus Maximus and Mavors Gradivus : but Apollo always chooses a smaller and more sacerdotal city as his dwelling Delphi, Delos, Patara. So the priestly city of Oxford is, in the English legend, assigned to Max Miiller. Let us see why. Ox-ford, as all philologists know, is not B6Wo/>os. Ox is Usk, uisge = water ; and the compound word means no more than the " ford of the river." We shall best see its relation to the Sun-God by turning to the Edda. We find there that all the Aesir ride over the rainbow- bridge Bifrost to Valhalla, except Thor, who has to wade on foot through four rivers Kormt, Ormt, and the two Kerlaug streams. This denotes, of course, the Sun making his way by slow degrees through the watery clouds, and at length attaining the mid-heaven. 1 That Max Miiller is not called the author, but only the translator or editor of the Vedas, has puzzled many who have read his great work. This curious inversion of language, so inexplicable, except to the comparative mythologist, obtains a significance only on the principle suggested in the text. 282 R. F. LITTLEDALE The task of the Sun, when he has fairly begun to climb the sky, is to spread the great blue mantle over it. This mantle is woven or stitched, if we take the Sanskrit myth, by the Harits or Hours, the Xerxes of the Greeks. We find it styled in poetical language, the "cope of heaven." And by a quaint grotesqueness of metaphor, we discover this function of the Dawn symbolized under the formula of Max Miiller being at first Professor in the Taylorian Institution. Taylorian here, of course, is not a patronymic or eponymous adjective, but a tropological epithet. In Greek mythology, Artemis, as well as Athene, is mistress of the loom ; but in this curious myth, her brother appears as superintending the tasks of the divine maidens who ply their shuttle and shape the garment of the heavens at his command. Here, too, we find cropping up the struggle with the powers of dark- ness. Max Miiller is Taylorian; he cuts away with his glittering shears the ragged edges of cloud ; he allows the " chips," or cuttings from his "workshop," to descend in fertilizing showers upon the earth. But he has a foe striving to cast a black mantle over the sky which he would fain clothe in blue. This foe does not merely trim or patch together the work of others, as a tailor, but is the original maker of his own product; and thus he is symbolically called Weber, or weaver. And while Max is of more account in the West, Weber reigns securely over the East, which the other has quitted. But even the Western sky is no secure dominion. All through the earliest poetry and the remotest legends of ancient races, we find the note of sorrow for the decline of day following at once on the triumphal tone which marks the ascent of the Sun to the zenith. The combat with the powers of darkness, which began with victory, is resumed, and always ends in defeat. Hence the wailing for Yanbus- hadh, for Thammuz or Adonis, for the Dorian Apollo, and for Baldur. 283 R. F. LITTLEDALE The solar legend shines clearly yet through the mists in which the ignorance of our uncritical age has enveloped it. The Sun-God, fresh from his Vedas, enters upon a struggle with a competitor, apparently of the feeblest, for the throne of the sky. This throne, in the Oxford myth, is called the Boden Chair. Boden is not an English word. We must look to the Sun-God's home for its meaning ; and we find that in the Teuton language boden is floor. Only one floor can be meant ; that of which the greatest of English poets speaks : " Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold." There are two most remarkable circumstances in this legend of the strife for the Boden Chair, which puts its mythical origin quite beyond all doubt. In the first place, the overthrow of Max in the struggle is said by all the bards to be due, not to the result of a single combat with his adversary, wherein he must needs have been victorious, but to the gathering together at the sacred city of a number of obscurantist beings, clothed in black, and assembling from all parts of the country to secure the victory of the inferior warrior. It is almost superfluous to point out that this legend denotes no more than the black clouds assembling from all quarters of the heavens, to hide the brightness of the Sun. If any doubt yet remained, it would be dispelled by the name of the feeble victor, the Paris who slays Achilles, the Aegisthus of this Agamemnon, the Hod of our Baldur. The name given to him in the myth is Monier Williams. The intelligent reader will at once see that this is only a new aspect of the earliest part of the myth. Monier is, plainly enough, me&nier, molinarius, miller =Miiller. Williams, we had before. Monier Williams then = Wilhelm Miiller; and the father, as in the story of Sohrab and Rustum, slays his beloved 284 R. F. LITTLEDALE son. What is this but that the Darkness, out of which the Dawn sprang in its infancy, also re-absorbs it, and hides its glory at the end of its career ? This is the reason for the singular inversion of the order of the names. At first the darkness is the primary fact, and the power it exercises only the secondary one ; and thus the helmet or tarn-kappe is put first, and the epithet of grinder or crusher in the lower place. But in the latter part of the myth, the slaying of the Sun-God is the earlier event, and not until that is accomplished, and the Western sky is red with his blood, does the victor put on the helmet of will, and spread darkness over the heavens. There are consolations even in defeat. A bridal, in the mysterious life which follows death, is accomplished in the Western land; and that legend which takes so many shapes the marriage of Uranos and Gaea, the descent of Zeus in golden shower on Danae, and the like is brought before us again in the wedding of Max Miiller and the mortal maiden Grenfell, who denotes \\\Q green hill or mountain pasture on which the Sun delights to shine. We have this idea of the domestic joys of Helios, even after his declension and setting, preserved for us in Greek poetry : 'AeAios 8' 'YTre/oiovtSas 8e;ras TKaT/3aive X/avo-eov, opa 81 (i/ccavoto irepd(ra.oiTa. a chariot, the Latin rheda, and recognizes in the title Rede-Lehrer, not a lecturer at 286 R. F. LITTLEDALE all, but Ving-Thor himself, the driver of the fiery car, whence he is called Hlorridi y from at hloa, to glow or burn, and reidh.* Another legend, belonging to Oxford, calls Max Miiller for a time by the singular title of " Fellow (or Companion) of All Souls," and ceases to give him this appellation after he meets with the nymph Grenfell. Here is a difficulty needing solution. Hermes, not Apollo, is the fox~ 7ro/ros of Greek mythology, and the epithet is one applied, in the Alkestis, to Charon also. It is only in the Edda that we find the * The identification of Cambridge with the rainbow, or curving bridge of the sky, at once simple and convincing, clears up the difficulty about Max Miiller's one visit there, and his immediate return to dwell at Oxford. For the legend is in minute agreement with the Edduic myth, which tells how Thor essayed once, and once only, to drive over Bifrost in his war-chariot, but had to desist, lest he should set the bridge on fire. He returned ever after to his wading through the four rivers of which we have spoken above ; that is, to Ox-ford. And the myth of the Sun's chariot, common to Greek legend, finally settles the meaning of Rede, putting the interpretation "counsel" out of court. Another obscure legend, quite disas- sociated from the Miiller myth, confirms remarkably the identification of Oxford with the water, and Cambridge with the sky. There is a tradition still handed down that a strife, constantly renewed, existed between these two cities, not, as one should anticipate, in the rivalry of learning, but in some way connected with ships or boats. When so engaged, the names of Oxford and Cambridge are dropped, and those of Dark Blue and Light Blue appear in their stead. The former of these titles, applied to Oxford, points at once to the aivova, vbvrov, the mare purpureum of Greek and Latin poets, and the "dark blue sea" of a famous English bard, while the rival epithet, describing the lighter shade of the heavens, (compare Theocritus, y\avicdu> vaiovcav vr' dw, [Idyll Ixvi, 5,] and Ennius, caeli caerula templa) is applied to Cambridge, and the true meaning of the myth comes out by the reference to boats, as we thus learn that it typifies the astonishment of the first Aryans who reached the Caspian and the Persian Gulf, at the elemental strife of a storm at sea, when sky and waves seem to those in a ship to be crashing together. " The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch, But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek, Dashes the fire out." TEMPEST, Act I, Scene 2. 287 R. F. LITTLEDALE answer. Odin, who is a Sun-god as well as Thor, though he usually sends the Valkyrier to conduct the souls of slain heroes to Vingolf, yet sometimes, in his character of Valfodhr, is himself the guide of such chieftains as, nobly born and clad in warrior's armour, have died with more than common valour and renown. And thus the ancient statutes of the Fellowship show that all souls are not meant to be honoured, but only the souls of those who are bene nati and bene vestiti, the true Einherjar of the foundation. These departed heroes are no other than the sunbeams, slain by the advancing powers of darkness, but collected again by their father, the Sun, who burns them on the glowing pile of the Western evening sky, and then revives them once more to shine in Gladsheim. The loss of this office of ^XOTTO/XTTOS on wedding a mortal is a myth which has several congeners. It is akin to that of Orpheus and Eurydice, though less tragic in its termination ; and its meaning here plainly is the return of the Sun to Earth from the unseen "combination-room" whither his rays vanished at his setting. He returns to living nature, and is, as stated above, not any more " Fellow of All Souls," silent and ghostly, but Professor of All Languages, vocal and embodied. This office, however, ties him to earth; and we find the story of Apollo's servitude to Admetus re- peated; because the task imposed on the hero is to look after the training of the young Bulls. He thus appears as Phcebus Nomios ; and a confusion between the oxyton word vop; or vo/tos, pasture, and the paroxyton word vo/xos, law, has led to a curious error in the Cambridge form of the myth. In this imperfect record Max Miiller is Vyled " Doctor of Laws," as though he were Thesmophoros, But that epithet belongs properly to Dionysus OfcrfJiO(f)6pov KaAew vapBrjKocJMpov Atovvcrov. ORPHICA. xlii. I. 288 R. F. LITTLEDALE and the more exact Oxonian records preserve this true title as " Master of Arts." This is not merely the Apollo of Parnassus, leader of the Muses, inspirer of poetry, painting, and sculpture, beautiful as such a personification is. It goes far deeper; and we see in Max Miiller, M. A., the elemental Fire-god, whose chief manifestation is the Sun, but whose heat and light are essential to all life and manufacture. And thus he is described in Aeschylus rb o-bv yap av#os, Travr^vov TTU/JOS o-eXas. PROM. VINCT. 7. A fragment of a solar hymn, apparently having reference to the hero or divinity Miiller, is still chanted by children in the mystic rites of the gynaeceum " There was a jolly Miller, Lived on the river Dee, And thus the burden of his song For ever used to be I jump mejerrime jee ! I care for nobody, no, not I, And nobody cares for me ! " Jolly is, of course, Jovialis^ noting that the Miiller referred to is no mortal, but the son of Jovis or Dyaus ; and the river is, of course, the Ox-ford (Uisge) through which he daily wades. He is the master of song, because the birds commence their music as he rises. Mejerrime jee presents great difficulty. It is clearly a trace of the primeval lay, and is as hard to explain as *oy 6/ji7ra. The earlier word looks Oscan, and seems to be the superlative of the root maj, "great," which we have in maj-estas> major (Spanish, me/or), and then, probably, major- rimus. The second word, most likely, stands for age ; and the whole phrase denotes the quick leap of the levin-brand from the cloud. The interpretation McyapiK^ 777, though ingenious, is untenable. And in u 289 ROBERT YELVERTON TYRRELL the two closing lines, wherein some have thought the disposition of a human Max Miiller to be exactly pourtrayed, those who, with truer science, acknowledge him to be a solar myth, will recognize that grand impassive inexorability of natural phenomena which at once strikes and awes every untutored man as well as every civilized philosopher. It is not easy to overrate the interest and value of such a legend as this to the comparative mythologist. Few solar myths are so detailed and various, and, perhaps, there is none which brings together in so concentrated a focus the special characteristic of Sanskrit, Hellenic, and Norse fable. R. F. L. HERODOTUS IN DUBLIN \The original Greek is added when it is deemed necessary '.] AND leaving the Hyperboreans I went towards Lips and the West Wind, and going to the furthest point I came to a city named Dublin, and what I heard, inquiring to the greatest extent,* that I am going to relate. The people of Dublin adopt laws different from the laws of all other countries ; and among other things there are certain persons reserved t for this service, on whom it devolves to sweep up the mud of the streets upon certain parts of the street which are most frequented, and doing this they say they are making crossings. And concerning these things I made careful inquiry, \ and a certain priest told me that they do this in honour of the goddess Cloacina, whom they greatly honour, both in other respects, and also reserve the most populous part of their city for a sewer, which they keep open in honour of their * ^jri naKpbraTOV TrvvdavofJLevos. f diroSeS^arat. + p6vTioi> Iffroptur. 290 ROBERT YELVERTON TYRRELL goddess. Now for this purpose there are certain overseers * appointed, whom they call the Corporation. And there was a poet in the city of Dublin who made many and beautiful poems, and they erected a statue in his honour, and also ordained certain other observances about the statue, which, though I well know, it beseemeth me not to describe. Now concerning the reason of these observances I cannot speak certainly ; but, if it is fit to speak conjecturing,! it seems to me that they have wished to honour him above all other men, by granting to him common observances as they give unto the goddess whom they especially revere. Concerning then what the priest told me, let thus much have been said; but what I saw in the city most of all deserving of description,! that I shall relate. There is in the midst of the city, next the treasure- house, a certain building, which in their language they call University, but the Greeks call it Academy. And here especially they use laws different from those of all other men, for they celebrate || their year divided into three parts of four months, and each of these periods they call a term or end; but at the close of each term they hold a great assembly, and doing this they say that they are holding commencements. Moreover, having chosen one who no longer lectures, him they call senior lecturer, 1T but to the lecturers they give another name. And one of the priests, whom they call porters, being very skilled in legendary lore,** told me that formerly having chosen such as were very learned every year, these they honoured in other ways, and also gave medals of gold to the most learned, and of silver to those who were less learned ; but those who were most unlearned, and could answer few of the ques- * fj.e\eSuvoi. &l-iairriyr)T6TaTOV. t-pxofMt pdff<0v. (Lyovffi. IT rbv iirl rCjv Siriyijff^uv. ** \oyiuraros. 291 ROBERT YELVERTON TYRRELL tions of the high priests, these they called respondents or answerers. Moreover, among other nations, their temples are built so as to face the East ; but here the temple is built towards the North Wind and Arctos. Likewise, having found out those women most oppressed by old age, these they keep as servants, calling them skips ; now the Greeks call this word eXa^pa?. But another priest told me that they are rightly called gyps, and that this word is adopted from the name which the Greeks use for a vulture.* Now there is, immediately on entering, a belfry, very great and beauti- ful, and on it are four statues, great in sizef ; but one of the priests told me that these were the statues of Hope, Faith, Charity, and the Head Porter ; now he is a great man,t in great authority, on whom all the rest depend, and corresponds to him who among the Persians is called the eye of the king. This then the priest told me ; but another priest seemed to me to be jesting, pointing out to me the temple of the Muses ; for it is evident, even to one not having heard before, but having seen it, whosoever at least has intelligence,]! that this is not a temple, neither of any other god, nor of the Muses ; and, if it be fit to speak conjec- turing, it seems to me that the building in front which they now call in their language the printing press, that formerly was the temple of the Muses, and that those of the present day speak rashly, transferring the name to another place. Now concerning these things there is told a sacred story. But what surprised me most of all the things there IF was a contrivance which they call a clock, and which corresponds to the gnomon and sun- a- avdpos. ^f 06 wXXot iravTes d/xr^arot. || di)\a yap drj ical pi) irpoa.Kofoa.VTi. id6vTi 8, 8lai, are mentioned by Cicero in his letters to Atticus. 295 ROBERT YELVERTON TYRRELL have rendered possible the evolution of his Idea, are chiefly embodied in sporadic sentences of a somewhat gnomic nature; and the task of construction is rendered more arduous by the circumstance that these sporadic sources of knowledge are found fused with utterances, some- times of an obvious and commonplace character, from which the evidences for the life of Balbus are to be carefully discriminated. Passing over his youth, in which he appears to have devoted himself solely to architecture, we first read of Balbus as exclaiming that " it is all over with the army." If, as is highly probable, this expression may be regarded as a presage on the part of that acute statesman of the disaster in which the expedition of Crassus was destined to issue, we may well admire the clearness of that strategic insight, which, un- dazzled by the gleam of the eagles of the departing legions, saw, as it were between them, the red field of Carrhae. We read little of Balbus for some time, except constant expressions on his part that "he and his friend Caius are well." It may here be remarked that Caius seems to have been altogether unworthy of the friendship of Balbus ; indeed his character seems to have been disfigured by failings which rarely co-exist in the same nature; nor are the few virtues by which these failings are redeemed, less apparently incompatible as well with these as with each other. We are not bound to suppose that Balbus was altogether blind to the faults of his friend. In truth, it can hardly be without significance that we constantly read that at this period Balbus "lifted up his hands." If, as seems probable, this may be regarded as a gesture of surprise on the part of Balbus, we cannot but admire the generosity which could condone in a friend that congeries of apparently incompatible defects which seems to have excited in his own mind, not only disapprobation, but even astonishment. This great man, we may hope, did not meet at the hands of his contemporaries that neglect 296 ROBERT YELVERTON TYRRELL which has been his lot ever since. It is gratifying to read that at least " there were some who inquired of Balbus " ; that there were some acute enough to turn to their own benefit that political foresight which we have already had occasion to praise. Hitherto Balbus appears to have proposed to himself as his ideal the character of Cato or of Lutatius Catulus, but at this period, a sudden change in his mental standpoint begins to show itself. He no longer regards Rome as the capital of Italy, but constantly declares his opinion that "Rome is the mistress of the world." His theological convictions appear now to be gradually breaking down under the influence of Greek philosophy. We may characterize the former mental attitude as the Latino-Italian standpoint, and the latter as the quasi-cosmopolitan-Hellenistico-Romanesque. His philosophy seems to have been of the eclectic school; nor is this truly great man deterred by the sneer of the unthinking from professing himself an adherent at the same time of different philosophies representing the opposite poles of speculation. We now constantly meet with dogmatic expressions on the part of Balbus of his conviction that the soul is not immortal, alternating with a statement true no doubt in itself, and, perhaps, possessing a relevancy to public affairs which we can no longer detect, but hardly of any great scientific suggestiveness " that on the top of the Alps the cold is so great that the snow there never melts." Perhaps, however, in this apparently obvious proposition there is something to be read, so to speak, between the lines, as in the gnomic utterances of Phocylides and Pythagoras, for whom (it may be observed) Balbus expresses a profound respect. It would seem, at least, as if this statement were resolutely assailed by some adverse school, if we may draw this inference from the perseverance with which it is reiterated by its champion. 297 ROBERT YELVERTON TYRRELL Connected with his growing unsteadiness in theological convictions is his increasing prodigality and carelessness about the disposal of his property. We find him lavishing his fortune in presents to his friends, and on public banquets to the citizens. " On the 23rd of November, Balbus sent me as a present 20,000 sesterces," is the utterance of some unknown but not ungrateful object of his munificence. The sudden- ness with which the dogmatic beliefs of Balbus appear to have broken down might (it would seem at first sight) not unnaturally excite some surprise in the philosophical student of Moral Dynamics, who rightly expects that no change in the human character will take place per saltum. But such a philosophical observer would have perceived early in the career of Balbus enough to prepare him for such a phenomenon; for he would have observed the reconstructive instinct at work, though in a different sphere. In truth, it would have afforded him more food for surprise, if he had found that the man who had spent his whole youth in the constant construction, reconstruction, and demolition of walls, houses, and other material edifices, had in his declining years acquiesced in the ready-made structures of others, whether those structures were material, intellectual, moral, or theological. We have no direct evidence of the death of this remarkable man ; but some facts are related which seem to have occurred shortly before that melancholy event. When we read that he left the unworthy Caius heir to eleven-twelfths of his estate, we cannot help feeling that his mental vigour is beginning to give way ; we seem as we turn away from this great man to catch a glimpse of the lurid glare of his approaching funeral torches. T. 298 JOHN MARTLEY TRIAL SHOTS WITH AN OLD CROSS-BOW A GOOD paradox is like a pair of scissors. Statement and truth prima fade point contrary ways ; but by a flash of thought they coincide, and the result is a deep incision in the mind. A terse aphorism strikes like a bullet ; but some of the metal may be lost in the moulding. Satire and sermons aim at reforming; but generally only succeed at best in entertaining. Self-knowledge is achieved by the will rather than by the under- standing. Few are too modest to boast of candour. To the eye of self and of friend alike it is the mask which many failings wear, and sometimes the cloak which hides them all. Vice owes many victims to the exaggerations of its power by a too indulgent charity, and of its pleasure by a too ascetic religion. If flattery hides from us our faults, clumsy attempts at it often reveal them to us cruelly. Truth, like the moon, must be viewed from two widely-distant points simultaneously, before we can define its position or magnitude. The spirit of the age is a tyrant. Stamped in its mint all thoughts pass current, be their metal base or fine. Without that stamp the pure gold of genius is often rejected. The law of libel screens more rogues from justice than honest men from injury. In other words, it betrays more honest men than it protects. 299 ARTHUR PALMER AND R. Y. TYRRELL If education were equal in the two sexes, it might be less valued by a certain class in each. As in a level country, though the rivers are wide, sentimental people miss the music of waterfalls. Woman's eyes have been called "wells of love." The depth of water, when clear, is underrated by the acutest eye; when impure, it may be exaggerated by the soundest judgment; but in either case to the inexperienced gaze the apparent depth is often that of the reflected heavens. An action by no means virtuous may yet be a proof of virtue. Thus no man marries for money, till by self-denial he has learnt to sacrifice his inclinations to his supposed better interests. Thoughts travel on words, like ships on the sea; but are much oftener wrecked by their medium of transit. J. M. COMPETITION THE following questions are presented to Examiners at public com- petitive examinations, as having the very uncommon merit of not having been yet set : 1. The fact that Homer was born in seven different places at once is not inconsistent with the analogy of Nature? (Butler.) 2. Discuss the difference between the uniformity and the cuneiformity of the course of Nature, and enumerate the arguments adduced by Professor Mahaffy in favour of the latter hypothesis. 3. Explain and illustrate the phonetic law which regulates the change of Polysperchon into Polly Perkins, and quote the opinion of Arrian on the subject. 300 THOMAS MAGUIRE 4. Show that A E O, though a legitimate, is an unnecessary mode; and investigate under what circumstances I O U is useless. 5. Compare the effects of mathematics and dram-drinking on the human intellect. 6. Show that in whist the bad language of your partner varies inversely as the square root of the points. 7. Show that, with the exception of certain humorous stories, tricks with cards, and quotations made in the House of Commons, there is no knowledge innate in the human mind. 8. Discuss the question whether there are evidences of design in Mr. Blaydes' edition of Sophocles. 9. "There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream." Discuss the variant, "There's a pmver of roses," &c., with reference to the nationality of the author. Does the vulg. receive any support from the phrase right boivert P. AND T. THE CAMBRIDGE MAN, X.Y. AN EXTRACT FROM AN UNPUBLISHED NOVEL, BY STERTIMORE BAWLINS, ESQ. Qui fit ? Virg. Quota hora ? Petronius Umpire. X. Y. WAS at breakfast in the back-parlour of the York and Albany. His breakfast consisted of huge hunks of Stilton, which he washed down with still huger draughts of Disher's twenty-guinea. All the time, he kept whistling the last air from the last opera but one, while a tame cobra de capella stood on his head. While X. Y. was doing all these 301 THOMAS MAGUIRE things, and several others, he threw off sheet after sheet of his great work on Assyria, and set to music his Latin poem beginning : luvenis sum rure nuper, Sed non venies me super. He ate, and wrote, and whistled, and drank hugely, for X. Y. always did everything hugely, and always said he could do more than other men because he ate more cheese. But we must first introduce X. Y. to our readers. Xenophon Yoricks, or, as he was known to the Charterhouse, Cambridge, and the residue of the Solar System, X. Y., was a notice- able man. He stood without his stockings seven feet seven. His weight was the cube of some multiple of seven or some other number. A noticeable man was X. Y. X. Y.'s hair was red. X. Y.'s eyes were green. X. Y.'s teeth were blue. Yet the Duchess of Bezique, whose mots were the most original in Europe, said, " X. Y., my dear, is hideous, it is true, but he is like the Express, only a few hours behind the handsomest man on the north side of South Belgravia." It is unnecessary to add that, as senior wrangler, X. Y. obtained more marks than all the other wranglers put together since the days of William de Non-plus down to the current year of Smith. As senior classic, his examination was still more remarkable. The Greek prose papers he did into Servian verse, and the Greek verse passages into Chinese prose ; and his viva voce translation of lophon was so irresistibly comic, that the Bishop of Oxford, who had slipped in in a porter's uniform to hear X. Y.'s translation, was carried out in a fit. It is still more unnecessary to add that as stroke of the 'Varsity Eight, X. Y., having broken his oar, paddled in with his hand, winning easily ; that he won the 'Varsity billiard match, giving his opponent 1347 points out of 302 THOMAS MAGUIRE 1400 ; that he won the 'Varsity Chess Match by fifty-three games against Rooks of Chequers. Yet, on some points, X. Y.'s mind was delicate to a degree. When Griggs of Brazenface said to him one evening, " Let's go to the Soho, and see Polly Bilton dance." " Griggs," roared X. Y., in a voice that shattered every glass-shade, " I have an aunt." On another occasion, X. Y., after a ninety miles stroll, dropped into the Parthenon, where the orders of the Lord Chamberlain are not always observed. To bound from the stalls, to stride across the stage, to tear down the scenery, to get back his money, to rush into the street, to spring upon the top of a passing hansom, to drive to Flat Bangham's, to put on the gloves with Tom Sayers who was to fight Jack Heenan next morning, to spar for four hours and a half, was the work of rather more time than it takes to describe it. It was well known in Flat Bangham's parlour that but for that set-to Tom would have won in seventeen seconds. X. Y.'s favourite dinner is still known at the Cytheraeum as X. Y.'s dinner. It consisted of pea-soup and chopped ling. Bobeche of the Cytheraeum is famous for his chopped ling. The receipt is as follows : He bakes it whole ; he then lets it cool ; he then slices it into triangles ; he then serves it on a brazier with the livers of red herrings. By this time, the reader is perhaps sufficiently acquainted with X. Y. If not, let him take the utmost anybody has ever done in anything ; multiply it by 20,000, and ascribe it to X. Y. If that does not satisfy him, nothing will, not even STERTIMORE BAWLINS, ESQ. T. M. 33 ROBERT YELVERTON TYRRELL SHORT ESSAYS IN DISCIPLESHIP I THUCYDIDES AND it is reported that, seeing his men cast down with regard to the Leinsterians, the captain of the Trinity College XI. called them to- gether, and spoke as follows : " Men of Trinity, I have called you together, seeing that you are overmuch cast down at the present encounter, and to show you that you are not justly alarmed. For if anyone fears the enemy, seeing him for the present elated, let him remember, that, though formidable in word, he will not be likely to prove so unmanageable in deed. Moreover, the Trinity man has a good right to be confident, setting his daily practisability against the weekly oneness of their non-exercise, which experience breeds confi- dence, but inexperience rather dejection. It behoves you, therefore, O men of Trinity, not assimilating your fingers to the proverbial (Aeyo/Mev^)) butter, but your hearts to real iron, not to vie in word with the foe in exclamations, but in deed in batting ; and using your hands in catching as if they were another's, but in hitting as if they were your own, not to flinch from handing down to your successors unending glory rather than not a beginning of disgrace. Let each one remem- ber that the bloom (a*p?) of an eleven is limited (Ppa^la), and that as it is on the one hand hard for each one to do anything well, so on the other for all everything very well, very. For it is the excellence of the bowler not only whoso shall take-counsel-beforehand against the batsman, but also whoso shall take-anti-precautionary-counsel-before- hand for the wicket-keeper, so that the batsman having, wrongly daring, stepped forth to hit, may, rightly ineffective (evAdyws aTr/aaKTos), being 34 ROBERT YELVERTON TYRRELL stumped, retire. It is right, therefore, that you, O men of Trinity, raising your courage by thinking of increased spirit as a duty, and not enslaving your resolution by reflecting on the increased duty on spirits ; not foolishly despising the enemy, but wisely regarding their bowlers, indeed, as formidable, but their umpires as far more formidable ; it is right that so minded you should meet the foe bravely, and hand down, not impaired, but rather enhanced, to your descendants that hegemony which, not only by deep cuts, but also by long drives, your forerunners have transmitted to you as a sacred possession, and with the gods aug- mentable inheritance." II ARISTOTLE OF SMOKING SMOKING, like other acts, includes a subject and an object. And the subject is simple, but the object is ambiguous, namely, the pipe and the smoke. Now, we must distinguish between the object vTroKtiptvov and the object o5 cvexa. The latter is not only that a pipe may be smoked, but also that a pipe may be smoked well, that is, with happi- ness to the smoker (for it is clear that some permanent good is the end of all action : now smoking is an action ; and this is ambiguous, for a pipe is not only a property, or instrument of action, but also an instru- ment of production, for it sometimes produces something beyond the act, namely a headache) ; but the uses of a pipe overlap, and it is possible to smoke a pipe well, so that the tobacco may be quite con- sumed, but yet it may be too hot for the smoker, or the pipe may be burned, in which case it will no longer be a pipe, except homonymously, x 305 ROBERT YELVERTON TYRRELL for it is the function of a thing which makes it what it is. But the object of smoking is in one sense the pipe, so it is absurd that the object of smoking in another sense should destroy it. Let us, then, revert to the pipe as the object vTroKf.Lp.tvov. Now, in this sense it has two uses, one as an instrument of smoking, and one as an article of exchange. For it is possible that a man may have too many pipes and too little beer ; or, on the other hand, that he may have too much beer and too few pipes (for there is a mean between blue ribbonism and beeriness ; but for this state there is no name). Yet it is plain that the Art of exchanging pipes for beer is not a department of the Art of Finance, for this would lead to infinity; for then there should be an Art of exchanging books for beer, both one's own books and the books of others, and the Art of exchanging cotton umbrellas for silk ones, and divers others. But these are of a more popular disquisition, and belong generally to the discussion of the art called the Hypothecative Art by Zaleucus of the Epizephyrian Locrians, but Epimenides, the Cretan, called it the Art of Popping which some make a department of the Art of Acquisition, but others of the Art of Unnatural Finance. But this belongs to an exoteric inquiry. T. 306 GEORGE NEWCOMEN THE TALE OF THE ORGULOUS ARTIFICER (BEING AN EXTRACT FROM AN ANCIENT MANUSCRIPT SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN TRANSLATED FROM ONE OF THE FRENCH MEDIAEVAL ROMANCES IN THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY) THEN the King removed to Camelot, and there let cry a great Feast, that it should be holden at Pentecost. And every one of King Arthur's Knights were set in their Sieges at the Table Round. Right so as they sat there came running in a passing Young Churl, weeping and making great Dole. The Churl was poorly clothed in a leathern Doublet. Upon his right Arm he bore a great Ring of Lead, fashioned after the Manner of a Serpent when it is at Rest. Athwart his left Shoulder he bare an Oaken Staff, with a Bur of Iron at the End thereof. Upon the Staff there hung a Basket of Rushes cunningly interwoven. The Churl was weeping full bitterly, and as he wept, the Tears mingled with the Grime upon his Visage for the Face of the Younker had not been washed for many Days so that he looked exceeding sorrowful withal. " My good Churl," said Arthur, " I would fain know of thee the Cause of thy Sorrow." Then this over Young Churl made bold to speak unto the King : " O King Arthur, the Flower of all Knights and Kings ! Fain would I beseech thee to succour my Master, whom Sir Grummore Le Gourmand hath taken and put in Prison and beaten in his Eyes and 37 GEORGE NEWCOMEN in his Nose and in his Mouth. Now sayeth this Orgulous Knight, Sir Grummore, that full soon he will cause my Master to stand in molten Lead up till his Beard." Right there arose good King Arthur, being muckle moved by the waymenting of the Young Churl. " Gramercy ! " said he, " the meanest of all my Varlets shall not be denied Justice in these Realms. I well know Sir Grummore Le Gourmand ; he is one of the perilousest Knights in the World. Yet will I myself assay to rescue this poor Knave, who seemeth to be in so sorry a Plight." Anon after King Arthur sent for his Horse and for his Sword Excalibur, and departed from the Court with the Young Churl. And so they journeyed together, for many Days, through a thick Wood. Within a While they saw a great grey Tower, well matchcold round about, and double-diked. The Lord of the Castle, who was Sir Grummore, saw them coming, and looked out of the Window. He was unarmed, for it was Even- song Time, and he had put off all his Clothes, even unto his Shirt and Breeches, and on his Head he wore a Cap of white Samite, fashioned after the Manner of the Extinguisher of a Torch. " Thou lewd and villainous Knight," cried the King, " come forth and fight with me right here, for thou hast done great Wrong unto an honest Knave, the Master of this Young- Churl." " Gramercy, Sir King," quoth Sir Grummore, " the Evening is passing far spent, and I have supped heavily withal. Tarry, I pray thee, until Morning, and then will I assay to do Battle with thee, and may that Man who is best gain Mastery over the other." So then King Arthur and the Young Churl entered into the Castle, and there they abode that Night, and King Arthur had great Cheer at 308 GEORGE NEWCOMEN the Table of Sir Grummore, and they did eat of the best of Victuals, and drink of Wine strong and good, as much as they list. And on the Morn the King said unto Sir Grummore : " Now, an thou listest, we two will prove our Strengths, for, as it is informed me, thou hast done great Despite and Wrong unto a poor Churl." "An thou deemest it a fit Thing to put in Jeopardie thy Life, because of the Punishing of him who is an Enemy to all Men, then am I ready to joust with thee," said Sir Grummore. Then Sir Grummore blew upon a Horn three deadly Notes, and there came Four Knaves ; Twain led forth the Horses, and Twain did arm Sir Grummore and King Arthur. Then the Knights ran together with great Might, and they brake their Spears unto their Hands. And then they drew their Swords, and gave many sad Strokes, and either wounded the other full ill. And at last the Swords brake in their Hands unto the Hilts. Then did they call upon the Knaves to unharness them, and forthwith did fight right furiously with their Hands, and on Foot. Sir Grummore gave King Arthur a mighty Buffet upon the Jaw, which he lightly avoided, and fled from the Knight for a little Space. Sir Grummore being full fat and big, followed the King hardly, panting all the while, as he were a Questing Hound. Ever he assayed to fetch the King a full Buffet right on the Nose with his great gnarry Right Arm. Right loth was the King to hasardize his fair Countenance to these mortall Blows. Ever and anon the King would stop and lightly buffet the Knight in the Middle of his great Body, trasing and rasing right cunningly the While. Thus for two Hours they fought, the Knight vainly trying to hurl his Right Arm in the Face of the King, the King avoiding the Blows, so that Sir Grummore was for ever more and more wasting his great Strength to no avail. Then the King, seeing his Enemy wax ever 39 GEORGE NEWCOMEN fainter and fainter, tottering on his Feet as if he would forthwith fall down noseling, halted right suddenly, and gave the Knight a fierce Buffet on his great Jaw, which brast from their Roots many of his Teeth, and he, bleeding heavily, fell stunned to the Ground. Then the King rejoiced much to see the Malease of his Foe. Fiercely he strode to him, and planted his Foot upon the Knight's gnarry Neck. " Now, by the Jingo who perisheth not, thou shalt die, false Traitor," he cried. The fallen Knight, after a little Space, awoke out of his Swoon, and seeing the King standing over him, mighty terrible in Countenance, he sobbed forth, voiding the While the Blood and Teeth, which nigh choked his Speech, " Mercy, fair Sir, slay not, I pray thee, thy poor Knight." "All is vain," said the King, "for I will surely slay thee." " O most worshipful and courteous King, who surpasseth all other Kings of the Earth in Gentleness, hear, I pray thee, my Story of the Cause whereby I would make a Churl, whom I have in my Dungeon, to stand this Morn in molten Lead." The King, for a little Space, forbore to slay his Enemy ; and the Knight said, in a Voice exceeding sorrowful : " O King ! the Knave whom I would fain slay is the Enemy of all the good Knights and Ladies in thy Kingdom. He is one descended from Polypheme, a great Giant whom the good Knight hight Ulysse did punish in Times past. The vile Churl whom I would fain punish is hight Sawderos le Plumber, and he hath wrought much Damage upon me and upon my good Ladye, Dame Isoult La Grosse. He came by Night to my Castle, craving Shelter, and my Lady, through Tenderness of Heart, had Compassion on him, and on the Young Churl who was with him, and gave unto them both Food and Shelter. 310 GEORGE NEWCOMEN Sawderos looked upon a great Caldron in my Kitchen, which had stood there for many Years, and had cooked many good Dinners passing well. 'Gramercy,' he said, 'an I had come an Hour later, this Household were utterly destroyed by reason of this Caldron.' 'Whither, I pray thee,' enquired the Cook, 'for this hath ever been a passing good Pot ? ' ' So it may have been in Times past,' quoth the Churl ; ' but it is now waxen full old, and the Rust hath devoured it so deeply that, an it be not mended forthwith, it will suddenly be brast in Twain, to thy great Hurt and Damage.' Then I, being importuned of my Wife, was fain to allow the Churl to essay to mend the Caldron. Straightway the Knave, hammering upon the Pot full heavily, brast a Hole therein, so that much Water flowed therefrom, to our great Hurt and Damage. ' Be not dismayed,' said the Churl, ' for I break this Pot only that I may the better mend it.' Then he sent forth the Young Churl to a distant City, for certain Implements of his Craft which he had not with him, but when, after many Days, when the Young Churl had returned, the foul Villain Sawderos would again send him forth in Quest of yet other Implements, I, being somewhat choleric in Habit, waxed wroth." " Insooth ! and not unjustly," cried King Arthur, " this Villain hath deserved the Death thou hast prepared for him. Certes concerning the Seed of Polypheme hath Merlin prophesied that, in Times to come, they shall be the Cause of muckle Woe and Blaspheming over all Lands. Now, Sir Knight, I would fain confess to thee that my Fighting hath made me passing hungry. Tell thy. Cook, an thou lovest me, to prepare Breakfast with all Diligence. Let, I pray thee, my Eggs be boiled but lightly, nathless see thou that the Lead Bath prepared for Sawderos be as hot as Fire can make it." G. N. 3" C. K. POOLER OF POESIE PLATO had an Imagination, that the Soule hath the Flesh to prison. Certainely, hee that is layed by the Heeles joyeth to heare his Fellowes voice. And the Soule, saith one, to heare the Poetcs Oath. But I cannot tell. A joy in strange oaths turneth to a wearinesse; nor, if that which heareth were the Soule, is it like that a curse would move it. Others, speaking in a meane, say but this, that the Poete taketh here and there, and fashioneth a perfect feature ; and Men doe marvell, and take that for Divine, which, of themselves, they could not compasse. But leaving these curiosities, wee will handle : First ; What Experience is fit for the Poete ; Then, his Argument and Matter ; and Thirdly, the Fall or Cadence. For the First ; That the Poete be a Man of Bloud, I allow well. At the leaste, hee shall have scene it shed, or smelled to it. For soe hee shall lively pourtraye the Reeke of Carnage. Let him use Swearing meerely. Not, as do some, upon Occasion, and for Dispatch; lest, when hee cometh to Indite, his Hand should be out of ure. For Arguments of State, they bee not amisse. Soe the Qualitie of Great Persones bee obscured. As that a Queene bee styled " The Widdowe at such-a-place." But the maine Argument shall bee of Men Tribunitious and Turbulent, Assassins, Swashbucklers, and them that goe upon the Shoute. And the words consonant, and coming home to Mens Businesse and Bosomes. Namely Frontier Mens ; For they of the Citie and Closett doe shewe but a Civill Courage, and fall something short of the Blessing : In sudore vultus tui comedes panem. In thy Sweate thon shalt eat. And to sweate is well. Yet the Poete that beautified Tommy Atkins saith prettily : By , you must Lather with us. To wit, with Men Heroicall. For to Lather is the more Heroicall Virtue ; as a thing of 312 C. K. POOLER it selfe maribus proprium. They that will reade are two : The meane People and Men of Degree. Therefor let them bee considered. Now it is scene of the meane People, that they mainely delight in their own things ; but, contrariwise, Men of Degree in things Strange and Newe. And what is stranger than the tongue of the Barracke, and the Kennell ? Soe the Poete, in pleasing the Vulgar, shall please all. Yet the Contrarie holdeth not. For to aime at the Better Sort, and hitt the Baser, is but a Fume, and the Braverie of the Cheape-Reprint- Man. Onely ; let the grace of the Rhetor bee present ; Which is Action. I like well that the Figures move : velut si re vera pugnent, ferianf, vitentque moventes arma viri. Which was sayed, as I think, of painting, but would doe better of Poesie ; And, indeede, the Poetes have been busy with it. Action I meane , , s Chawin ^ u pp the Grounde, Arf 'e's Kicking all arounde. It is worthy the observing, that an Ape, which is like to a Man, is the Glasse of Action. Nay, a Dog suddainely flyeth for lifting of a Staffe. Yea, and the motion be impertinent to it selfe. Yet, percase, the same Beaste will abide Reproofe ; though it be Speech of Touch, and the words aculeate and proper. And soe of Men in a proportion. In Action there is no Excesse. But the Defect would bee noted. Which is, if a Man, upon tidings of his Wifes murther, should but drawe downe his Cappe, as was scene of Macduffe. Touching the Cadence; it is good that the Rhythm give the Meter leave to speake. Soe shal the Fooles fingers tell the Feet ; and a Begger with his staffe beat out the tune. Virgil is not for all companies. And there bee THOMAS HOOD Mesures, that are but Caviare to the Generall. A veine that would bee brideled. Hee that will curiouslie seeke after "Apt Numbers, Fitt Quantitie of Syllables, and the Sense variouslie drawne out from one Verse into another," shall seeme to call for Broken Musique, where, belyke, there is but Bones and Cleaver. Neither shall the Streame ascend above his Fountaine ; but of Musique, the Caput or Prime Source is the Stithy. For Jubal was brother to Tubal-Cain, that was a Smith. Wherefor I hold not the Centaur Polyphemus, a Shephearde, as doth Euripides, the Poete. For himself declareth what craftsman he was, in slaying of the Ithicans comrades pvQfjup rtvi, having, indeede, learned it at the anvill. But these bee Toyes. C. K. P. PART III LATIN RHYMES EUTHANASIA WE watch'd her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and slow ; As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. So silently we seem'd to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out. 3M ROBERT YELVERTON TYRRELL Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied ; We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died. For when the morn came, dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed she had Another morn than ours. THOMAS HOOD. MORS JANUA VITAE (IDEM LATINE REDDITUM) LENTE noctis ibant horae, Spiritus trahebat ore Lentos aegra debili ; Dum sub pectore iacentis It reditque refluentis Vita more pelagi. Quam submissa loquebamur Voce, siue mouebamur, Pedibus quam tacitis ! Dixeris suppeditasse Nos ferentes opem lassae Nostri partem roboris. Turn formidines in mentes Spes refellit ingruentes, Spemque mox formidines ; 315 ROBERT YELVERTON TYRRELL Visa, cum dormiret, mori, Visa similis sopori Mortis ipsa requies. Lux est crastina renata Matutino contristata Imbre, foeda nebulis ; Leniter ocellos claudit lamque non terrena gaudet Luce, sine tenebris. THREE JOLLY POST-BOYS" IN LATIN (To be sung to the original air) TRES calones hilares Potantes in popina Statuerunt bibere Pocla quisque bina. "Appone, puer, cyathos, Et vina coronemus, Indulgeamus genio Cras aquam bibemus. Qui fit mero madidus, Et cubat ebriosus, Scit decenter vivere, Et moritur iocosus. 316 ROBERT YELVERTON TYRRELL At si quis poscam potitat Lectumque siccus petit, Occidit cum frondibus Quas Auctumnus metit. Totus adamandus est Chorus virginalis ; Sed est inepti ducere Ni qua sit dotalis. Nunc ergo comissabimur, Cor vino erigamus Nam quo loco eras erimus Qui nunc hie compotamus ? " "THREE JOLLY POST-BOYS" IN GREEK (To be sung to the original air) TT OlVtp O? lAtt/301 ITTTToS/OOjIAOt OlVtp O? Soav, K TO Sevrcpov yap -te vv Styav Se (apo(J.0' fXfvOeplVJV. ere, x6ap.a\a. povfoVT