.
 

 
 POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS 
 
 Majores majora sonent
 
 POEMS 
 
 ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS 
 
 BY 
 
 AUSTIN DOBSON 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DODD, MEAD, AND COMPANY 
 1889
 
 LONDON, March 2, 1889. 
 
 Messrs. Dodd^ Mead, and Company are my 
 
 American publishers. 
 
 AUSTIN DOBSON. 
 
 Snibmttg \9rtts: 
 JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.
 
 To you I sing, whom towns immure, 
 And bonds of toil holdfast and sure ; 
 To you across whose aching sight 
 Come woodlands bathed in April light, 
 And dreams of pastime premature. 
 
 And you, O Sad, who still endure 
 Some wound that only Time can cure, 
 To you, in watches of the night, 
 To you I sing/ 
 
 But most to you with eyelids pure, 
 Scarce witting yet of love or lure ; 
 
 To you, with bird-like glances bright, 
 Half -paused to speak, half-poised in flight ;- 
 O English Girl, divine, demure, 
 To YOU I sing! 
 
 2081813
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 OLD-WORLD IDYLLS: PAGE 
 
 A Dead Letter 3 
 
 A Gentleman of the Old School 10 
 
 A Gentlewoman of the Old School .... 15 
 
 The Ballad of Beau Brocade 20 
 
 Une Marquise 32 
 
 The Story of Rosina 38 
 
 PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN : 
 
 The Ballad a la Mode 51 
 
 The Metamorphosis 55 
 
 - The Song out of Season 59 
 
 The Cap that Fits 63 
 
 The Secrets of the Heart 67 
 
 " Good-Night, Babette ! " 72 
 
 VIGNETTES IN RHYME : 
 
 s The Drama of the Doctor's Window .... 79 
 
 An Autumn Idyll 88 
 
 A Garden Idyll 95
 
 Contents. 
 
 VIGNETTES IN RHYME continued. PAGB 
 
 Tu Quoque 100 
 
 * A Dialogue from Plato 104 
 
 The Romaunt of the Rose 107 
 
 Love in Winter 109 
 
 Pot-Pourri m 
 
 Dorothy 114 
 
 Avice 117 
 
 The Love-Letter 121 
 
 The Misogynist 124 
 
 A Virtuoso 128 
 
 Laissez Faire 132 
 
 ToQ. H. F 134 
 
 To " Lydia Languish " 137 
 
 A Gage d'Amour 140 
 
 Cupid's Alley 144 
 
 The Idyll of the Carp 148 
 
 The Sundial 154 
 
 An Unfinished Song 158 
 
 The Child-Musician 161 
 
 The Cradle 162 
 
 Before Sedan 163 
 
 The Forgotten Grave 165 
 
 My Landlady 167 
 
 Before the Curtain 170 
 
 A Nightingale in Kensington Gardens . . . 172 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES: 
 
 A Song of the Four Seasons 177 
 
 The Paradox of Time 179
 
 Contents. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES continued. PAGE 
 
 To a Greek Girl 181 
 
 The Death of Procris 183 
 
 The Prayer of the Swine to Circe 186 
 
 A Case of Cameos 191 
 
 The Sick Man and the Birds 194 
 
 A Flower Song of Angiola 197 
 
 A Song of Angiola in Heaven 200 
 
 The Dying of Tanneguy du Bois 204 
 
 The Mosque of the Caliph 207 
 
 In the Belfry 212 
 
 Ars Victrix 213 
 
 ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS : 
 
 Rose Leaves (Triolets) 219 
 
 " Persicos Odi " " 223 
 
 The Wanderer (Rondet) 224 
 
 "Vitas Hi nnuleo" " 225 
 
 "On London Stones" {Rondeau} 226 
 
 " Farewell, Renown " " 227 
 
 " More Poets Yet " " 228 
 
 " With Pipe and Flute " " 229 
 
 To Ethel " 230 ' 
 
 " O Fons Bandusias " " 231 
 
 " Vixi Puellis " " 232 
 
 "When I saw you last, Rose" (Villanelle) . . 233 
 
 On a Nankin Plate " . . 235 
 
 For a Copy of Theocritus " . . 237 
 
 " Tu ne Quaesieris " " . . 239 
 
 The Prodigals {Ballade: Irregular) . . . . 241
 
 Contents. 
 
 ESSAYS ix OLD FRENCH FORMS continued. 
 
 On a Fan {Ballade) ......... 243 
 
 The Ballad of the Armada (Ballade) .... 245 
 
 The Ballad of Imitation " .... 247 
 
 The Bal d of Prose and Rhyme (Ballade) . . 249 
 
 "O Navis" " . . 251 
 
 The Dance of Death (Chant Royal) .... 253 
 
 NOTES . 261
 
 OLD-WORLD IDYLLS.
 
 A DEAD LETTER. 
 
 " A cxur bless f r ombre et le silence" 
 
 H. DE BALZAC. 
 
 I. 
 
 I DREW it from its china tomb ;- 
 
 It came out feebly scented 
 With some thin ghost of past perfume 
 
 That time and years had lent it. 
 
 An old, old letter, folded still I 
 
 To read with due composure 
 I sought the sun-lit window-sill 
 
 Above the gray enclosure, 
 
 That, glimmering in the sultry haze, 
 
 Faint-flowered, dimly shaded, 
 Slumbered, like Goldsmith's Madam Blaize, 
 
 Bedizened and brocaded. 
 3
 
 A Dead Letter. 
 
 A queer old place ! You 'd surely say 
 Some tea-board garden-maker 
 
 Had planned it in Dutch William's day 
 To please some florist Quaker, 
 
 So trim it was. The yew-trees still, 
 
 With pious care perverted, 
 Grew in the same grim shapes ; and still 
 
 The lipless dolphin spurted ; 
 
 Still in his wonted state abode 
 
 The broken-nosed Apollo ; 
 And still the cypress-arbour showed 
 
 The same umbrageous hollow. 
 
 Only, as fresh young Beauty gleams 
 From coffee-coloured laces, 
 
 So peeped from its old-fashioned dreams 
 The fresher modern traces ; 
 
 For idle mallet, hoop, and ball 
 
 Upon the lawn were lying ; 
 A magazine, a tumbled shawl, 
 
 Round which the swifts were flying; 
 4
 
 A Dead Letter. 
 
 And, tossed beside the Guelder rose, 
 
 A heap of rainbow knitting, 
 Where, blinking in her pleased repose, 
 
 A Persian cat was sitting. 
 
 " A place to love in, live, for aye, 
 
 If we too, like Tithonus, 
 Could find some God to stretch the gray 
 Scant life the Fates have thrown us ; 
 
 " But now by steam we run our race 
 With buttoned heart and pocket ; 
 Our Love 's a gilded, surplus grace, 
 Just like an empty locket. 
 
 "'The time is out of joint.' Who will, 
 
 May strive to make it better ; 
 For me, this warm old window-sill, 
 And this old dusty letter." 
 
 n. 
 
 u Dear John (the letter ran), it can't, can't be, 
 
 For Father 's gone to Chorley Fair with Sam 
 And Mother 's storing Apples, Prue and Me 
 Up to our Elbows making Damson Jam : 
 5
 
 A Dead Letter. 
 
 But we sliall meet before a Week is gone, 
 "T is a long Lane that has no Turning,' John ! 
 
 " Only till Sunday next, and then you '11 wait 
 
 Behind the White-Thorn, by the broken Stile 
 *Ve can go round and catch them at the Gate, 
 
 All to ourselves, for nearly one long Mile; 
 Dear Prue won't look, and Father he '11 go on, 
 And Sam's two Eyes are all for Cissy, John ! 
 
 " John, she 's so smart, with every Ribbon new, 
 Flame-coloured Sack, and Crimson Padesoy; 
 As proud as proud ; and has the Vapours too, 
 Just like My Lady ; calls poor Sam a boy, 
 And vows no Sweet-Heart 's worth the Thinking-Oil 
 Till he 's past Thirty ... I know better, John! 
 
 " My Dear, I don't think that I thought of much 
 Before we knew each other, I and you ; 
 
 And now, why, John, your least, least Finger-touch, 
 Gives me enough to think a Summer through. 
 
 See, for I send you Something ! There, 't is gone ! 
 
 Look in this comer, mind you find it, John!" 
 
 HI. 
 
 This was the matter of the note, 
 
 A long-forgot deposit, 
 6
 
 A Dead Letter. 
 
 Dropped in an Indian dragon's throat, 
 Deep in a fragrant closet, 
 
 Piled with a dapper Dresden world, 
 Beaux, beauties, prayers, and poses, 
 
 Bronzes with squat legs undercurled, 
 And great jars filled with roses. 
 
 Ah, heart that wrote ! Ah, lips that kissed ! 
 
 You had no thought or presage 
 Into what keeping you dismissed 
 
 Your simple old-world message ! 
 
 A reverent one. Though we to-day 
 
 Distrust beliefs and powers, 
 The artless, ageless things you say 
 
 Are fresh as May's own flowers, 
 
 Starring some pure primeval spring, 
 Ere Gold had grown despotic, 
 
 Ere Life was yet a selfish thing, 
 Or Love a mere exotic. 
 
 I need not search too much to find 
 Whose lot it was to send it,
 
 A Dead Letter. 
 
 That feel upon me yet the kind, 
 Soft hand of her who penned it ; 
 
 And see, through two score years of smoke, 
 
 In by-gone, quaint apparel, 
 Shine from yon time-black Norway oak 
 
 The face of Patience Caryl, 
 
 The pale, smooth forehead, silver-tressed ; 
 
 The gray gown, primly flowered ; 
 The spotless, stately coif whose crest 
 
 Like Hector's horse-plume towered ; 
 
 And still the sweet half-solemn look 
 Where some past thought was clinging, 
 
 As when one shuts a serious book 
 To hear the thrushes singing. 
 
 I kneel to you ! Of those you were, 
 Whose kind old hearts grow mellow, 
 
 Whose fair old faces grow more fair 
 As Point and Flanders yellow ; 
 
 Whom some old store of garnered grief, 
 Their placid temples shading, 
 8
 
 A Dead Letter. 
 
 Crowns like a wreath of autumn leaf 
 With tender tints of fading. 
 
 Peace to your soul ! You died unwed 
 
 Despite this loving letter. 
 And what of John ? The less that 's said 
 
 Of John, I think, the better. 
 9
 
 A GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL 
 
 HE lived in that past Georgian 
 When men were less inclined to say 
 That "Time is Gold," and overlay 
 
 With toil their pleasure ; 
 He held some land, and dwelt thereon, 
 Where, I forget, the house is gone ; 
 His Christian name, I think, was John, 
 
 His surname, Leisure. 
 
 Reynolds has painted him, a face 
 Filled with a fine, old-fashioned grace, 
 Fresh-coloured, frank, with ne'er a trace 
 
 Of trouble shaded ; 
 The eyes are blue, the hair is drest 
 In plainest way, one hand is prest 
 Deep in a flapped canary vest, 
 
 With buds brocaded. 
 10
 
 A Gentleman of the Old School. 
 
 He wears a brown old Brunswick coat, 
 With silver buttons, round his throat, 
 A soft cravat ; in all you note 
 
 An elder fashion, 
 A strangeness, which, to us who shine 
 In shapely hats, whose coats combine 
 All harmonies of hue and line. 
 
 Inspires compassion. 
 
 He lived so long ago, you see ; 
 Men were un travelled then, but we, 
 Like Ariel, post o'er land and sea 
 
 With careless parting ; 
 He found it quite enough for him 
 To smoke his pipe in " garden trim," 
 And watch, about the fish tank's brim, 
 
 The swallows darting. 
 
 He liked the well-wheel's creaking tongue, 
 He liked the thrush that stopped and sung, 
 He liked the drone of flies among 
 
 His netted peaches ; 
 He liked to watch the sunlight fall 
 Athwart his ivied orchard wall ; 
 Or pause to catch the cuckoo's call 
 
 Beyond the beeches.
 
 A Gentleman of the Old School. 
 
 " ' I 
 
 His were the times of Paint and Patch, 
 
 Aud yet no Ranelagh could match 
 The sober doves that round his thatch 
 
 Spread tails and sidled ; 
 He liked their ruffling, puffed content, 
 For him their drowsy wheelings meant 
 More than a Mall of Beaux that bent, 
 
 Or Belles that bridled. 
 
 Not that, in truth, when life began 
 He shunned the flutter of the fan ; 
 He too had may be " pinked his man " 
 
 In Beauty's quarrel ; 
 But now his " fervent youth " had flown 
 Where lost things go ; and he was grown 
 As staid and slow-paced as his own 
 
 Old hunter, Sorrel. 
 
 Yet still he loved the chase, and held 
 That no composer's score excelled 
 The merry horn, when Sweetlip swelled 
 
 Its jovial riot ; 
 
 But most his measured words of praise 
 Caressed the angler's easy ways, 
 His idly meditative days, 
 
 His rustic diet. 
 12
 
 A Gentleman of the Old School. 
 
 Not that his "meditating" rose 
 Beyond a sunny summer doze ; 
 He never troubled his repose 
 
 With fruitless prying ; 
 But held, as law for high and low, 
 What God 'withholds no man can know, 
 And smiled away inquiry so, 
 
 Without replying. 
 
 We read alas, how much we read ! 
 The jumbled strifes of creed and creed 
 With endless controversies feed 
 
 Our groaning tables; 
 His books and they sufficed him were 
 Cotton's "Montaigne," "The Grave" of Blair, 
 A "Walton" much the worse for wear, 
 
 And "^Esop's Fables." 
 
 One more, "The Bible." Not that he 
 Had searched its page as deep as we ; 
 No sophistries could make him see 
 
 Its slender credit ; 
 It may be that he could not count 
 The sires and sons to Jesse's fount, 
 He liked the " Sermon on the Mount/' - 
 
 And more, he read it.
 
 A Gentleman of the Old School. 
 
 Once he had loved, but failed to wed, 
 A red-cheeked lass who long was dead; 
 His ways were far too slow, he said, 
 
 To quite forget her ; 
 
 And still when time had turned him gray, 
 The earliest hawthorn buds in May 
 Would find his lingering feet astray, 
 
 Where first he met her. 
 
 "In Casio Quies" heads the stone 
 On Leisure's grave, now little known, 
 A tangle of wild-rose has grown 
 
 So thick acros^jt ; 
 The "Benefactions" still c^Bue 
 He left the clerk an elbo\aHair, 
 And " 1 2 Pence Yearly w Prepare 
 
 A Christmas Posset." 
 
 Lie softly, Leisure ! Doubtless you, 
 With too serene a conscience drew 
 Your easy breath, and slumbered through 
 
 The gravest issue; 
 But we, to whom our age allows 
 Scarce space to wipe our weary brows, 
 Look down upon your narrow house, 
 
 Old friend, and miss you ! 
 14
 
 A GENTLEWOMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 
 
 SHE lived in Georgian era too. 
 Most women then, if bards be true, 
 Succumbed to Routs and Cards, or grew 
 
 Devout and acid. 
 
 But hers was neither fate. She came 
 Of good west-country folk, whose fame 
 Has faded now. For us her name 
 
 Is " Madam Placid." 
 
 Patience or Prudence, what you will, 
 Some prefix faintly fragrant still 
 As those old musky scents that fill 
 
 Our grandams' pillows ; 
 And for her youthful portrait take 
 Some long-waist child of Hudson's make. 
 Stiffly at ease beside a lake 
 
 With swans and willows. 
 15
 
 A Gentlewoman of the Old School. 
 
 I keep her later semblance placed 
 Beside my desk, 't is lawned and laced, 
 In shadowy sanguine stipple traced 
 
 By Bartolozzi; 
 
 A placid face, in which surprise 
 Is seldom seen, but yet there lies 
 Some vestige of the laughing eyes 
 
 Of arch PiozzL 
 
 For her e'en Time grew debonair. 
 He, finding cheeks unclaimed of care, 
 With late-delayed faint roses there, 
 
 And lingering dimples, 
 Had spared to touch the fair old face, 
 And only kissed with Vauxhall grace 
 The soft white hand that stroked her lace, 
 
 Or smoothed her wimples. 
 
 So left her beautiful. Her age 
 Was comely as her youth was sage, 
 And yet she once had been the rage ; 
 
 It hath been hinted, 
 Indeed, affirmed by one or two, 
 Some spark at Bath (as sparks will do) 
 Inscribed a song to " Lovely Prue," 
 
 Which Urban printed. 
 16
 
 A Gentlewoman of the Old School. 
 
 I know she thought ; I know she felt ; 
 Perchance could sum, I doubt she spelt, 
 She knew as little of the Celt 
 
 As of the Saxon ; 
 
 I know she played and sang, for yet 
 We keep the tumble-down spinet 
 To which she quavered ballads set 
 
 By Arne or Jackson. 
 
 Her tastes were not refined as ours, 
 She liked plain food and homely flowers, 
 Refused to paint, kept early hours, 
 
 Went clad demurely; 
 Her art was sampler-work design, 
 Fireworks for her were " vastly fine," 
 Her luxury was elder-wine, 
 
 She loved that " purely." 
 
 She was renowned, traditions say, 
 
 For June conserves, for curds and whey, 
 
 For finest tea (she called it " tay "), 
 
 And ratafia ; 
 
 She knew, for sprains, what bands to choose, 
 Could tell the sovereign wash to use 
 For freckles, and was learned in brews 
 
 As erst Medea.
 
 A Gentlewoman of the Old School. 
 
 Yet studied little. She would read, 
 On Sundays, "Pearson on the Creed," 
 Though, as I think, she could not heed 
 
 His text profoundly; 
 Seeing she chose for her retreat 
 The warm west-looking window-seat, 
 Where, if you chanced to raise your feet, 
 
 You slumbered soundly. 
 
 This, 'twixt ourselves. The dear old dame, 
 In truth, was not so much to blame ; 
 The excellent divine I name 
 
 Is scarcely stirring; 
 Her plain-song piety preferred 
 Pure life to precept. If she erred, 
 She knew her faults. Her softest word 
 
 Was for the erring. 
 
 [f she had loved, or if she kept 
 Some ancient memory green, or wept 
 Over the shoulder-knot that slept 
 
 Within her cuff-box, 
 t know not. Only this I know, (\ 
 ' 1 At sixty-five she 'd still her_bgaiU, 
 A lean French exile, lame and slow, 
 With monstrous snuff-box. 
 18
 
 A Gentlewoman of the Old School. 
 
 Younger than she, well-born and bred. 
 She 'd found him in St. Giles', half dead 
 Of teaching French for nightly bed 
 
 And daily dinners; 
 
 Starving, in fact, 'twixt want and pride ; 
 And so, henceforth, you always spied 
 His rusty "pigeon- wings" beside 
 
 Her Mechlin pinners. 
 
 He worshipped her, you may suppose. 
 She gained him pupils, gave him clothes, 
 Delighted in his dry bonjmots^ 
 
 And cackling laughter ; 
 And when, at last, the long duet 
 Of conversation and picquet 
 Ceased with her death, of sheer regret 
 
 He died soon after. 
 
 Dear Madam Placid ! Others knew 
 Your worth as well as he, and threw 
 Their flowers upon your coffin too, 
 
 I take for granted. 
 Their loves are lost ; but still we see 
 Your kind and gracious memory 
 Bloom yearly with the almond tree 
 
 The Frenchman planted.
 
 THE BALLAD OF "BEAU BROCADE 
 
 " Hark I I hear the sound of coaches I " 
 
 BEGGAR'S OPERA. 
 
 I. 
 
 SEVENTEEN hundred and thirty-nine : 
 That was the date of this tale of mine. 
 
 First great GEORGE was buried and gone ; 
 GEORGE the Second was plodding on. 
 
 LONDON, then, as the "Guides" aver, 
 Shared it 5 glories with Westminster; 
 
 And people of rank, to correct their "tone," 
 Went out of town to Marybone. 
 
 Those were the days of the War with Spain, 
 PORTO-BELLO would soon be ta'en ; 
 20
 
 The Ballad of "Beau Brocade " 
 
 WHITEFIELD preached to the colliers grim, 
 Bishops in lawn sleeves preached at him ; 
 
 WALPOLE talked of "a man and his price"; 
 Nobody's virtue was over-nice : 
 
 Those, in fine, were the brave days when 
 Coaches were stopped by ... Highway men t 
 
 And of all the knights of the gentle trade 
 Nobody bolder than " BEAU BROCADE." 
 
 This they knew on the whole way down ; 
 Best, may be, at the " Oak and Crown" 
 
 (For timorous folk on their pilgrimage 
 
 Would "club" for a "Guard" to ride the stage ; 
 
 And the Guard that rode on more than one 
 Was the Host of this hostel's sister's son.) 
 
 Open we here on a March day fine, 
 Under the oak with the hanging sign. 
 
 There was Barber DICK with his basin by ; 
 
 Cobbler JOE with the patch on his eye ; 
 21
 
 The Ballad of "Beau Brocade." 
 
 Portly product of Beef and Beer, 
 JOHN the host, he was standing near. 
 
 Straining and creaking, with wheels awry, 
 Lumbering came the "Plymouth Fly"; 
 
 Lumbering up from Bagshot Heath, 
 Guard in the basket armed to the teeth ; 
 
 Passengers heavily armed inside ; 
 
 Not the less surely the coach had been tried ! 
 
 Tried ! but a couple of miles away, 
 
 By a well-dressed man ! in the open day ! 
 
 Tried successfully, never a doubt, 
 Pockets of passengers all turned out ! 
 
 Cloak-bags rifled, and cushions ripped, 
 Even an Ensign's wallet stripped ! 
 
 Even a Methodist hosier's wife 
 
 Offered the choice of her Money or Life ! 
 
 Highwayman's manners no less polite, 
 Hoped that their coppers (returned) were right ;- 
 12
 
 T/te Ballad of " B, *u Brocade" 
 
 Sorry to find the company poor, 
 
 Hoped next time they 'd travel with more ; 
 
 Plucked them all at his ease, in short : 
 Such was the "Plymouth Flfs" report. 
 
 Sympathy! horror! and wonderment ! 
 " Catch the Villain ! " (But Nobody went.) 
 
 Hosier's wife led into the Bar; 
 
 (That 's where the best strong waters are !) 
 
 Followed the tale of the hundred-and-one 
 Things that Somebody ought to have done. 
 
 Ensign (of BRAGG'S) made a terrible clangour : 
 But for the Ladies had drawn his hanger ! 
 
 Robber, of course, was "BEAU BROCADE"; 
 Out-spoke DOLLY the Chambermaid. 
 
 Devonshire DOLLY, plump and red, 
 Spoke from the gallery overhead ; 
 
 Spoke it out boldly, staring hard : 
 " Why did n't you shoot then, GEORGE the Guard ? ' 
 23
 
 The Ballad of "eau Brocade." 
 
 Spoke it out bolder, seeing him mute : 
 " GEORGE the Guard, why did n't you shoot ? " 
 
 Portly JOHN grew pale and red, 
 (JOHN was afraid of her, people said ;) 
 
 Gasped that " DOLLY was surely cracked," 
 (JOHN was afraid of her that 's a fact !) 
 
 GEORGE the Guard grew red and pale, 
 Slowly finished his quart of ale : 
 
 " Shoot ? Why Rabbit him ! did n't he shoot ? * 
 Muttered "The Baggage was far too 'cute!" 
 
 " Shoot ? Why he 'd flashed the pan in his eye 1 " 
 Muttered " She 'd pay for it by and by ! " 
 Further than this made no reply. 
 
 Nor could a further reply be made, 
 
 For GEORGE was in league with " BEAU BROCADE "I 
 
 And JOHN the Host, in his wakefullest state, 
 Was not on the whole immaculate. 
 
 But nobody's virtue was over-nice 
 
 When WALPOLE talked of "a man and his price"; 
 24
 
 The Ballad of "Beau Brocade." 
 
 And wherever Purity found abode, 
 'T was certainly not on a posting road. 
 
 n. 
 
 "Forty" followed to "Thirty-nine." 
 Glorious days of the Hanover line ! 
 
 Princes were born, and drums were banged 
 Now and then batches of Highwaymen 
 
 " Glorious news ! " from the Spanish Mai* , 
 PORTO-BELLO at last was ta'en. 
 
 " Glorious news ! " for the liquor trade ; 
 Nobody dreamed of " BEAU BROCADE." 
 
 People were thinking of Spanish Crowns ; 
 Money was coming from seaport towns ! 
 
 Nobody dreamed of " BEAU BROCADE," 
 (Only DOLLY the Chambermaid !) 
 
 Blessings on VERNON ! Fill up the cans ; 
 Money was coming in "Flys" and " Vans" 
 
 Possibly, JOHN the Host had heard ; 
 Also, certainly, GEORGE the Guard. 
 
 25
 
 The Ballad of "Beau Brocade." 
 
 And DOLLY had possibly tidings, too, 
 That made her rise from her bed anew, 
 
 Plump as ever, but stern of eye, 
 
 With a fixed intention to warn the "Fly. n 
 
 Lingering only at JOHN his door, 
 Just to make sure of a jerky snore ; 
 
 Saddling the gray mare, Dumpling Star; 
 Fetching the pistol out of the bar ; 
 
 (The old horse-pistol that, they say, 
 Came from the battle of Malplaquet;) 
 
 Loading with powder that maids would use, 
 Even in " Forty," to clear the flues ; 
 
 And a couple of silver buttons, the Squire 
 Gave her, away in Devonshire. 
 
 These she wadded for want of better 
 With the B SH p of L ND N'S "Pastoral 
 Letter"; 
 
 Looked to the flint, and hung the whole, 
 Ready to use, at her pocket-hole. 
 26
 
 The Ballad of "Beau Brocade." 
 
 Thus equipped and accoutred, DOLLY 
 Clattered away to "Exciseman's Folly" ; 
 
 Such was the name of a ruined abode, 
 Just on the edge of the London road. 
 
 Thence she thought she might safely try 
 As soon as she saw it to warn the "Fly" 
 
 But, as chance fell out, her rein she drew, 
 As the BEAU came cantering into the view. 
 
 By the light of the moon she could see him drest 
 In his famous gold-sprigged tambour vest ; 
 
 And under his silver-gray surtout, 
 The laced, historical coat of blue, 
 
 That he wore when he went to London-Spaw, 
 And robbed Sir MUNGO MUCKLETHRAW. 
 
 Out-spoke DOLLY the Chambermaid, 
 (Trembling a little, but not afraid,) 
 "Stand and Deliver, O 'BEAU BROCADE'!" 
 
 But the BEAU drew nearer, and would not speak, 
 
 For he saw by the moonlight a rosy cheek ; 
 27
 
 TJie Ballad of "Beau Brocuie" 
 
 And a spavined mare that was worth a "cole"; 
 And a girl with her hand at her pocket-hole. 
 
 So never a word he spoke as yet, 
 
 For he thought 't was a freak of MEG or BET ; 
 
 A freak of the "Rose" or the "Rummer" set. 
 
 Out-spoke DOLLY the Chambermaid, 
 (Tremulous now, and sore afraid,) 
 "Stand and Deliver, O 'BEAU BROCADE'!" 
 
 Firing then, out of sheer alarm, 
 Hit the BEAU in the bridle-arm. 
 
 Button the first went none knows where, 
 But it carried away his solitaire ; 
 
 Button the second a circuit made, 
 Glanced in under the shoulder-blade ; 
 Down from the saddle fell " BEAU BROCADE " ! 
 
 Down from the saddle and never stirred ! 
 DOLLY grew white as a Windsc*- curd. 
 
 Slipped not less from the mare, and bound 
 
 Strips of her kirtle about his wound. 
 jfi
 
 The Ballad of "Beau Brocade" 
 
 Then, lest his Worship should rise and flee, 
 Fettered his ankles tenderly. 
 
 Jumped on his chestnut, BET the fleet 
 (Called after BET of Portugal Street); 
 
 Came like the wind to the old Inn-door ; 
 Roused fat JOHN from a three-fold snore ; 
 
 Vowed she 'd 'peach if he misbehaved . . . 
 Briefly, the "Plymouth Fly" was saved! 
 
 Staines and Windsor were all on fire : 
 DOLLY was wed to a Yorkshire squire ; 
 Went to Town at the K G'S desire ! 
 
 But whether His M j STY saw her or not, 
 HOGARTH jotted her down on the spot ; 
 
 And something, of DOLLY one still may trace 
 In the fresh contours of his " Milkmaid's" face. 
 
 GEORGE the Guard fled over the sea: 
 JOHN had a fit of perplexity ; 
 
 Turned King's evidence, sad to state ; 
 
 But JOHN was never immaculate 
 29
 
 The Ballad of "Beau Brocade" 
 
 As for the BEAU, he was duly tried, 
 
 When his wound was healed, at Whitsuntide; 
 
 Served for a day as the last of "sights," 
 
 To the world of St. James's- Street and " White's ", 
 
 Went on his way to TYBURN TREE, 
 With a pomp befitting his high degree. 
 
 Every privilege rank confers : 
 Bouquet of pinks at St. SepukhrJs; 
 
 Flagon of ale at Holborn Bar; 
 
 Friends (in mourning) to follow his Car 
 
 ("t" is omitted where HEROES are!) 
 
 Every one knows the speech he made ; 
 Swore that he "rather admired the Jade!" 
 
 Waved to the crowd with his gold-laced hat ; 
 Talked to the Chaplain after that ; 
 
 Turned to the Topsman undismayed . . . 
 This was the finish of "BEAU BROCADE"! 
 
 And this is the Ballad thai seemed to hide 
 In the leaves of a dusty " LONDONER'S GUIDE" ; 
 30
 
 The Ballad of "Beau Brocade." 
 
 "Humbly Inscribed" (with curls and tails) 
 By the Author to FREDERICK, Prince of WALES : 
 
 " Published by FRANCIS and OLIVER PINE ; 
 Ludgate-Hill, at the Blackmoor Sign. 
 Seventcen-Hundred-and-Thirty-Nint"
 
 UNE MARQUISE. 
 
 A RHYMED MONOLOGUE IN THE LOUVRE. 
 
 * Belle Afaryuisf, vos beaux yeux me font mourir d*amour." 
 
 Moi IKRE. 
 
 I. 
 
 As you sit there at your ease, 
 
 O Marquise ! 
 And the men flock round your knees 
 
 Thick as bees, 
 
 Mute at every word you utter, 
 Servants to your least frill flutter, 
 
 11 Belle Marquise!" 
 As you sit there growing prouder, 
 
 And your ringed hands glance and go, 
 And your fan's frou-frou sounds louder, 
 
 And your "beaux yeux" flash and glow; 
 Ah, you used them on the Painter, 
 As you know, 
 32
 
 Une Marquise. 
 
 For the Sieur Larose spoke fainter, 
 
 Bowing low, 
 
 Thanked Madame and Heaven for Mercy 
 That each sitter was not Circe, 
 Or at least he told you so ; 
 Growing proud, I say, and prouder 
 To the crowd that come and go, 
 Dainty Deity of Powder, 
 
 Fickle Queen of Fop and Beau, 
 As you sit where lustres strike you, 
 Sure to please, 
 Do we love you most or like you, 
 
 " Belle Marquise!" 
 
 ii. 
 
 You are fair ; O yes, we know it 
 
 Well, Marquise; 
 
 For he swore it, your last poet, 
 On his knees; 
 
 And he called all heaven to witness 
 
 Of his ballad and its fitness, 
 
 "Belle Marquise!" 
 
 You were everything in ere 
 
 (With exception of severe), 
 
 You were cruelle and rebelle, 
 
 With the rest of rhymes as well ; 
 33
 
 Une Marquise. 
 
 You were " Reine" and "Mere d* Amour"; 
 
 You were " Venus a Cy there"; 
 " Sappho mise en Pompadour" 
 
 And " Minerve en Parabere"; 
 You had every grace of heaven 
 
 In your most angelic face, 
 With the nameless finer leaven 
 
 Lent of blood and courtly race ; 
 And he added, too, in duty, 
 Ninon's wit and Boufflers' beauty; 
 And La Valliere's yeux veloutes 
 
 Followed these; 
 And you liked it, when he said it 
 
 (On his knees), 
 And you kept it, and you read it, 
 
 " Belle Marquise /" 
 
 in. 
 Yet with us your toilet graces 
 
 Fail to please, 
 And the last of your last faces, 
 
 And your mise; 
 For we hold you just as real, 
 
 "Belle Marquise I 
 34
 
 Une Marquise. 
 
 As your Bergers and Bergeres, 
 lies d' Amour and Batelieres; 
 As your pans, and your Versailles, 
 Gardens, grottoes, and rocailles; 
 As your Naiads and your trees ; 
 Just as near the old ideal 
 
 Calm and ease, 
 As the Venus there, by Coustou, 
 
 That a fan would make quite flighty, 
 Is to her the gods were used to, 
 Is to grand Greek Aphrodite, 
 
 Sprung from seas. 
 You are just a porcelain trifle, 
 
 " Belle Marquise!" 
 Just a thing of puffs and patches, 
 Made for madrigals and catches, 
 Not for heart-wounds, but for scratches, 
 
 O Marquise ! 
 Just a pinky porcelain trifle, 
 
 11 Belle Marquise!" 
 Wrought in rarest rose-Dubarry, 
 Quick at verbal point and parry, 
 Clever, doubtless; but to marry, 
 No, Marquise 1 
 35
 
 Une Marquise. 
 
 IV. 
 
 For your Cupid, you have clipped him. 
 Rouged and patched him, nipped and snq ped 
 
 him, 
 And with chateau-bras equipped him, 
 
 " Belle Marquise 7" 
 
 Just to arm you through your wife-time, 
 And the languors of your life-time, 
 
 "Belle Marquise!" 
 Say, to trim your toilet tapers, 
 Or, to twist your hair in papers, 
 Or, to win you from the vapours; 
 
 As for these, 
 
 You are worth the love they give you, 
 Till a fairer face outlive you, 
 
 Or a younger grace shall please ; 
 Till the coming of the crows' feet, 
 And the backward turn of beaux' feet, 
 
 " Belle Marquise / " 
 Till your frothed-out life's commotion 
 Settles down to Ennui's ocean, 
 Or a dainty sham devotion, 
 
 "Belle Marquise ! n 
 36
 
 Une Marquise. 
 
 v. 
 
 No : we neither like nor love you, 
 
 11 Belle Marquise!" 
 Lesser lights we place above you, 
 
 Milder merits better please. 
 We have passed from PhMosopht-dfyc 
 
 Into plainer modern days, 
 Grown contented in our oafdom, 
 
 Giving grace not all the praise ; 
 And, en partant, Arsinoe, 
 
 Without malice whatsoever, 
 We shall counsel to our Chloe 
 
 To be rather good than clever; 
 For we find it hard to smother 
 
 Just one little thought, Marquise! 
 Wittier perhaps than any other, 
 You were neither Wife nor Mother, 
 " Belle Marquise I* 
 37
 
 THE STORY OF ROSINA. 
 
 AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF FRANOIS BOUCHER. 
 " On ne badine pas avec I'am&ur." 
 
 THE scene, a wood. A shepherd tip-toe creeping, 
 Carries a basket, whence a billet peeps, 
 
 To lay beside a silk-clad Oread sleeping 
 Under an urn ; yet not so sound she sleeps 
 
 But that she plainly sees his graceful act ; 
 " He thinks she thinks he thinks she sleeps," in fact. 
 
 One hardly needs the " Feint par Franfois Boucher. 
 
 All the sham life comes back again, one sees 
 Ak&vcs, Ruelles, the Lever, and the Coucher, 
 
 Patches and Ruffles, Roues and Marquises ; 
 The little great, the infinite small thing 
 That ruled the hour when Louis Quinze was king. 
 33
 
 The Story of Rosina. 
 
 For these were yet the days of halcyon weather, 
 A "Martin's summer" when the nation swam, 
 
 Aimless and easy as a wayward feather, 
 Down the full tide of jest and epigram ; 
 
 A careless time, when France's bluest blood 
 
 Beat to the tune of "After us the flood." 
 
 Plain Rolaud still was placidly " inspecting," 
 Not now Camille had stirred the Cafe Foy ; 
 
 Marat was young, and Guillotin dissecting, 
 Corday unborn, and Lamballe in Savoie ; 
 
 No faubourg yet had heard the Tocsin ring: 
 
 This was the summer when Grasshoppers sing. 
 
 And far afield were sun-baked savage creatures, 
 Female and male, that tilled the earth, and wrung 
 
 Want from the soil ; lean things with livid features, 
 Shape of bent man, and voice that never sung : 
 
 These were the Ants, for yet to Jacques Bonhomme 
 
 Tumbrils were not, nor any sound of drum. 
 
 But Boucher was a Grasshopper, and painted, 
 Rose-water Raphael, en couleur de rose, 
 
 The crowned Caprice, whose sceptre, nowise sainted, 
 Swayed the light realm of ballets and bon-mots; 
 39
 
 Tlte Story of Rosina. 
 
 Ruled the dim boudoir's demi-jour, or drove 
 Pink - ribboned flocks through some pink-flowered 
 grove. 
 
 A laughing Dame, who sailed a laughing cargo 
 Of flippant loves along the Fleuve du Tendre ; 
 
 Whose greatest grace wasj'ufes a la Camargo, 
 Whose gentlest merit gentiment se rendre ; 
 
 Queen of the rouge-cheeked Hours, whose footsteps 
 fell 
 
 To Rameau's notes, in dances by Gardel ; 
 
 Her Boucher served, till Nature's self betraying, 
 As Wordsworth sings, the heart that loved her not, 
 
 Made of his work a land of languid Maying, 
 Filled with false gods and muses misbegot ; 
 
 A Versailles Eden of cosmetic youth, 
 
 Wherein most things went naked, save the Truth. 
 
 Once, only once, perhaps the last night's revels 
 Palled in the after-taste, our Boucher sighed 
 
 For that first beauty, falsely named the Devil's, 
 Young-lipped, unlessoned, joyous, and dear-eyed; 
 
 Flung down his palette like a weary man, 
 
 And sauntered slowly through the Rue Sainte-Anne. 
 40
 
 The Story of Rosina. 
 
 Wherefore, we know not ; but, at times, far nearer 
 Things common come, and lineaments half seen 
 
 Grow in a moment magically clearer ; 
 
 Perhaps, as he walked, the grass he called "too 
 green" 
 
 Rose and rebuked him, or the earth "ill-lighted" 
 
 Silently smote him with the charms he slighted. 
 
 But, as he walked, he tired of god and goddess, 
 Nymphs that deny, and shepherds that appeal ; 
 
 Stale seemed the trick of kerchief and of bodice, 
 Folds that confess, and flutters that reveal ; 
 
 Then as he grew more sad and disenchanted, 
 
 Forthwith he spied the very thing he wanted. 
 
 So, in the Louvre, the passer-by might spy some 
 Arch-looking head, with half-evasive air, 
 
 Start from behind the fruitage of Van Huysum, 
 Grape-bunch and melon, nectarine and pear : 
 
 Here 't was no Venus of Batavian city, 
 
 But a French girl, young, piquante, bright, and pretty 
 
 Graceful she was, as sonu slim marsh-flower shaken 
 Among the sallows, in the breezy Spring ; 
 
 Blithe as the first blithe song of birds that waken, 
 Fresh as a fresh young pear-tree blossoming ;
 
 The Storj of Rosina. 
 
 Black was her hair as any blackbird's feather ; 
 Just for her mouth, two rose-buds grew together. 
 
 Sloes were her eyes; but her soft cheeks were peaches, 
 Hued like an Autumn pippin, where the red 
 
 Seems to have burned right through the skin, and 
 
 reaches 
 E'en to the core ; and if you spoke, it spread 
 
 Up till the blush had vanquished all the brown, 
 
 And like two birds, the sudden lids dropped down. 
 
 As Boucher smiled, the bright black eyes ceased 
 
 dancing, 
 
 As Boucher spoke, the dainty red eclipse 
 Filled all the face from cheek to brow, enhancing 
 
 Half a shy smile that dawned around the lips. 
 Then a shrill mother rose upon the view; 
 " Cerises, M'sieu? Rosinc, depechez-vous ! " 
 
 Deep in the fruit her hands Rosina buries, 
 Soon in the scale the ruby bunches lay. 
 
 The painter, watching the suspended cherries, 
 Never had seen such little fingers play; 
 
 As for the arm, no Hebe's could be rounder ; 
 
 Low in his heart a whisper said " I 've found her." 
 42
 
 Tlie Story of Rosina. 
 
 " Woo first the mother, if you 'd win the daughter!" 
 Boucher was charmed, and turned to Madame 
 
 Mere, 
 Almost with tears of suppliance besought her 
 
 Leave to immortalize a face so fair; 
 Praised and cajoled so craftily that straightway 
 Void Rosina, standing at his gateway. 
 
 Shy at the first, in time Rosina's laughter 
 Rang through the studio as the girlish face 
 
 Peeped from some painter's travesty, or after 
 Showed like an Omphale in lion's case; 
 
 Gay as a thrush, that from the morning dew 
 
 Pipes to the light its clear " jReveillez-vous." 
 
 Just a mere child with sudden ebullitions, 
 Flashes of fun, and little bursts of song, 
 
 Petulant pains, and fleeting pale contritions, 
 Mute little moods of miser}' and wrong ; 
 
 Only a child, of Nature's rarest making, 
 
 Wistful and sweet, and with a heart for breaking ! 
 
 Day after day the little loving creature 
 
 Came and returned ; and still the Painter felt, 
 
 Day after day, the old theatric Nature 
 
 Fade from his sight, and like a shadow melt, 
 43
 
 Tlie Story of Rosina. 
 
 Panlers and Powder, Pastoral and Scene, 
 Killed by the simple beauty of Rosine. 
 
 As for the girl, she turned to her new being, 
 Came, as a bird that hears its fellow call j 
 
 Blessed, as the blind that blesses God for seeing ; 
 Grew, as a flower on which the sun-rays fall; 
 
 Loved if you will ; she never named it so : 
 
 Love comes unseen, we only see it go. 
 
 There is a figure among Boucher's sketches, 
 Slim, a child-face, the eyes as black as beads, 
 
 Head set askance, and hand that shyly stretches 
 Flowers to the passer, with a look that pleads. 
 
 This was no other than Rosina surely ; 
 
 None else that Boucher knew could look so purely. 
 
 But forth her Story, for I will not tarry, 
 Whether he loved the little " nut-brown maid " ; 
 
 If, of a truth, he counted this to carry 
 
 Straight to the end, or just the whim obeyed, 
 
 Nothing we know, but only that before 
 
 More had been done, a finger tapped the door. 
 
 Opened Rosina to the unknown comer. 
 
 'T was a young girl "ttrtf pauvre fille" she said, 
 44
 
 The Story of Rosina. 
 
 " They had been growing poorer all the summer ; 
 
 Father was lame, and mother lately dead ; 
 Bread was so dear, and, oh ! but want was bitter, 
 Would Monsieur pay to have her for a sitter ? 
 
 Men called her pretty." Boucher looked a minute 
 
 Yes, she was pretty ; and her face beside 
 Shamed her poor clothing by a something in it, 
 
 Grace, and a presence hard to be denied ; 
 This was no common offer it was certain ; 
 " Allez, Rosina ! sit behind the curtain." 
 
 Meantime the Painter, with a mixed emotion, 
 Drew and re-drew his ill-disguised Marquise, 
 
 Passed in due time from praises to devotion ; 
 Last when his sitter left him on his knees, 
 
 Rose in a maze of passion and surprise, 
 
 Rose, and beheld Rosina's saddened eyes. 
 
 Thrice-happy France, whose facile sons inherit 
 
 Still in the old traditionary way, 
 Power to enjoy with yet a rarer merit, 
 
 Power to forget ! Our Boucher rose, I say, 
 With hand still prest to heart, with pulses throbbing, 
 And blankly stared at poor Rosina sobbing. 
 45
 
 The Story of Rosina. 
 
 " This was no model, M'sieu, but a lady." 
 Boucher was silent, for he knew it true. 
 
 " Est-ce que vous I'aimez? " Never answer made he 
 Ah, for the old love fighting with the new ! 
 
 " Est-ce que vous raimez ? " sobbed Rosina's sorrow. 
 
 "Bon!" murmured Boucher; "she will come to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 How like a Hunter thou, O Time, dost harry 
 
 Us, thine oppressed, and pleasured with the chase 
 
 Sparest to strike thy sorely-running quarry, 
 Following not less with unrelenting face. 
 
 Time, if Love hunt, and Sorrow hunt, with thee, 
 
 Woe to the Fawn 1 There is no way to flee. 
 
 Woe to Rosina ! By To-morrow stricken, 
 Swift from her life the sun of gold declined. 
 
 Nothing remained but those gray shades that thicken 
 Cloud and the cold, the loneliness the wind. 
 
 Only a little by the door she lingers, 
 
 Waits, with wrung lip and interwoven fingers. 
 
 No, not a sign. Already with the Painter 
 
 Grace and the nymphs began recovered reign ; 
 
 Truth was no more, and Nature, waxing fainter, 
 Paled to the old sick Artifice again. 
 46
 
 The Story of Rosina. 
 
 Seeing Rosina going out to die, 
 
 How should he know what Fame had passed him by ? 
 
 Going to die ! For who shall waste in sadness, 
 Shorn of the sun, the very warmth and light, 
 
 Miss the green welcome of the sweet earth's gladness, 
 Lose the round life that only Love makes bright : 
 
 There is no succour if these things are taken. 
 
 None but Death loves the lips by Love forsaken. 
 
 So, in a little, when those Two had parted, 
 
 Tired of himself, and weary as before, 
 Boucher remembering, sick and sorry-hearted, 
 
 Stayed for a moment by Rosina's door. 
 " Ah, the poor child ! " the neighbour's cry of her, 
 " Morte, M'sieu, morte ! On dit,des peines du coeur! " 
 
 Just for a second, say, the tidings shocked him, 
 Say, in his eye a sudden tear-drop shone, 
 
 Just for a second a dull feeling mocked him 
 
 With a vague sense of something priceless gone; 
 
 Then, for at best 't was but the empty type, 
 
 The husk of man with which the days were ripe, 
 
 Then, he foogot her. But, for you that slew her, 
 You, her own sister, that with airy ease, 
 
 47
 
 The Story of Rosina. 
 
 Just for a moment's fancy could undo her, 
 
 Pass on your way. A little while, Marquise, 
 Be the sky silent, be the sea serene ; 
 A pleasant passage a Sainte Guillotine. 
 
 As for Rosina, for the quiet sleeper, 
 
 Whether stone hides her, or the happy grass, 
 
 If the sun quickens, if the dews beweep her, 
 Laid in the Madeleine or Montparnasse, 
 
 Nothing we know, but that her heart is cold, 
 
 Poor beating heart ! And so the story 's told. 
 48
 
 PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN.
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 ASSUME that we are friends. Assume 
 A common taste for old costume, 
 
 Old pictures, books. Then dream us sitting, 
 Us two, in some soft-lighted room. 
 
 Outside the wind ; the " ways are mire" 
 We, with our faces towards the fire, 
 
 Finished the feast not full but fitting, 
 Watch the light-leaping fiames aspire. 
 
 Silent at first, in time we glow ; 
 Discuss " eclectics" high and low ; 
 
 Inspect engravings, 'twixt us passing 
 The fancies of DETROY, MOREAU; 
 
 " Rei'eils " and " Catchers," " Balls " and " Fetes " f 
 Anon we glide to " crocks " and plates, 
 Grow eloquent on glaze and classing, 
 And half-pathetic crccr " states." 
 49
 
 Prologue. 
 
 Then I produce my Prize, in truth ; 
 Six groups in Si VRES, fresh as Youth, 
 
 And rare as Love. You pause, you wonder^ 
 (Pretend to doubt the marks, forsooth !) 
 
 And so we fall to why and how 
 The fragile figures smile and bow ; 
 
 Divine, at length, the fable under .... 
 Thus grew the " Scenes " that follow now. 
 5
 
 THE BALLAD A-LA-MODE. 
 
 " Tout vient d point d qui peut atteiidre. n 
 
 SCENE. A Boudoir Louis- Quinze, painted with Cupid* 
 shooting at Butterflies. 
 
 THE COUNTESS. THE BARON (her cousin and suitor). 
 
 THE COUNTESS (looking up from her work). 
 Baron, you doze. 
 
 THE BARON (closing his book). 
 
 I, Madame? No. 
 I wait your order Stay or Go. 
 
 THE COUNTESS. 
 
 Which means, I think, that Go or Stay 
 Affects you nothing, either way. 
 5 1
 
 TJie Ballad a-la-Mode. 
 
 THE BARON. 
 
 Excuse me, By your favour graced 
 My inclinations are effaced. 
 
 THE COUNTESS. 
 
 Or much the same. How keen you grow 
 You must be reading MARIVAUX. 
 
 THE BARON. 
 Nay, 't was a song of SAINTE-AULAIRE. 
 
 THE COUNTESS. 
 
 Then read me one. We 've time to spare : 
 If I can catch the clock-face there, 
 T is barely eight. 
 
 THE BARON. 
 
 What shall it be, 
 A tale of woe, or perfidy ? 
 
 THE COUNTESS. 
 
 Not woes, I beg. I doubt your woes : 
 But perfidy, of course, one knows. 
 
 THE BARON (reads). 
 " Ah, Phillis ! cruel Phillis / 
 (I heard a Shepherd sayj 
 52
 
 The Ballad a- la- Mode. 
 
 You hold me with your Eyes, and yet 
 You bid me Go my way ! 
 
 " Ah, Colin ! foolish Colin / 
 
 ( The Maiden answered so,) 
 
 If that be All, the III is small, 
 
 I close them You may go / 
 
 " But when her Eyes she opened, 
 (Although the Sun it shone,) 
 She found the Shepherd had not stirred 
 ' Because the Light ivas gone ! ' 
 
 "Ah, Cttpid .' wanton Cupid! 
 
 'T was ever thus your way : 
 When Maids would bid you ply your Wings , 
 You find Excuse to stay ! " 
 
 THE COUNTESS. 
 
 Famous ! He earned whate'er he got : 
 But there 's some sequel, is there not? 
 
 THE BARON (turning the page). 
 I think not. No. Unless 't is this : 
 My fate is far more hard than his; 
 In fact, your Eyes 
 53
 
 The Ballad a-la-Mode. 
 
 THE COUNTESS. 
 
 Now, that 's a breach ! 
 Your bond is not to make a speech. 
 And we must start so call JUSTINE. 
 I know exactly what you mean ! 
 Give me your arm 
 
 THE BARON. 
 
 If, in return, 
 Countess, I could your hand but earn ! 
 
 THE COUNTESS. 
 
 I thought as much. This conies, you see, 
 Of sentiment, and Arcady, 
 Where vows are hung on every tree . . . 
 
 THE BARON (offering his artn, with a low bow), 
 And no one dreams of PERFIDY. 
 54
 
 THE METAMORPHOSIS. 
 
 " On s'enruhit quatid on dort." 
 
 SCENE. A high stone Seat in an Alky of clipped 
 Lime-trees. 
 
 THE ABB TIRILI. MONSIEUR L'TOILE. 
 
 THE ABBE (writing). 
 " This shepherdess Dorine adored " 
 What rhyme is next ? Implored? ignored? 
 Poured? soared? afford? That facile dunce, 
 L'TOILE, would cap the line at once. 
 'T will come in time. Meanwhile, suppose 
 We take a meditative doze. 
 
 (Sleeps. By-and-by his paper falls.) 
 
 M. L'TOILE ( approaching from tJie back). 
 Some one before me. What ! 't is you, 
 Monsieur the Scholar ? Sleeping too I 
 55
 
 The Metamorphosis. 
 
 (Picks lip the fluttering paper.) 
 
 More " Tales" of course. One can't iefu.sc 
 
 To chase so fugitive a Muse ! 
 
 Verses are public, too, that fly 
 " Cum privilegio " Zephyri ! 
 (Reads.) 
 " CLITANDER AND DORINE." Insane! 
 
 He fancies he 's a LA FONTAINE ! 
 " In early days, the Gods, we find, 
 
 Paid frequent Visits to Mankind ; 
 
 At least, authentic Records say so 
 
 InPublius Ovidius Naso." 
 
 (Three names for one. This passes all. 
 
 'T is " furiously" classical !) 
 " No doubt their Purpose oft would be 
 
 Some ' Nodus dignus Vindice ', 
 1 On dit] not less, these earthly Tours 
 
 Were mostly matters of Amours. 
 
 And woe to him whose luck/ess Flame 
 
 Impeded that Olympic Game ; 
 
 Ere he could say an ' Ave ' o'er, 
 
 They changed him like a Louis-d'or." 
 
 ("Aves," and current coinage! O! 
 
 O shade of NICHOLAS BOILEAU !) 
 56
 
 The Metamorphosis, 
 
 " Bird, Beast, or River he became : 
 
 
 
 With Women it was much the same. 
 
 In Ovid Case to Case succeeds ; 
 
 But Names the Reader never reads" 
 
 (That is, Monsieur the Abbe" feels 
 
 His quantities are out at heels !) 
 " Suffices that, for this our Tale, 
 
 There dwelt in a Thessalian Vale, 
 
 Of Tales like this the constant Scene, 
 
 A Shepherdess, by name Dorine. 
 
 Trim Waist, ripe Lips, bright Eyes, had she / 
 
 In short, the whole Artillery. 
 
 Her Beauty made some local Stir ; 
 
 Men marked it. So did Jupiter. 
 
 This Shepherdess Dorine adored . . ." 
 
 Implored, ignored, and soared, and poured 
 
 (He 's scrawled them here !) We '11 mm in brief 
 
 His fable on his second leaf. 
 (Writes.) 
 
 There, they shall know who 't was that wrote : 
 " L'fixoiLE's is but a mock-bird's note." [xit. 
 
 THE ABB (waking). 
 
 Implored 's the word, I think. But where, 
 Where is my paper ? Ah ! 't is there ! 
 Eh! what? 
 
 57
 
 The Metamorphosis. 
 
 (Reads.) 
 THE METAMORPHOSIS. 
 
 (not in Ovid.) 
 
 " The Shepherdess Dorine adored 
 The Shepherd- Boy Clitander; 
 Btft Jove himself, Olympus' Lord, 
 The Shepherdess Dorine adored. 
 Our Abb^s Aid the Pair Implored; 
 And changed to Goose and Gander, 
 TJie Shepherdess Dorine adored 
 
 T/ie Shepherd- Boy Clitander 1" 
 L'fixoiLE, by all the Muses! 
 
 Pestel 
 
 He 's off, post-haste, to tell the rest. 
 No matter. Laugh, Sir Dunce, to-day ; 
 Next time 't will be my *urn to play. 
 58
 
 THE SONG OUT OF SEASON. 
 " Point de culle sans mysttre." 
 
 SCENE. A Corridor in a Chateau, with Busts and 
 Venice chandeliers. 
 
 MONSIEUR L'TOILE. Two VOICES. 
 
 M. L'TOILE (carrying a Rose). 
 This is the place. MUTINE said here. 
 " Through the Mancini room, and near 
 The fifth Venetian chandelier . . ." 
 The fifth ? She knew there were but four ; 
 Still, here 's the busto of the Moor. 
 
 (Humming.) 
 
 Tra-la, tra-la / If BIJOU wake, 
 She '11 bark, no doubt, and spoil my shake ! 
 I '11 tap, I think. One can't mistake ; 
 This surely is the door. 
 59
 
 The Song Out of Season. 
 
 (Sings softly.) 
 " When Jove, the Skies' Director, 
 
 First saw you sleep of yore, 
 He cried aloud for Nectar, 
 ' TJie Nectar quickly pour, 
 The Nectar, Hebe, pour ! ' " 
 
 (No sound. I '11 tap once more.) 
 
 (Sings again.} 
 
 " Then came the Sire Apollo, 
 He past you where you lay ; 
 
 * Come, Dian, rise and follow 
 The dappled Hart to slay, 
 The rapid Hart to slay: " 
 
 (A rustling within.) 
 (Coquette ! She heard before.) 
 
 (Sings again.} 
 " And urchin Cupid after 
 
 Beside the Pillow curled, 
 He whispered you with Laughter, 
 ' Awake and witch the World, 
 O Venus, witch the World/ 1 " 
 
 (Now comes the last. 'T is scarcely worse, 
 I think, than Monsieur I'ABB'S verse.) 
 60
 
 The Song Out of Season. 
 
 " So waken, waken, waken, 
 
 O You, wJwm we adore ! 
 Where Gods can be mistaken, 
 Mere Mortals must be more, 
 Poor Mortals must be more / " 
 
 (That merits an encore !) 
 
 " So waken, waken, waken ! 
 O YOU whom we adore I n 
 
 (An energetic VOICED 
 'T is thou, ANTOINE ? Ah Addle-pate ! 
 Ah Thief of Valet, always late ! 
 Have I not told thee half-past eight 
 A thousand times ! 
 
 (Great agitation.) 
 
 But wait, but wait, 
 
 M. L'TOILE (stupefied). 
 Just Skies ! What hideous roar ! 
 What lungs ! The infamous Soubrette ! 
 This is a turn I sha'n't forget : 
 To make me sing my chansonnette 
 Before old JOURDAIN'S door ! 
 61
 
 The Song Out of Season. 
 
 (Retiring slowly.) 
 And yet, and yet, it can't be she. 
 They prompted her. Who can it be ? 
 
 (A second VOICE.) 
 IT WAS THE ABB Ti RI LI ! 
 
 (In a mocking falsetto.) 
 " Where Gods can be mistaken. 
 Mere Poets must be more, 
 BAD POETS must be more /" 
 62
 
 THE CAP THAT FITS. 
 
 " Qui seme Spines n'aille dechaux" 
 
 SCENE. A Salon with blue and white Panels. Out- 
 side, Persons pass and re-pass upon a Terrace. 
 
 HORTENSE. ARMANDE. MONSIEUR LOYAL. 
 
 HORTENSE (behind her fan). 
 Not young, I think. 
 
 ARMANDE (raising her eye-glass). 
 And faded, too ! 
 Quite faded ! Monsieur, what say you ? 
 
 M. LOYAL. 
 
 Nay, I defer to you. In truth, 
 To me she seems all grace and youth. 
 63
 
 The Cap that Fits. 
 
 HORTENSE. 
 
 Graceful? You think it? What, with hands 
 That hang like this (with a gesture). 
 
 ARMANDE. 
 And how she stands ! 
 
 M. LOYAL. 
 
 Nay, 1 am wrong again. I thought 
 Her air delightfully untaught 1 
 
 HORTENSE. 
 But you amuse me 
 
 M. LOYAL. 
 
 Still her dress, 
 Her dress at least, you must confess 
 
 ARMANDE. 
 
 Is odious simply ! JACOTOT 
 Did not supply that lace, I know ; 
 And where, I ask, has mortal seen 
 A hat un feathered! 
 
 HORTENSE. 
 
 Edged with green ! 
 64
 
 The Cap that Fits. 
 
 M. LOYAL. 
 
 The word reminds me. Let me say 
 A Fable that I heard to-day. 
 Have I permission ? 
 
 BOTH (with enthusiasm). 
 
 Monsieur, pray ! 
 
 M. LOYAL. 
 
 " Myrtilla (lest a Scandal rise 
 The Lady's Name I thus disguise), 
 Dying of Ennui, once decided, 
 Much on Resource herself she prided, 
 To choose a Hat. Forthwith she flies 
 On that momentous Enterprise. 
 Whether to Petit or Legros, 
 I know not : only this I know ; 
 Head-dresses then, of any Fashion, 
 Bore Names of Quality or Passion. 
 Myrtilla tried them, almost all: 
 
 4 Prudence] she felt, was somewJiat sma>* 
 
 ' Retirement ' seemed the Eyes to hide ; 
 
 1 Content] at once, she cast aside. 
 
 4 Simplicity] V was out of place ; 
 
 4 Dci'otion] for an older face ; 
 65
 
 The Cap that Fits. 
 
 Briefly, Selection smaller grew ', 
 ' Vexatious ! odious / ' none would do I 
 TJien, on a sudden, she espied 
 One that she thought she had not tried: 
 Becoming, rattier, ' edged with green, 1 
 Roses in yellow, Thorns between, 
 * Quick ! Bring me tJiat /' T is brought. 
 
 ' Complete, 
 
 Divine, Enchanting, Tasteful, Neat, 1 
 In all the Tones. * And this you call / ' 
 1 " ILL-NATURE," Madame. It fits all: " 
 
 HORTENSE. 
 
 A thousand thanks ! So naively turned 1 
 
 ARMANDE. 
 
 So useful too, to those concerned 1 
 'T is yours ? 
 
 M. LOYAL. 
 
 Ah no, some cynic wit's ; 
 And called (I think) 
 
 (Placing his hat upon his breast), 
 "The Cap that Fits." 
 66
 
 THE SECRETS OF THE HEART. 
 
 " Le cceur mine oil il va." 
 
 SCENE. A Chalet covered with Honeysuckle. 
 NINETTE. NINOX. 
 
 NINETTE. 
 This way 
 
 NINON. 
 No, this way 
 
 NINETTE. 
 
 This way, then. 
 (They enter the Chalet.) 
 You are as changing, Child, as Men. 
 
 NINON. 
 
 But are they ? Is it true, I mean ? 
 Who said it ? 
 
 67
 
 Tlte Secrets of tfie Heart. 
 
 NINETTE. 
 Sister SERAPHINE. 
 She was so pious and so good, 
 With such sad eyes beneath her hood, 
 And such poor little feet, all bare ! 
 Her name was EUGENIE LA FERE. 
 She used to tell us, moonlight nights, 
 When I was at the Carmelites. 
 
 NINON. 
 
 Ah, then it must be right. And yet, 
 Suppose for once suppose, NINETTE 
 
 NINETTE. 
 But what ? 
 
 NINON. 
 
 Suppose it were not so ? 
 Suppose there were true men, you know 1 
 
 NINETTE. 
 And then ? 
 
 NINON. 
 
 Why, if that could occur, 
 What kind of man should you prefer ? 
 68
 
 TJie Secrets of tlie Heart. 
 
 NINETTE. 
 What looks, you mean ? 
 
 NINON. 
 
 Looks, voice and all 
 
 NINETTE. 
 
 Well, as to that, he must be tall, 
 Or say, not " tall," of middle size ; 
 And next, he must have laughing eyes, 
 And a hook-nose, with, underneath, 
 O ! what a row of sparkling teeth ! 
 
 NINON (touching her cheek suspiciously). 
 Has he a scar on this side ? 
 
 NINETTE. 
 
 Hush! 
 
 Someone is coming. No; a thrush: 
 I see it swinging there. 
 
 NINON. 
 
 Go on. 
 
 NINETTE. 
 Then he must fence, (ah, look, 't is gone !) 
 
 And dance like Monseigneur, and sing 
 69
 
 T/ie Secrets of tlie Heart. 
 
 " Love was a Shepherd": everything 
 That men do. Tell me yours, NINON. 
 
 NINON. 
 
 Shall I ? Then mine has black, black hair, 
 I mean he should have ; then an air 
 Half sad, half noble ; features thin ; 
 A little royale on the chin ; 
 And such a pale, high brow. And then, 
 He is a prince of gentlemen ; 
 He, too, can ride and fence, and write 
 Sonnets and madrigals, yet fight 
 No worse for that 
 
 NINETTE. 
 
 I know your man. 
 
 NINON. 
 
 And I know yours. But you '11 not tell, 
 Swear it ! 
 
 NINETTE. 
 
 I swear upon this fan, 
 My Grandmother's! 
 
 NINON. 
 
 And I, I swear 
 
 On this old turquoise rcliquairc, 
 70
 
 The Secrets of the Heart. 
 
 My great, great Grandmother's ! ! 
 (After a pause.) 
 
 NINETTE ! 
 I feel so sad. 
 
 NINETTE. 
 I too. But why ? 
 
 NINON. 
 Alas, I know not ! 
 
 NINETTE (with a sigk). 
 Nor do I.
 
 "GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTE!" 
 
 " Si vitillesse pouvaitl " 
 
 SCENE. A small neat Room. In a high Voltaire Chait 
 sits a white-haired old Gentleman. 
 
 MONSIEUR VIEUXBOIS. BABETTE. 
 
 M. VIEUXBOIS (turning querulously). 
 Day of my life ! Where can she get ? 
 BABETTE ! I say ! BABETTE ! BABETTE ! ! 
 
 BABETTE (entering hurriedly). 
 Coming, M'sieu'! If M'sieu' speaks 
 So loud he won't be well for weeks 1 
 
 M. VIEUXBOIS. 
 Where have you been ? 
 
 BABETrt. 
 
 Why M'sieu' knows : 
 AprilL.Ville-d'AvrayL.Ma'am'selle ROSE I 
 72
 
 " Good-night, Babette ! " 
 
 M. VlEUXBOIS. 
 
 Ah ! I am old, and I forget. 
 
 Was the place growing green, BABETTE ? 
 
 BABETTE. 
 
 But of a greenness ! yes, M'sieu' ! 
 And then the sky so blue ! so blue 1 
 And when I dropped my immortelle, 
 How the birds sang ! 
 
 (Lifting her apron to her eyes,) 
 
 This poor Ma'am'selle ! 
 
 M. VIEUXBOIS. 
 
 You 're a good girl, BABETTE, but she, 
 She was an Angel, verily. 
 Sometimes I think I see her yet 
 Stand smiling by the cabinet; 
 And once, I know, she peeped and laughed 
 Betwixt the curtains . . . 
 
 Where 's the draught ? 
 (She gives him a aif.) 
 Now I shall sleep, I think, BABETTE; 
 Sing me your Norman chansonnette. 
 
 BABETTE (sing*). 
 " Once at the Angelas 
 (Ere I was dead), 
 73
 
 " Good-night, Babctte ! " 
 
 Angels all glorious 
 
 Came to my Bed ; 
 Angels in blue and white 
 
 Crowned on the Head" 
 
 M. VIEUXBOIS (drowsily). 
 "She was an Angel"..." Once she laughed"... 
 What, was I dreaming? 
 
 Where 's the draught ? 
 
 BABETTE (showing the empty cup). 
 The draught, M'sieu' ? 
 
 M. VIEUXBOIS. 
 
 How I forget ! 
 I am so old 1 But sing, BABETTE ! 
 
 BABETTE (sings). 
 " One was the Friend I left 
 
 Stark in the Snow ; 
 One was the W r ife that died 
 
 Long, bng <*g / 
 One was the Love I lost . . . 
 How could she know ? " 
 
 M. VIEUXBOIS (murmuring). 
 Ah, PAUL L.old PAUL L.EULALIE too ! 
 And RosE...And O ! "the sky so blue!" 
 74
 
 " Good-night, Babette ! " 
 
 BABETTE (sings). 
 " One had my Mother's eyes, 
 
 Wistful and mild ; 
 One had my Father 's face ; 
 
 One was a Child : 
 All of them bent to me, 
 
 Sent down and smiled! " 
 (He is asleep!) 
 
 M. VIEUXBOIS (almost inaudibly). 
 
 "How I forget!" 
 I am so old ! "..." Good-night, BAEETTE ! 
 
 75
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 Hcigho / how chill the evenings get I 
 Good-night, NINON! good-night, NINETTE! 
 Your little Play is played and finisJied ; 
 Go back, then, to your Cabinet ! 
 
 LOYAL, L'TOILE ! no more to-day / 
 Alas ! they heed not what we say : 
 
 TJiey smile with ardour undiminished ; 
 But we, we are not always gay J 
 76
 
 VIGNETTES IN RHYME.
 
 VIGNETTES IN RHYME. 
 
 THE DRAMA OF THE DOCTOR'S WINDOW. 
 
 IN THREE ACTS, WITH A PROLOGUE. 
 
 "A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus, 
 And his love Thisbe ; <very tragical mirth." 
 
 MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 "WELL, I must wait!" The Doctor's room, 
 
 Where I used this expression, 
 Wore the severe official gloom 
 Attached to that profession ; 
 Rendered severer by a bald 
 
 And skinless Gladiator, 
 Whose raw robustness first appalled 
 The entering spectator. 
 79
 
 The Drama of the Doctor's Window. 
 
 No one would call "The Lancet" gay,- 
 
 Few could avoid confessing 
 That Jones "On Muscular Decay" 
 
 Is, as a rule, depressing: 
 So, leaving both, to change the scene, 
 
 I turned toward the shutter, 
 And peered out vacantly between 
 
 A water-butt and gutter. 
 
 Below, the Doctor's garden lay, 
 
 If thus imagination 
 May dignify a square of clay 
 
 Unused to vegetation, 
 Filled with a dismal-looking swing 
 
 That brought to mind a gallows 
 An empty kennel, mouldering, 
 
 And two dyspeptic aloes. 
 
 No sparrow chirped, no daisy sprung, 
 
 About the place deserted ; 
 Only across the swing-board hung 
 
 A battered doll, inverted, 
 Which sadly seemed to disconcert 
 
 The vagrant cat that scanned it, 
 Sniffed doubtfully around the skirt, 
 
 But failed to understand it. 
 80
 
 The Drama of the Doctor's Window. 
 
 A dreary spot ! And yet, I own, 
 
 Half hoping that, perchance, it 
 Might, in some unknown way, atone 
 
 For Jones and for "The Lancet," 
 I watched ; and by especial grace, 
 
 Within this stage contracted, 
 Saw presently before my face 
 
 A classic story acted. 
 
 Ah, World of ours, are you so gray 
 And weary, World, of spinning, 
 
 That you repeat the tales to-day 
 You told at the beginning ? 
 
 For lo ! the same old myths that made 
 The early "stage successes," 
 
 Still "hold the boards," and still are played, 
 "With new effects and dresses." 
 
 Small, lonely, " three-pair-backs " behold, 
 
 To-day, Alcestis uying ; 
 To-day, in farthest Polar cold, 
 
 Ulysses' bones are lying; 
 Still in one's morning "Times" one rer.ds 
 
 How fell an Indian Hector ; 
 Still clubs discuss Achilles' steeds, 
 
 Briseis' next protector ; 
 Si
 
 The Drama of the Doctor's Window 
 
 Still Menelaus brings, we see, 
 
 His oft-remanded case on; 
 Still somewhere sad Hypsipyle 
 
 Bewails a faithless Jason ; 
 And here, the Doctor's sill beside, 
 
 Do I not now discover 
 A Thisbe, whom the walls divide 
 
 From Pyramus, her lover ? 
 
 ACT THE FIRST. 
 
 Act I. began. Some noise had scared 
 
 The cat, that like an arrow 
 Shot up the wall and disappeared; 
 
 And then across the narrow, 
 Unweeded path, a small dark thing, 
 
 Hid by a garden-bonnet, 
 Passed wearily towards the swing, 
 
 Paused, turned, and climbed upon it 
 
 A child of five, with eyes that were 
 
 At least a decade older, 
 A mournful mouth, and tangled hair 
 
 Flung careless round her shoulder, 
 Dressed in a stiff ill-fitting frock, 
 
 Whose black uncomely rigour 
 82
 
 TJte Drama of the Doctor's Window. 
 
 Seemed to sardonically mock 
 The plaintive, slender figure. 
 
 What was it ? Something in the dress 
 
 That told the girl unmothered ; 
 Or was it that the merciless 
 
 Black garb of mourning smothered 
 Life and all light : but rocking so, 
 
 In the dull garden-corner, 
 The lonely swinger seemed to grow 
 
 More piteous and forlorner. 
 
 Then, as I looked, across the wall 
 
 Of " next-door's " garden, that is 
 To speak correctly through its tall 
 
 Surmounting fence of lattice, 
 Peeped a boy's face, with curling hair, 
 
 Ripe lips, half drawn asunder, 
 And round, bright eyes, that wore a stare 
 
 Of frankest childish wonder. 
 
 Rounder they grew by slow degrees, 
 
 Until the swinger, swerving, 
 Made, all at once, alive to these 
 
 Intentest orbs observing, 
 83
 
 The Drama of the Doctor s Window. 
 
 Gave just one brief, half-uttered cry, 
 And, as with gathered kirtle, 
 
 Nymphs fly from Pan's head suddenly 
 Thrust through the budding myrtle, 
 
 Fled in dismay. A moment's space, 
 
 The eyes looked almost tragic ; 
 Then, when they caught my watching fare, 
 
 Vanished as if by magic ; 
 And, like some sombre thing beguiled 
 
 To strange, unwonted laughter, 
 The gloomy garden having smiled, 
 
 Became the gloomier after. 
 
 ACT THE SECOND. 
 
 Yes : they were gone, the stage was bare, 
 
 Blank as before ; and therefore, 
 Sinking within the patient's chair, 
 
 Half vexed, I knew not wherefore, 
 I dozed ; till, startled by some call, 
 
 A glance sufficed to show me, 
 The boy again above the wall, 
 
 The girl erect below me. 
 
 The boy, it seemed, to add a force 
 To words found unavailing, 
 84
 
 The Drama of the Doctor s Window. 
 
 Had pushed a striped and spotted horse 
 Half through the blistered paling, 
 
 Where now it stuck, stiff-legged and straight 
 While he, in exultation, 
 
 Chattered some half-articulate 
 Excited explanation. 
 
 Meanwhile, the girl, with upturned face, 
 
 Stood motionless, and listened ; 
 The ill-cut frock had gained a grace, 
 
 The pale hair almost glistened ; 
 The figure looked alert and bright, 
 
 Buoyant as though some power 
 Had lifted it, as rain at night 
 
 Uplifts a drooping flower. 
 
 The eyes had lost their listless way, 
 
 The old life,, tired and faded, 
 Had slipped down with the doll that lay 
 
 Before her feet, degraded ; 
 She only, yearning upward, found 
 
 In those bright eyes above her 
 The ghost of some enchanted ground 
 
 Where even Nurse would love her. 
 
 Ah, tyrant Time! you hold the book, 
 We, sick and sad, begin it ;
 
 The Drama of tJte Doctor's Window 
 
 You close it fast, if we but look 
 Pleased for a meagre minute ; 
 
 You closed it now, for, out of sight, 
 Some warning finger beckoned ; 
 
 Exeunt both to left and right ; 
 Thus ended Act the Second. 
 
 ACT THE THIRD. 
 
 Or so it proved. For while I still 
 
 Believed them gone for ever, 
 Half raised above the window sill, 
 
 I saw the lattice quiver; 
 And lo, once more appeared the head, 
 
 Flushed, while the round mouth pouted , 
 " Give Tom a kiss," the red lips said, 
 
 In style the most undoubted. 
 
 The girl came back without a thought , 
 
 Dear Muse of Mayfair, pardon, 
 If more restraint had not been taught 
 
 In this neglected garden ; 
 For these your code was all too stiff, 
 
 So, seeing none dissented, 
 Their unfeigned faces met as if 
 
 Manners were not invented. 
 86
 
 The Drama of the Doctor's Window. 
 
 Then on the scene, by happy fate, 
 
 When lip from lip had parted, 
 And, therefore, just two seconds late, 
 
 A sharp-faced nurse-maid darted ; 
 Swooped on the boy, as swoops a kite 
 
 Upon a rover chicken, 
 And bore him sourly off, despite 
 
 His well-directed kicking. 
 
 The girl stood silent, with a look 
 
 Too subtle to unravel, 
 Then, with a sudden gesture took 
 
 The torn doll from the gravel ; 
 Hid the whole face, with one caress, 
 
 Under the garden-bonnet, 
 And, passing in, I saw her press 
 
 Kiss after kiss upon it. 
 
 Exeunt omties. End of play. 
 
 It made the dull room brighter, 
 1'he Gladiator almost gay, 
 
 And e'en " The Lancet " lighter. 
 87
 
 AN AUTUMN IDYLL. 
 
 "Swfft Ttummtsl rutuu softly t till I end my to*g. n 
 
 SPENSEK. 
 
 LAWRENCE. FRANK. JACK. 
 
 LAWRENCE. 
 
 HERE, where the beech-nuts drop among the grasses 
 \ \ v "" 
 
 Push the boat in, and throw the rope ashore. 
 
 \ * > 
 
 Jack, hand me out the claret and the glasses ; 
 
 Here let us sit We landed here before. 
 
 FRANK. 
 Jack *s undecided. Saj t formose furr, 
 
 Bent in a dream above the ." water wan," 
 Shall we row higher, for the reeds are fewer, 
 There by the pollards, where you see the swan ? 
 83
 
 An Autumn Idyll. 
 
 \ J ACK - \ 
 
 Hist ! That 's a^pike. Look nose against the river 
 
 Gaunt as a wolf, the sly old privateer! 
 Enter a gudgeon. Snap, a gulp, a shiver; 
 Exit the gudgeon. Let us anchor here. 
 
 FRANK (in the grass). 
 Jove, what a day ! Black Care upon the crupper 
 
 Nods at his post, and slumbers in the sun ; 
 Half of Theocritus, with a touch of Tupper, 
 
 Chums in my head. The frenzy has begun ! 
 
 LAWRENCE. 
 
 Sing to us then. Damcetas in a choker, 
 Much out of tune, will edify the rooks. 
 
 FRANK. 
 
 Sing you again. So musical a croaker 
 Surely will draw the fish upon the hooks. 
 
 JACK. 
 Sing while you may. The beard of manhood still is 
 
 Faint on your cheeks, but I, alas ! am old. 
 Doubtless you yet believe in Amaryllis ; 
 
 Sing me of Her, whose name may not be told. 
 89
 
 An Autumn Idyll. 
 
 FRANK. 
 
 Listen, O Thames ! His budding beard is riper, 
 Say by a week. Well, Lawrence, shall we sing ? 
 
 LAWRENCE. 
 
 Yes, if you will. But ere I play the piper, 
 Let him declare the prize he has to bring. 
 
 JACK. 
 Hear then, my Shepherds. Lo, to him accounted 
 
 First in the song, a Pipe I will impart; 
 This, my Beloved, marvellously mounted, 
 
 Amber and foam, a miracle of art. 
 
 LAWRENCE. 
 
 Lordly the gift. O Muse of many numbers, 
 Grant me a soft alliterative song ! 
 
 FRANK. 
 
 Me too, O Muse ! And when the Umpire slumber i 
 Sting him with gnats a summer evening long. 
 
 LAWRENCE. 
 Not in a cot, begarlanded of spiders, 
 
 Not where the brook traditionally "purls," 
 No, in the Row, supreme among the riders, 
 
 Seek I the gem, the paragon of girls. 
 90
 
 An Autumn Idyll. 
 
 FRANK 
 
 Not in the waste of column and of coping, 
 Not in the sham and stucco of a square, 
 
 No, on a June-lawn, to the water sloping, 
 Stands she I honour, beautifully fair. 
 
 LAWRENCE. 
 Dark-haired is mine, with splendid tresses plaited 
 
 Back from the brows, imperially curled ; 
 Calm as a grand, far-looking Caryatid, 
 
 Holding the roof that covers in a world. 
 
 FRANK. 
 Dark-haired is mine, with breezy ripples swinging 
 
 Loose as a vine-branch blowing in the morn ; 
 Eyes like the morning, mouth for ever singing, 
 
 Blithe as a bird new risen from the corn. 
 
 LAWRENCE. 
 
 Best is the song with music interwoven : 
 Mine 's a musician, musical at heart, 
 
 Throbi to the gathered grieving of Beethoven, 
 Sways to the light coquetting of Mozart. 
 
 FRANK. 
 
 Best ? You should hear mine trilling out a ballad, 
 Queen at a pic-nic, leader of the glees, 
 9 1
 
 An Autumn Idyll. 
 
 Not too divine to toss you up a salad, 
 Great in Sir Roger danced among the trees. 
 
 LAWRENCE. 
 
 Ah, when the thick night flares with drooping torches 
 Ah, when the crush-room empties of the swarm, 
 
 Pleasant the hand that, in the gusty porches, 
 Light as a snow-flake, settles on your arm. 
 
 FRANK. 
 Better the twilight and the cheery chatting, 
 
 Better the dim, forgotten garden-seat, 
 Where one may lie, and watch the fingers tatting, 
 
 Lounging with Bran or Bevis at her feet. 
 
 LAWRENCE. 
 
 All worship mine. Her purity doth hedge her 
 Round with so delicate divinity, that men, 
 
 Stained to the soul with money-bag and ledger, 
 Bend to the goddess, manifest again. 
 
 FRANK. 
 None worship mine. But some, I fancy, love her, 
 
 Cynics to boot. I know the children run, 
 Seeing her come, for naught that I discover, 
 
 Save that she brings the summer and the sun. 
 92
 
 An Autumn Idyll. 
 
 LAWRENCE. 
 Mine is a Lady, beautiful and queenly, 
 
 Crowned with a sweet, continual control, 
 Grandly forbearing, lifting life serenely 
 
 E'en to her own nobility of soul. 
 
 FRANK. 
 Mine is a Woman, kindly beyond measure, 
 
 Fearless in praising, faltering in blame ; 
 Simply devoted to other people's pleasure, 
 
 Jack's sister Florence, now you know her name 
 
 LAWRENCE. 
 
 " Jack's sister Florence ! " Never, Francis, never. 
 Jack, do you hear ? Why, it was she I meant. 
 She like the country ! Ah, she 's far too clever 
 
 FRANK. 
 There you are wrong. I know her down in Kent 
 
 LAWRENCE. 
 
 You '11 get a sunstroke, standing with your head bare. 
 Sorry to differ. Jack, the word 's with you. 
 
 FRANK. 
 
 How is it, Umpire? Though the motto 's thread- 
 bare, 
 
 " Ccefatn, non animum" is, I take it, true. 
 93
 
 An Autumn Idyll. 
 
 JACK. 
 Souvoit femme varie" as a nile, is truer; 
 
 Flattered, I 'm sure, but both of you romance 
 Happy to further suit of either wooer, 
 
 Merely observing you have n't got a chance. 
 
 LAWRENCE. 
 Yes. But the Pipe 
 
 FRANK. 
 The Pipe is what we care for, 
 
 JACK. 
 
 Well, in this case, I scarcely need explain, 
 Judgment of mine were indiscreet, and therefore, 
 Peace to you both. The Pipe I shall retain. 
 94
 
 A GARDEN IDYLL 
 
 A LA.DY. A POET. 
 
 THE LADY. 
 SIR POET, ere you crossed the lawn 
 
 (If it was wrong to watch you, pardon,) 
 Behind this weeping birch withdrawn, 
 
 I watched you saunter round the garden. 
 I saw you bend beside the phlox, 
 
 Pluck, as you passed, a sprig of myrtle, 
 Review my well-ranged hollyhocks, 
 
 Smile at the fountain's slender spurtle ; 
 
 You paused beneath the cherry-tree, 
 
 Where my marauder thrush was singing, 
 
 Peered at the bee-hives curiously, 
 And narrowly escaped a stinging; 
 95
 
 A Garden Idyll. 
 
 And then you see I watched you passed 
 Down the espalier walk that reaches 
 
 Out to the western wall, and last 
 
 Dropped on the seat before the peaches. 
 
 What was your thought ? You waited long. 
 
 Sublime or graceful, grave, satiric? 
 A Morris Greek-and- Gothic song? 
 
 A tender Tennysonian lyric ? 
 Tell me. That garden-seat shall be, 
 
 So long as speech renown disperses, 
 Illustrious as the spot where he 
 
 The gifted Blank composed his verses. 
 
 THE POET. 
 Madam, whose uncensorious eye 
 
 Grows gracious over certain pages, 
 Wherein the Jester's maxims lie, 
 
 It may be, thicker than the Sage's 
 I hear but to obey, and could 
 
 Mere wish of mine the pleasure do you, 
 Some verse as whimsical as Hood, 
 
 As gay as Praed, should answer to you. 
 
 But, though the common voice proclaims 
 Our only serious vocation 
 96
 
 A Garden Idyll. 
 
 Confined to giving nothings names, 
 
 And dreams a "local habitation"; 
 Believe me there are tuneless days, 
 
 When neither marble, brass, nor vellum, 
 Would profit much by any lays 
 
 That haunt the poet's cerebellum. 
 
 More empty things, I fear, than rhymes, 
 
 More idle things than songs, absorb it ; 
 The "finely-frenzied" eye, at times, 
 
 Reposes mildly in its orbit ; 
 And painful truth at times, to him, 
 
 Whose jog-trot thought is nowise restive, 
 " A primrose by a river's brim " 
 
 Is absolutely unsuggestive. 
 
 The fickle Muse ! As ladies will, 
 
 She sometimes wearies of her wooer; 
 A goddess, yet a woman still, 
 
 She flies the more that we pursue her ; 
 In short, with worst as well as best, 
 
 Five months in six, your hapless poet 
 Is just as prosy as the rest, 
 
 But cannot comfortably show it. 
 
 You thought, no doubt, the garden-scent 
 
 Brings back some brief-winged bright sensation 
 97
 
 A Garden Idyll. 
 
 Of love that came and love that went, 
 Some fragrance of a lost flirtation, 
 
 Born when the cuckoo changes song, 
 Dead ere the apple's red is on it, 
 
 That should have been an epic long, 
 Yet scarcely served to fill a sonnet. 
 
 Or else you thought, the murmuring noon, 
 
 He turns it to a lyric sweeter, 
 With birds that gossip in the tune, 
 
 And windy bough-swing in the metre ; 
 Or else the zigzag fruit-tree arms 
 
 Recall some dream of harp-prest bosoms, 
 Round singing mouths, and chanted charms, 
 
 And mediaeval orchard blossoms, 
 
 Quite a la mode. Alas for prose, 
 
 My vagrant fancies only rambled 
 Back to the red-walled Rectory close, 
 
 Where first my graceless boyhood gamboled, 
 Climbed on the dial, teased the fish, 
 
 And chased the kitten round the beeches, 
 Till widening instincts made me wish 
 
 For certain slowly-ripening peaches. 
 
 Three peaches. Not the Graces three 
 Had more equality of beauty : 
 98
 
 A Garden Idyll. 
 
 I would not look, yet went to see ; 
 
 I wrestled with Desire and Duty ; 
 I felt the pangs of those who feel 
 
 The Laws of Property beset them ; 
 The conflict made my reason reel, 
 
 And, half-abstractedly, I ate them ; 
 
 Or Two of them. Forthwith Despair 
 
 More keen that one of these was rotten 
 Moved me to seek some forest lair 
 
 Where I might hide and dwell forgotten, 
 Attired in skins, by berries stained, 
 
 Absolved from brushes and ablution ; 
 But, ere my sylvan haunt was gained, 
 
 Fate gave me up to execution. 
 
 I saw it all but now. The grin 
 
 That gnarled old Gardener Sandy's features ; 
 My father, scholar-like and thin, 
 
 Unroused, the tenderest of creatures ; 
 I saw ah me I saw again 
 
 My dear and deprecating mother ; 
 And then, remembering the cane, 
 
 Regretted that 7 '</ left the other. 
 99
 
 TU QUOQUE 
 
 AN IDYLL IN THE CONS t R V AT DR Y. 
 
 " romproiis-notu, 
 Ou ne romprons-nons pas ? " 
 
 LE DPIT AMOUREUX 
 
 NELLIE. 
 
 IF I were you, when ladies at the play, sir, 
 Beckon and nod, & melodrama through, 
 I would not turn abstractedly away, sir, 
 If I were you ! 
 
 FRANK. 
 If I were you, when persons I affected, 
 
 Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew, 
 I would, at least, pretend I recollected, 
 
 If I were you ! 
 
 100
 
 Tu Quoque. 
 
 NELLIE. 
 If I were you, when ladies are so lavish, 
 
 Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two, 
 I would not dance with odious Miss M'Tavish, 
 
 If I were you ! 
 
 FRANK. 
 If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer 
 
 Whiff of the best, the mildest " honey-dew," 
 I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer, 
 
 If I were you ! 
 
 NELLIE. 
 
 If I were you, I would not, sir, be bitter, 
 Even to write the " Cynical Review" ; 
 
 FRANK. 
 
 No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter, 
 If I were you ! 
 
 NELLIE. 
 Really ! You would ? Why, Frank, you 're quite 
 
 delightful, 
 
 Hot as Othello, and as black of hue; 
 Borrow my fan. I would not look so frightful, 
 If I were you ! 
 
 101
 
 Tu Quoque. 
 
 FRANK. 
 " It is the cause." I mean your chaperon is 
 
 Bringing some well-curled juvenile. Adieu! 
 / shall retire. I 'd spare that poor Adonis, 
 If I were you ! 
 
 
 NELLIE. 
 
 Go, if you will. At once! And by express, sir! 
 
 Where shall it be ? To China or Peru ? 
 Go. I should leave inquirers my address, sir, 
 
 If I were you ! 
 
 FRANK. 
 No, I remain. To stay and fight a duel 
 
 Seems, on the whole, the proper thing to do 
 Ah, you are strong, I would not then be cruel, 
 
 If I were you ! 
 
 NELLIE. 
 One does not like one's feelings to be doubted, 
 
 FRANK. 
 One does not like one's friends to misconstrue,- 
 
 NELLIE. 
 If I confess that I a wee-bit pouted ?
 
 Tu Quoque. 
 
 FRANK. 
 I should admit that I wasfifue, too. 
 
 NELLIE. 
 
 Ask me to dance, I 'd say no more about it, 
 If I were you ! 
 
 [Waltz Exeunt.} 
 103
 
 A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO. 
 
 Le temps It mieux employ/ est eelui q,fon perd" 
 
 CLAUDE TILLIER. 
 
 I 'D "read" three hours. Both notes and text 
 
 Were fast a mist becoming ; 
 In bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed, 
 
 And filled the room with humming, 
 
 Then out. The casement's leafage sways, 
 
 And, parted light, discloses 
 Miss DL, with hat and book, a maze 
 
 Of muslin mixed with roses. 
 
 " You 're reading Greek ? " "I am and you ? " 
 
 " O, mine 's a mere romancer ! " 
 " So Plato is." " Then read him do ; 
 
 And I '11 read mine in answer." 
 . 104
 
 A Dialogue from Plato. 
 
 I read. " My Plato (Plato, too, 
 That wisdom thus should harden !) 
 
 Declares ' blue eyes look doubly blue 
 Beneath a Dolly Varden.' " 
 
 She smiled. " My book in turn avers 
 
 (No author's name is stated) 
 That sometimes those Philosophers 
 
 Are sadly mis-translated." 
 
 " But hear, the next 's in stronger style : 
 
 The Cynic School asserted 
 That two red lips which part and smile 
 May not be controverted ! " 
 
 She smiled once more " My book, I find, 
 Observes some modern doctors 
 
 Would make the Cynics out a kind 
 Of album- verse concoctors." 
 
 Then I " Why not ? < Ephesian law, 
 
 No less than time's tradition, 
 Enjoined fair speech on all who saw 
 
 DIANA'S apparition.' " 
 
 She blushed this time. " If Plato's page 
 
 No wiser precept teaches, 
 105 .
 
 A Dialogue from Plato. 
 
 Then I 'd renounce that doubtful sage, 
 And walk to Burnham-beeches." 
 
 " Agreed," I said. " For Socrates 
 
 (I find he too is talking) 
 Thinks Learning can't remain at ease 
 While Beauty goes a-walking." 
 
 She read no more. I leapt the sill : 
 The sequel 's scarce essential 
 
 Nay, more than this, I hold it still 
 Profoundly confidential. 
 106
 
 THE ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE. 
 
 POOR Rose ! I lift you from the street 
 
 Far better I should own you 
 Than you should lie for random feet 
 
 Where careless hands have thrown you 
 
 Poor pinky petals, crushed and torn ! 
 
 Did heartless Mayfair use you, 
 Then cast you forth to lie forlorn, 
 
 For chariot wheels to bruise you ? 
 
 I saw you last in Edith's hair. 
 
 Rose, you would scarce discover 
 That I she passed upon the stair 
 
 Was Edith's favoured lover, 
 
 A month "a little month" ago 
 
 O theme for moral writer ! 
 107
 
 The Romaunt of the Rose. 
 
 'Twixt you and me, my Rose, you know, 
 She might have been politer; 
 
 But let that pass. She gave you then 
 
 Behind the oleander 
 To one, perhaps, of all the men, 
 
 Who best could understand her, 
 
 Cyril, that, duly flattered, took, 
 
 As only Cyril 's able, 
 With just the same Arcadian look 
 
 He used, last night, for Mabel ; 
 
 Then, having waltzed till every star 
 Had paled away in morning, 
 
 Lit up his cynical cigar, 
 
 And tossed you downward, scorning. 
 
 Kismet, my Rose ! Revenge is sweet,- 
 She made my heart-strings quiver; 
 
 And yet You shan't lie in the street, 
 I '11 drop you in the River. 
 1 08
 
 LOVE IN WINTER. 
 
 BETWEEN the berried holly-bush 
 The Blackbird whistled to the Thrush : 
 " Which way did bright-eyed Bella go ? 
 Look, Speckle-breast, across the snow, 
 Are those her dainty tracks I see, 
 That wind toward the shrubbery ? " 
 
 The Throstle pecked the berries still. 
 " No need for looking, Yellow-bill ; 
 Young Frank was there an hour ago, 
 Half frozen, waiting in the snow ; 
 His callow beard was white with rime, 
 Tchuck, 't is a merry pairing-time ! " 
 
 " What would you ? " twittered in the Wren ; 
 
 " These are the reckless ways of men. 
 109
 
 Love in Winter. 
 
 I watched them bill and coo as though 
 They thought the sign of Spring was snow ; 
 If men but timed their loves as we, 
 'T would save this inconsistency." 
 
 " Nay, Gossip," chirped the Robin, "nay; 
 I like their unreflective way. 
 Besides, I heard enough to show 
 Their love is proof against the snow : 
 Why wait,' he said, ' why wait for May, 
 When love can warm a winter's day ? ' " 
 no
 
 POT-POURRI, 
 
 "Si ftunes;> savait?" 
 
 I PLUNGE my hand among the leaves : 
 (An alien touch but dust perceives, 
 
 Nought else supposes ;) 
 For me those fragrant ruins raise 
 Clear memory of the vanished days 
 
 When they were roses. 
 
 " If youth but knew ! " Ah, " if," in truth- 
 I can recall with what gay youth, 
 
 To what light chorus, 
 Unsobered yet by time or change, 
 We roamed the many-gabled Grange, 
 
 All life before us ; 
 in
 
 Pot-PourrL 
 
 Braved the old clock-tower's dust and damp 
 To catch the dim Arthurian camp 
 
 In misty distance ; 
 
 Peered at the still-room's sacred stores, 
 Or rapped at walls for sliding doors 
 
 Of feigned existence. 
 
 What need had we for thoughts or cares ! 
 The hot sun parched the old parterres 
 
 And "flowerful closes"; 
 We roused the rooks with rounds and glees, 
 Played hide-and-seek behind the trees, 
 
 Then plucked these roses. 
 
 Louise was one light, glib Louise, 
 So freshly freed from school decrees 
 
 You scarce could stop her ; 
 And Bell, the Beauty, unsurprised 
 At fallen locks that scandalized 
 
 Our dear "Miss Proper:" 
 
 Shy Ruth, all heart and tenderness, 
 Who wept like Chaucer's Prioress, 
 
 When Dash was smitten ; 
 Who blushed before the mildest men, 
 Yet waxed a very Corday when 
 
 You teased her kitten. 
 
 I 12
 
 Pot-Pourri. 
 
 I loved them all. Bell first and best ; 
 Louise the next for days of jest 
 
 Or madcap masking ; 
 And Ruth, I thought, why, failing these, 
 When my High-Mightiness should please 
 
 She 'd come for asking. 
 
 Louise was grave when last we met ; 
 Bell's beauty, like a sun, has set ; 
 
 And Ruth, Heaven bless her, 
 Ruth that I wooed, and wooed in vain, 
 Has gone where neither grief nor pain 
 
 Can now distress her. 
 "3
 
 DOROTHY. 
 
 A REVERIE SUGGESTED BY THE NAME UPON A PANE. 
 
 SHE then must once have looked, as I 
 Look now, across the level rye, 
 Past Church and Manor-house, and seen, 
 As now I see, the village green, 
 The bridge, and Walton's river she 
 Whose old-world name was " Dorothy." 
 
 The swallows must have twittered, too, 
 Above her head ; the roses blew 
 Below, no doubt, and, sure, the South 
 Crept up the wall and kissed her mouth, 
 That wistful mouth, which comes to me 
 
 Linked with her name of Dorothy. 
 114
 
 Dorothy. 
 
 W hat was she like ? I picture her 
 Unmeet for uncouth worshipper ; 
 Soft, pensive, far too subtly graced 
 To suit the blunt bucolic taste, 
 Whose crude perception could but see 
 " Ma'am Fine-airs" in Miss Dorothy. 
 
 How not ? She loved, may be, perfume, 
 Soft textures, lace, a half-lit room; 
 Perchance too candidly preferred 
 '' Clarissa " to a gossip's word ; 
 And, for the rest, would seem to be 
 Or proud, or dull this Dorothy. 
 
 Poor child, with heart the down-lined nest 
 Of warmest instincts unconfest, 
 Soft callow things that vaguely felt 
 The breeze caress, the sunlight melt, 
 But yet, by some obscure decree 
 Unwinged from birth ; poor Dorothy ! 
 
 Not less I dream her mute desire 
 To acred churl and booby squire, 
 Now pale, with timorous eyes that filled 
 At " twice-told tales " of foxes killed ; 
 Now trembling when slow tongues grew free 
 'Twixt sport, and Port and Dorothy ! 
 "5
 
 Dorothy. 
 
 T was then she 'd seek this nook, and find 
 Its evening landscape balmy-kind ; 
 And here, where still her gentle name 
 Lives on the old green glass, would frame 
 Fond dreams of unfound harmony 
 'Twixt heart and heart. Poor Dorothy ! 
 
 L'ENVOI. 
 
 These last I spoke. Then Florence said, 
 Below me, " Dreams ? Delusions, Fred ! ' 
 Next, with a pause, she bent the while 
 Over a rose, with roguish smile 
 " But how disgusted, sir, you '11 be 
 To hear /scrawled that ' Dorothy." 
 116
 
 AVICE. 
 
 " On serait tentf d( liiidire, Bonjour, Mademoiselle (a Bergeron 
 netle" VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 THOUGH the voice of modern schools 
 Has demurred, 
 
 By the dreamy Asian creed 
 
 'T is averred, 
 
 That the souls of men, released 
 
 From their bodies when deceased, 
 
 Sometimes enter in a beast, 
 Or a bird. 
 
 I have watched you long, Avice, 
 Watched you so, 
 
 I have found your secret out ; 
 And I know 
 
 That the restless ribboned things, 
 
 Where your slope of shoulder springs, 
 
 Are but undeveloped wings 
 
 That will grow. 
 117
 
 A vice. 
 
 When you enter in a room, 
 
 It is stirred 
 With the wayward, flashing flight 
 
 Of a bird ; 
 
 And you speak and bring with you 
 Leaf and sun-ray, bud and blue, 
 And the wind-breath and the dew 
 At a word. 
 
 When you called to me my name, 
 
 Then again 
 When I heard your single cry 
 
 In the lane, 
 
 All the sound was as the " sweet " 
 Which the birds to birds repeat 
 In their thank-song to the heat 
 After rain. 
 
 When you sang the Schwalbenlied, 
 'T was absurd, 
 
 But it seemed no human note 
 
 That I heard ; 
 
 For your strain had all the trills, 
 
 All the little shakes and stills, 
 
 Of the over-song that rills 
 
 From a bird. 
 118
 
 A vice. 
 
 You have just their eager, quick 
 " Airs de tete? 
 All their flush and fever-heat 
 
 When elate; 
 
 Every bird-like nod and beck, 
 And a bird's own curve of neck 
 When she gives a little peck 
 
 To her mate. 
 
 When you left me, only now, 
 
 In that furred, 
 Puffed, and feathered Polish dress, 
 
 I was spurred 
 
 Just to catch you, O my Sweet, 
 By the bodice trim and neat, 
 Just to feel your heart a-beat, 
 Like a bird. 
 
 Yet, alas ! Love's light you deign 
 But to wear 
 
 As the dew upon your plumes, 
 And you care 
 
 Not a whit for rest or hush ; 
 
 But the leaves, the lyric gush, 
 
 And the wing-power, and the rush 
 
 Of the air. 
 119
 
 A vice. 
 
 So I dare not woo you, Sweet, 
 For a day, 
 
 Lest I lose you in a flash, 
 
 As I may ; 
 
 Did I tell you tender things, 
 
 You would shake your sudden wings ;- 
 
 You would start from him who sings, 
 And away. 
 
 I2O
 
 THE LOVE-LETTER. 
 
 'ai vu les mceurs de man terns, etfaipublUcette kttre." 
 
 LA NOUVELLE HELOISE. 
 
 IF this should fail, why then I scarcely know 
 What could succeed. Here 's brilliancy (and 
 banter), 
 
 Byron ad lib., a chapter of Rousseau ; 
 If this should fail, then tempera mutantiir ; 
 
 Style 's out of date, and love, as a profession, 
 
 Acquires no aid from beauty of expression. 
 
 " The men who think as I, I fear, are few," 
 
 (Cynics would say 't were well if they were fewer] 
 
 " I am not what I seem," (indeed, 't is true; 
 Though, as a sentiment, it might be newer) ; 
 
 " Mine is a soul whose deeper feelings lie 
 More deep than words " (as these exemplify). 
 
 121
 
 The Love-Letter. 
 
 " I will not say when first your beauty's sun 
 Illumed my life," (it needs imagination) ; 
 
 11 For me to see you and to love were one," 
 (This will account for some precipitation) ; 
 
 " Let it suffice that worship more devoted 
 Ne'er throbbed," et ccstera. The rest is quoted. 
 
 " If Love can look with all-prophetic eye," 
 (Ah, if he could, how many would be single!), 
 
 " If truly spirit unto spirit cry," 
 
 (The ears of some most terribly must tingle !) 
 
 " Then I have dreamed you will not turn your face/ 
 This next, I think, is more than commonplace. 
 
 " Why should we speak, if Love, interpreting, 
 Forestall the speech with favour found before ? 
 
 Why should we plead ? it were an idle thing, 
 If Love himself be Love's ambassador ! " 
 
 Blot, as I live. Shall we erase it ? No ; 
 
 T will show we write currents calamo. 
 
 " My fate, my fortune, I commit to you," 
 (In point of fact, the latter 's not extensive) ; 
 
 " Without you I am poor indeed," (strike through, 
 T is true but crude 't would make her apprehen 
 sive) ;
 
 The Love- Letter. 
 
 '' My life is yours I lay it at your feet," 
 (Having no choice but Hymen or the Fleet). 
 
 " Give me the right to stand within the shrine, 
 
 Where never yet my faltering feet intruded ; 
 Give me the right to call you wholly mine," 
 
 (That is, Consols and Three per Cents included) ; 
 " To guard your rest from every care that cankers, 
 To keep your life," (and balance at your banker's). 
 
 " Compel me not to long for your reply ; 
 
 Suspense makes havoc with the mind" (and 
 
 muscles) ; 
 " Winged Hope takes flight," (which means that I 
 
 must fly, 
 
 Default of funds, to Paris or to Brussels) ; 
 " I cannot wait ! My own, my queen Priscilla ! 
 Write by return." And now for a Manilla ! 
 
 ' Miss Blank," at "Blank." Jemima, let it go ; 
 
 And I, meanwhile, will idle with "Sir Walter;" 
 Stay, let me keep the first rough copy, though 
 
 'T will serve again. There 's but the name to alter, 
 And Love, that needs, must knock at every 
 
 portal, 
 
 In formft, pauperi*. We are but mortal ! 
 123
 
 THE MISOGYNIST. 
 
 ** II /tail unjfune homme tTun bien beau passf." 
 
 WHEN first he sought our haunts, he wore 
 
 His locks in Hamlet-style ; 
 His brow with thought was "sicklied o'er,"- 
 
 We rarely saw him smile ; 
 And, e'en when none were looking on, 
 His air was always woe-begone. 
 
 He kept, I think, his bosom bare 
 
 To imitate Jean Paul ; 
 His solitary topics were 
 
 ^Esthetics, Fate, and Soul ; 
 Although at times, but not for long, 
 
 He bowed his Intellect to song. 
 124
 
 TJie Misogynist. 
 
 He served, he said, a Muse of Tears : 
 
 I know his verses breathed 
 A fine funereal air of biers, 
 
 And objects cypress-wreathed ; 
 Indeed, his tried acquaintance fled 
 'An ode he named "The Sheeted Dead." 
 
 In these light moods, I call to mind, 
 
 He darkly would allude 
 To some dread sorrow undefined, 
 
 Some passion unsubdued ; 
 Then break into a ghastly laugh, 
 And talk of Keats his epitaph. 
 
 He railed at women's faith as Cant; 
 
 We thought him grandest when 
 He named them Siren-shapes that " chant 
 
 On blanching bones of Men;" 
 Alas, not e'en the great go free 
 From that insidious minstrelsy! 
 
 His lot, he oft would gravely urge, 
 
 Lay on a lone Rock where 
 Around Time-beaten bases surge 
 
 The Billows of Despair. 
 We dreamed it true. We never knew 
 What gentler ears he told it to. 
 I2 5
 
 The Misogynist. 
 
 We, bound with him in common care, 
 
 One-minded, celibate, 
 Resolved to Thought and Diet spare 
 
 Our lives to dedicate ; 
 We, truly, in no common sense 
 Deserved his closest confidence ! 
 
 But soon, and yet, though soon, too late, 
 We, sorrowing, sighed to find 
 
 A gradual softness enervate 
 That all superior mind, 
 
 Until, in full assembly met, 
 
 He dared to speak of Etiquette. 
 
 The verse that we severe had known, 
 
 Assumed a wanton air, 
 A fond effeminate monotone 
 
 Of eyebrows, lips, and hair ; 
 Not rjSoS stirred him now or vovS, 
 He read "The Angel in the House!" 
 
 Nay worse. He, once sublime to chaff) 
 
 Grew whimsically sore 
 If we but named a photograph 
 
 We found him simpering o'er; 
 Or told how in his chambers lurked 
 
 A watch-guard : ntricately worked. 
 126
 
 The Misogynist. 
 
 Then worse again. He tried to dress ; 
 
 He trimmed his tragic mane ; 
 Announced at length (to our distress) 
 
 He had not " lived in vain " ; 
 Thenceforth his one prevailing mood 
 Became a base beatitude. 
 
 And O Jean Paul, and Fate, and Soul ! 
 
 We met him last, grown stout, 
 His throat with wedlock's triple roll, 
 "All wool," en wound about; 
 His very hat had changed its brim ; 
 Our course was clear, WE BANISHED HIM ! 
 127
 
 A VIRTUOSO. 
 
 BE seated, pray. "A grave appeal"? 
 
 The sufferers by the war, of course ; 
 Ah, what a sight for us who feel, 
 
 This monstrous melodrame of Force ! 
 We, sir, we connoisseurs, should know, 
 
 On whom its heaviest burden falls ; 
 Collections shattered at a blow, 
 
 Museums turned to hospitals ! 
 
 " And worse," you say ; " the wide distress ! " 
 
 Alas, 't is true distress exists, 
 Though, let me add, our worthy Press 
 Have no mean skill as colourists ; 
 Speaking of colour, next your seat 
 
 There hangs a sketch from Vernet's hand ; 
 Some Moscow fancy, incomplete, 
 Yet not indifferently planned ; 
 128
 
 A Virtuoso. 
 
 Note specially the gray old Guard, 
 
 Who tears his tattered coat to wrap 
 A closer bandage round the scarred 
 
 And frozen comrade in his lap ; 
 But, as regards the present war, 
 
 Now don't you think our pride of pence 
 Goes may I say it ? somewhat far 
 
 For objects of benevolence ? 
 
 You hesitate. For my part, I 
 
 Though ranking Paris next to Rome, 
 ^Esthetically still reply 
 
 That " Charity begins at Home." 
 The words remind me. Did you catch 
 
 My so-named " Hunt" ? The girl 's a gem ; 
 And look how those lean rascals snatch 
 
 The pile of scraps she brings to them ! 
 
 " But your appeal 's for home,"- you say, 
 For home, and English poor ! Indeed ! 
 
 I thought Philanthropy to-day 
 
 Was blind to mere domestic need 
 
 However sore Yet though one grants 
 That home should have the foremost claims, 
 
 At least these Continental wants 
 
 Assume intelligible names ; 
 129
 
 A Virtuoso. 
 
 While here with us Ah ! who could hope 
 
 To verify the varied pleas, 
 Or from his private means to cope 
 
 With all our shrill necessities ! 
 Impossible ! One might as well 
 
 Attempt comparison of creeds ; 
 Or fill that huge Malayan shell 
 
 With these half-dozen Indian beads. 
 
 Moreover, add that every one 
 
 So well exalts his pet distress, 
 T is Give to all, or give to none, 
 
 If you 'd avoid invidiousness. 
 Your case, I feel, is sad as A.'s, 
 
 The same applies to B.'s and C.'s; 
 By my selection I should raise 
 
 An alphabet of rivalries ; 
 
 And life is short, I see you look 
 At yonder dish, a priceless bit ; 
 
 You '11 find it etched in Jacquemart's book, 
 They say that Raphael painted it ; 
 
 And life is short, you understand ; 
 So, if I only hold you out 
 
 An open though an empty hand, 
 
 Why, you '11 forgive me, I 've no doubt. 
 130
 
 A Virttwso. 
 
 Nay, do not rise. You seem amused ; 
 
 One can but be consistent, sir! 
 'T was on these grounds I just refused 
 
 Some gushing lady-almoner, 
 Believe me, on these very grounds. 
 
 Good-bye, then. Ah, a rarity ! 
 That cost me quite three hundred pounds,- 
 
 That Durer figure, " Chanty."
 
 LAISSEZ FAIRE. 
 
 Propkete rechts, PropheU links, 
 Das Weltkind in dtr Mitten." 
 
 GOETHE'S DM t 
 
 To left, here 's B., half-Communist, 
 Who talks a chastened treason, 
 
 And C, a something-else in "ist," 
 Harangues, to right, on Reason. 
 
 B., from his "tribune," fulminates 
 At Throne and Constitution, 
 
 Nay, with the walnuts, advocates 
 Reform by revolution ; 
 
 While C.'s peculiar coterie 
 
 Have now in full rehearsal 
 Some patent new Philosophy 
 
 To make doubt universal. 
 132
 
 Laissez Faire. 
 
 And yet why not ? If zealots burn, 
 
 Their zeal has not affected 
 My taste for salmon and Sauterne, 
 
 Or I might have objected : 
 
 Friend B., the argument you choose 
 
 Has been by France refuted ; 
 And C., mon cher, your novel views 
 
 Are just Tom Paine diluted ; 
 
 There *s but one creed, that 's Laissez faire ; 
 
 Behold its mild apostle ! 
 My dear, declamatory pair, 
 
 Although you shout and jostle, 
 
 Not your ephemeral hands, nor mine, 
 Time's Gordian knots shall sunder, 
 
 Will, laid three casks of this old wine : 
 
 Who '11 drink the last, I wonder ? 
 
 133
 
 TO Q. H. F. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A CHAPTER IN THEODORE MARTIN'S 
 " HORACE," 
 
 ("ANCIENT CLASSICS FOR ENGLISH READERS.") 
 
 " HORATIUS FLACCUS, B.C. 8, ?> 
 There 's not a doubt about the date, 
 
 You 're dead and buried : 
 As you observed, the seasons roll ; 
 And 'cross the Styx full many a soul 
 
 Has Charon ferried, 
 
 Since, mourned of men and Muses nine, 
 They laid you on the Esquiline. 
 
 And that was centuries ago I 
 
 You 'd think we 'd learned enough, I know, 
 
 To help refine us, 
 134
 
 To Q. H. F. 
 
 Since last you trod the Sacred Street, 
 And tacked from mortal fear to meet 
 
 The bore Crispinus ; 
 Or, by your cold Digentia, set 
 The web of winter birding-net. 
 
 Ours is so far-advanced an age ! 
 Sensation tales, a classic stage, 
 
 Commodious villas ! 
 We boast high art, an Albert Hall, 
 Australian meats, and men who call 
 
 Their sires gorillas ! 
 We have a thousand things, you see, 
 Not dreamt in your philosophy. 
 
 And yet, how strange! Our "world," to-day, 
 Tried in the scale, would scarce outweigh 
 
 Your Roman cronies ; 
 Walk in the Park you '11 seldom fail 
 To find a Sybaris on the rail 
 
 By Lydia's ponies, 
 
 Or hap on Barrus, wigged and stayed, 
 Ogling some unsuspecting maid. 
 
 The great Gargilius, then, behold ! 
 His "long-bow" hunting tales of old 
 Are now but duller ;
 
 To Q. H. F. 
 
 Fair Neobule too ! Is not 
 
 One Hebrus here from Aldershot ? 
 
 Aha, you colour! 
 Be wise. There old Canidia sits ; 
 No doubt she 's tearing you to bits. 
 
 And look, dyspeptic, brave, and kind, 
 Comes dear Maecenas, half behind 
 
 Terentia's skirting; 
 
 Here 's Pyrrah, " golden-haired " at will ; 
 Prig Damasippus, preaching still ; 
 
 Asterie flirting, 
 
 Radiant, of course. We '11 make her black,- 
 Ask her when Gyges' ship comes back. 
 
 So with the rest. Who will may trace 
 Behind the new each elder face 
 
 Defined as clearly ; 
 
 Science proceeds, and man stands still ; 
 Our "world" to-day 's as good or ill, 
 
 As cultured (nearly), 
 As yours was, Horace ! You alone, 
 Unmatched, unmet, we have not known. 
 136
 
 TO "LYDIA LANGUISH." 
 
 " // mefaui det Emotions" 
 
 BLANCHE AMORY. 
 
 You ask me, Lydia, " whether I, 
 If you refuse my suit, shall die." 
 
 (Now pray don't let this hurt you) ; 
 Although the time be out of joint, 
 I should not think a bodkin's point 
 
 The sole resource of virtue; 
 Nor shall I, though your mood endure, 
 Attempt a final Water-cure 
 
 Except against my wishes ; 
 For I respectfully decline 
 To dignify the Serpentine, 
 
 And make Jwrs-d'axevres for fishes ; 
 But, if you ask me whether I 
 
 Composedly can go, 
 Without a look, without a sigh, 
 
 Why, then I answer No. 
 137
 
 To " Lydia Languish." 
 
 " You are assured," you sadly say 
 (If in this most considerate way 
 
 To treat my suit your will is), 
 That I shall "quickly find as fair 
 Some new Neasra's tangled hair 
 
 Some easier Amaryllis." 
 I cannot promise to be cold 
 If smiles are kind as yours of old 
 
 On lips of later beauties ; 
 Nor can I hope to quite forget 
 The homage that is Nature's debt, 
 
 While man has social duties; 
 But, if you ask shall I prefer 
 
 To you I honour so 
 A somewhat visionary Her, 
 
 I answer truly No. 
 
 You fear, you frankly add, " to find 
 In me too late the altered mind 
 
 That altering Time estranges." 
 To this I make response that we 
 (As physiologists agree), 
 
 Must have septennial changes; 
 This is a thing beyond control, 
 And it were best upon the whole 
 
 To try and find out whether 
 138
 
 To " Lydia Languish" 
 
 We could not, by some means, arrange 
 This not-to-be-avoided change 
 
 So as to change together : 
 But, had you asked me to allow 
 
 That you could ever grow 
 Less amiable than you are now, 
 
 Emphatically No. 
 
 But to be serious if you care 
 To know how I shall really bear 
 
 This much-discussed rejection, 
 I answer you. As feeling men 
 Behave, in best romances, when 
 
 You outrage their affection ; 
 With that gesticulatory woe, 
 By which, as melodramas show, 
 
 Despair is indicated ; 
 Enforced by all the liquid grief 
 Which hugest pocket-handkerchief 
 
 Has ever simulated ; 
 And when, arrived so far, you say 
 
 In tragic accents "Go," 
 Then, Lydia, then I still shall stay, 
 
 And firmly answer No. 
 139
 
 A GAGE D'AMOUR. 
 (HORACE, HI, 8.) 
 
 " Afartiis cakbs quid agam Kaltndu, 
 mirarisf " 
 
 CHARLES, for it seems you wish to know,- 
 You wonder what could scare me so, 
 And why, in this long-locked bureau, 
 
 With trembling fingers, 
 With tragic air, I now replace 
 This ancient web of yellow lace, 
 Among whose faded folds the trace 
 
 Of perfume lingers. 
 
 Friend of my youth, severe as true, 
 I guess the train your thoughts pursue; 
 But this my state is nowise due 
 
 To indigestion ; 
 140
 
 A Gage d' Amour. 
 
 I had forgotten it was there, 
 
 A scarf that Some-one used to wear. 
 
 Hitu ilia lachrima, so spare 
 
 Your cynic question. 
 
 Some-one who is. not girlish now, 
 
 And wed long since. We meet and bow ; 
 
 I don't suppose our broken vow 
 
 Affects us keenly ; 
 Yet, trifling though my act appears, 
 Your Sternes would make it ground for tears ;- 
 One can't disturb the dust of years, 
 
 And smile serenely. 
 
 " My golden locks" are gray and chill, 
 For hers, let them be sacred still ; 
 But yet, I own, a boyish thrill 
 
 Went dancing through me, 
 Charles, when I held yon yellow lace ; 
 For, from its dusty hiding-place, 
 Peeped out an arch, ingenuous face 
 That beckoned to me. 
 
 We shut our heart up, now-a-days, 
 Like some old music-box that plays 
 Unfashionable airs that raise 
 
 Derisive pity ; 
 141
 
 A Gage d' Amour. 
 
 Alas, a nothing starts the spring; 
 And lo, the sentimental thing 
 At once commences quavering 
 Its lover's ditty. 
 
 Laugh, if you like. The boy in me, 
 
 The boy that was, revived to see 
 
 The fresh young smile that shone when she, 
 
 Of old, was tender. 
 
 Once more we trod the Golden Way, 
 That mother you saw yesterday, 
 And I, whom none can well portray 
 
 As young, or slender. 
 
 She twirled the flimsy scarf about 
 Her pretty head, and stepping out, 
 Slipped arm in mine, with half a pout 
 
 Of childish pleasure. 
 Where we were bound no mortal knows, 
 For then you plunged in Ireland's woes. 
 And brought me blankly back to prose 
 
 And Gladstone's measure. 
 
 Well, well, the wisest bend to Fate. 
 My brown old books around me wait, 
 My pipe still holds, unconfiscate, 
 
 Its wonted station. 
 142
 
 A Gage d' Amour. 
 
 Pass me the wine. To Those that keep 
 The bachelor's secluded sleep 
 Peaceful, inviolate, and deep, 
 I pour libation. 
 143
 
 CUPID'S ALLEY. 
 
 A MORALITY. 
 
 O, Lave 's but a dance, 
 
 Where Time plays thefiddltl 
 See the couples advance, 
 O, Lffve 's but a dance I 
 A whisper, a glance, 
 
 " Shall we twirl down the middle f ' 
 O, Love 's but a dance, 
 
 Where Time plays thefiddltt 
 
 IT runs (so saith my Chronicler) 
 
 Across a smoky City ; 
 A Babel filled with buzz and whirr, 
 
 Huge, gloomy, black and gritty; 
 Dark-louring looks the hill-side near, 
 
 Dark-yawning looks the valley, 
 But here 't is always fresh and clear, 
 
 For here is " Cupid's Alley." 
 144
 
 Cupid's Alley. 
 
 And, from an Arbour cool and green, 
 
 With aspect down the middle, 
 An ancient Fiddler, gray and lean, 
 
 Scrapes on an ancient riddle ; 
 Alert he seems, but aged enow 
 
 To punt the Stygian galley ; 
 With wisp of forelock on his brow, 
 
 He plays in " Cupid's Alley." 
 
 All day he plays, a single tune ! 
 
 But, by the oddest chances, 
 Gavotte, or Brawl, or Rigadoon, 
 
 It suits all kinds of dances ; 
 My Lord may walk a pas de Cour 
 
 To Jenny's pas de Chalet ; 
 The folks who ne'er have danced before, 
 
 Can dance in " Cupid's Alley." 
 
 And here, for ages yet untold, 
 
 Long, long before my ditty, 
 Came high and low, and young and old, 
 
 From out the crowded City ; 
 And still to-day they come, they go, 
 
 And just as fancies tally, 
 They foot it quick, they foot it slow, 
 
 All day in " Cupid's Alley."
 
 Cupid's Alley. 
 
 Strange dance ! 'T is free to Rank and Rags ; 
 
 Here no distinction flatters, 
 Here Riches shakes its money-bags 
 
 And Poverty its tatters ; 
 Church, Army, Navy, Physic, Law; 
 
 Maid, Mistress, Master, Valet; 
 Long locks, gray hairs, bald heads, and a', 
 
 They bob in "Cupid's Alley." 
 
 Strange pairs ! To laughing, fresh Fifteen 
 
 Here capers Prudence thrifty ; 
 Here Prodigal leads down the green 
 
 A blushing Maid of fifty ; 
 Some treat it as a serious thing, 
 
 And some but shilly-shally ; 
 And some have danced without the ring 
 
 (Ah me!) in "Cupid's Alley." 
 
 And sometimes one to one will dance, 
 
 And think of one behind her; 
 And one by one will stand, perchance, 
 
 Yet look all ways to find her ; 
 Some seek a partner with a sigh, 
 
 Some win him with a sally ; 
 And some, they know not how nor why, 
 
 Strange fate ! of " Cupid's Alley." 
 146
 
 Cupid's Alley. 
 
 And some will dance an age or so 
 
 Who came for half a minute; 
 And some, who like the game, will go 
 
 Before they well begin it ; 
 And some will vow they 're " danced to death," 
 
 Who (somehow) always rally; 
 Strange cures are wrought (mine author saith), 
 
 Strange cures ! in " Cupid's Alley." 
 
 It may be one will dance to-day, 
 
 And dance no more to-morrow ; 
 It may be one will steal away 
 
 And nurse a life-long sorrow ; 
 What then ? The rest advance, evade, 
 
 Unite, dispart, and dally, 
 Re-set, coquet, and gallopade, 
 
 Not less in " Cupid's Alley." 
 
 For till that City's wheel-work vast 
 
 And shuddering beams shall crumble ; 
 And till that Fiddler lean at last 
 
 From off his seat shall tumble; 
 Till then (the Civic records say), 
 
 This quaint, fantastic ballet 
 Of Go and Stay, of Yea and Nay, 
 
 Must last in " Cupid's Alley."
 
 THE IDYLL OF THE CARP 
 
 (The Scene is in a garden, where you please, 
 So that it lie in France, and have withal 
 
 Its gray-stoned pond beneath the arching trees, 
 And Triton huge, with moss for coronal. 
 
 A PRINCESS, feeding Fish. To her DENISE.) 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 These, DEMISE, are my Suitors ! 
 
 DENISE, 
 
 Where? 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 These fish. 
 
 I feed them daily here at morn and night 
 With crumbs of favour, scraps of graciousness, 
 Not meant, indeed, to mean the thing they wish, 
 But serving just to edge an appetite. 
 
 ( Thriving bread.) 
 Make haste, Messieurs ! Make haste, then ! Hurry 
 
 See, 
 
 148
 
 The Idyll of tJie Carp. 
 
 See how they swim! Would you not say, confesr, 
 Some crowd of Courtiers in the audience hall, 
 When the King comes ? 
 
 DENISE. 
 
 You 're jesting ! 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 Not at all. 
 Watch but the great one yonder ! There 's the 
 
 Duke ; 
 
 Those gill-marks mean his Order of St. Luke ; 
 Those old skin-stains his boasted quarterings. 
 Look what a swirl and roll of tide he brings ; 
 Have you not marked him thus, with crest in air, 
 Breathing disdain, descend the palace-stair ? 
 You surely have, DENISE. 
 
 DENISE. 
 
 I think I have. 
 
 But there 's another, older and more grave, 
 The one that wears the round patch on the throat 
 And swims with such slow fins. Is he of note ? 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 Why that 's my good cJiambellan with his seal. 
 
 A kind old man ! he carves me orange-peel 
 149
 
 TJie Idyll of the Carp. 
 
 In quaint devices at refection-hours, 
 Equips my sweet-pouch, brings me morning flowers 
 Or chirrups madrigals with old, sweet words, 
 Such as men loved when people wooed like birds 
 And spoke the true note first. No suitor he, 
 Yet loves me too, though in a graybeard's key. 
 
 DENISE. 
 
 Look, Madam, look ! a fish without a stain I 
 O speckless, fleckless fish ! Who is it pray, 
 That bears him so discreetly ? 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 FONTENAY. 
 
 You know him not ? My prince of shining locks ! 
 My pearl ! my Phoenix ! my pomander-box ! 
 He loves not Me, alas ! The man 's too vain ! 
 He loves his doublet better than my suit, 
 His graces than my favours. Still his sash 
 Sits not amiss, and he can touch the lute 
 Not wholly out of tune 
 
 DENISE. 
 
 Ai ! what a splash ! 
 
 Who is it comes with such a sudden dash 
 Plump i' the midst, and leaps the others clear ? 
 '5
 
 The Idyll of the Carp. 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 Ho ! for a trumpet ! Let the bells be rung ! 
 Baron of Sans-terre, Lord of Pres-en-Cieux, 
 Vidame of Vol-au- Vent " et aultrcs licux / " 
 Bah ! How I hate his Gasconading tongue ! 
 Why, that 's my bragging, Bravo- Musketeer 
 My carpet cut-throat, valiant by a scar 
 Got in a brawl that stands for Spanish war : 
 His very life 's a splash ! 
 
 DENISE. 
 
 I 'd rather wear 
 
 E'en such a patched and melancholy air, 
 As his, that motley one, who keeps the wall, 
 And hugs his own lean thoughts for carnival. 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 My frankest wooer! Thus his love he tells 
 To mournful moving of his cap and bells. 
 He loves me (so he saith) as Slaves the Free, 
 As Cowards War, as young Maids Constancy. 
 Item, he loves me as the Hawk the Dove ; 
 He loves me as the Inquisition Thought; 
 
 DENISE. 
 "He loves? he loves?" Why all this loving 's 
 
 naught !
 
 The Idyll of the Carp. 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 And " Naught (quoth JACQUOT) makes the sum ol 
 Love!" 
 
 DEXISE. 
 
 The cynic knave ! How call you this one here ? 
 This small shy-looking fish, that hovers near, 
 And circles, like a cat around a cage, 
 To snatch the surplus. 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 CHRUBIN, the page. 
 
 T is but a child, yet with that roguish smile, 
 And those sly looks, the child will make hearts ache 
 Not five years hence, I prophesy. Meanwhile 
 He lives to plague the swans upon the lake, 
 To steal my comfits, and the monkey's cake. 
 
 DENISE. 
 And these that swim aside who may these be ? 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 Those are two gentlemen of Picardy, 
 Equal in blood, of equal bravery : 
 D'AURELLES and MAUFRIGNAC. They hunt in pair; 
 I mete them morsels with an equal care, 
 Lest they should eat each other, or eat Me. 
 '52
 
 The Idyll >/ tfte Carp. 
 
 DENISE. 
 And that and that and that ? 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 I name them not. 
 
 Those are the crowd who merely think their lot 
 The lighter by my land. 
 
 DENISE. 
 
 And is there none 
 
 More prized than most ? There surely must be one, 
 A Carp of carps ! 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 Ah me ! he will not come ! 
 He swims at large, looks shyly on, is dumb. 
 Sometimes, indeed, I think he fain would nibble, 
 But while he stays with doubts and fears to quibble, 
 Some gilded fop, or mincing courtier-fribble, 
 Slips smartly in, and gets the proffered crumb. 
 He should have all my crumbs if he 'd but ask; 
 Nay, an he would, it were no hopeless task 
 To gain a something more. But though he 's brave, 
 He 's far too proud to be a dangling slave ; 
 And then he 's modest ! So ... he will not come ! 
 r 53
 
 THE SUNDIAL. 
 
 T is an old dial, dark with many a stain ; 
 
 In summer crowned with drifting orchard bloom, 
 Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain, 
 
 And white in winter like a marble tomb ; 
 
 And round about its gray, time-eaten brow 
 
 Lean letters speak a worn and shattered row : 
 
 J am a SJjafce: a S^Jjatiotoe too arte ttjou: 
 J mark* tfje flume: gajje, osstp, tost tljou 
 
 0*1? 
 
 Here would the ringdoves linger, head to head ; 
 
 And here the snail a silver course would run, 
 Beating old Time; and here the peacock spread 
 
 His gold-green glory, shutting out the sun. 
 154
 
 TJie Sundial. 
 
 The tardy shade moved forward to the noon; 
 
 Betwixt the paths a dainty Beauty slept, 
 That swung a flower, and, smiling, hummed a tune, 
 
 Before whose feet a barking spaniel leapt. 
 
 O'er her blue dress an endless blossom strayed; 
 
 About her tendril-curls the sunlight shone ; 
 And round her train the tiger-lilies swayed, 
 
 Like courtiers bowing till the queen be gone. 
 
 She leaned upon the slab a little while, 
 
 Then drew a jewelled pencil from her zone, 
 
 Scribbled a something with a frolic smile, 
 Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the stone. 
 
 The shade slipped on, no swifter than the snail ; 
 
 There came a second lady to the place, 
 Dove-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and pale 
 
 An inner beauty shining from her face. 
 
 She, as if listless with a lonely love, 
 
 Straying among the alleys with a book, 
 
 Herrick or Herbert, watched the circling dove, 
 And spied the tiny letter in the nook. 
 155
 
 The Sundial. 
 
 Then, like to one who confirmation found 
 Of some dread secret half-accounted true, 
 
 Who knew what hands and hearts the letter bound, 
 And argued loving commerce 'twixt the two, 
 
 She bent her fair young forehead on the stone ; 
 
 The dark shade gloomed an instant on her head ; 
 And 'twixt her taper-fingers pearled and shone 
 
 The single tear that tear-worn eyes will shed. 
 
 The shade slipped onward to the falling gloom ; 
 
 There came a soldier gallant in her stead, 
 Swinging a beaver with a swaling plume, 
 
 A ribboned love-lock rippling from his head ; 
 
 Blue-eyed, frank-faced, with clear and open brow, 
 Scar-seamed a little, as the women love ; 
 
 So kindly fronted that you marvelled how 
 
 The frequent sword-hilt had so frayed his glove ; 
 
 Who switched at Psyche plunging in the sun ; 
 
 Uncrowned three lilies with a backward swinge ; 
 And standing somewhat widely, like to one 
 
 More used to "Boot and Saddle" than to cringe
 
 The Sundial. 
 
 As courtiers do, but gentleman withal, 
 Took out the note ; held it as one who feared 
 
 The fragile thing he held would slip and fall ; 
 Read and re-read, pulling his tawny beard; 
 
 Kissed it, I think, and hid it in his breast ; 
 
 Laughed softly in a flattered happy way, 
 Arranged the broidered baldrick on his chest, 
 
 And sauntered past, singing a roundelay. 
 
 The shade crept forward through the dying glow: 
 There came no more nor dame nor cavalier; 
 
 But for a little time the brass will show 
 A small gray spot the record of a tear.
 
 AN UNFINISHED SONG. 
 
 ' Cant t it Deo qui vivit Deo." 
 
 YES, he was well-nigh gone and near his rest. 
 
 The year could not renew him ; nor the cry 
 Of building nightingales about the nest ; 
 
 Nor that soft freshness of the May-wind's sigh 
 
 That fell before the garden scents, and died 
 Between the ampler leafage of the trees : 
 
 All these he knew not, lying open-eyed, 
 
 Deep in a dream that was not pain nor ease, 
 
 But death not yet. Outside a woman talked 
 His wife she was whose clicking needles sped 
 
 To faded phrases of complaint that balked 
 My rising words of comfort. Overhead,
 
 An Unfinished Song. 
 
 A cage that hung amid the jasmine stars 
 Trembled a little, and a blossom dropped. 
 
 Then notes came pouring through the wicker bars, 
 Climbed half a rapid arc of song, and stopped. 
 
 " Is it a thrush ? " I asked. "A thrush," she said. 
 " That was Will's tune. Will taught him that before 
 He left the doorway settle for his bed, 
 Sick as you see, and could n't teach him more. 
 
 " He 'd bring his Bible here o' nights, would Will, 
 
 Following the light, and whiles when it was dark 
 And days were warm, he 'd sit there whistling still, 
 Teaching the bird. He whistled like a lark." 
 
 Jack ! Jack ! " A joyous flutter stirred the cage, 
 Shaking the blossoms down. The bird began ; 
 
 The woman turned again to want and wage, 
 And in the inner chamber sighed the man. 
 
 How clear the song was ! Musing as I heard, 
 My fancies wandered from the droning wife 
 
 To sad comparison of man and bird, 
 The broken song, the uncompleted life, 
 '59
 
 An Unfinished Song. 
 
 That seemed a broken song ; and of the two, 
 
 My thought a moment deemed the bird more 
 blest, 
 
 That, when the sun shone, sang the notes it knew, 
 Without desire or knowledge of the rest. 
 
 Nay, happier man. For him futurity 
 
 Still hides a hope that this his earthly praise 
 
 Finds heavenly end, for surely will not He, 
 Solver of all, above his Flower of Days, 
 
 Teach him the song that no one living knows ? 
 
 Let the man die, with that half-chant of his, 
 What Now discovers not Hereafter shows, 
 
 And God will surely teach him more than this. 
 
 Again the Bird. I turned, and passed along; 
 But Time and Death, Eternity and Change, 
 Talked with me ever, and the climbing song 
 
 Rose in my hearing, beautiful and strange. 
 1 60
 
 THE CHILD-MUSICIAN. 
 
 HE had played for his lordship's levee, 
 He had played for her ladyship's whim, 
 
 Till the poor little head was heavy, 
 And the poor little brain would swim. 
 
 And the face grew peaked and eerie, 
 And the large eyes strange and bright, 
 
 And they said too late " He is weary ! 
 He shall rest for, at least, To-night!" 
 
 But at dawn, when the birds were waking, 
 As they watched in the silent room, 
 
 With the sound of a strained cord breaking, 
 A something snapped in the gloom. 
 
 T was a string of his violoncello, 
 
 And they heard him stir in his bed : 
 " Make room for a tired little fellow, 
 
 Kind God ! " was the last that he said. 
 161
 
 THE CRADLE. 
 
 How steadfastly she 'd worked at it ! 
 
 How lovingly had drest 
 With all her would-be-mother's wit 
 
 That little rosy nest ! 
 
 How longingly she 'd hung on it ! 
 It sometimes seemed, she said, 
 
 There lay beneath its coverlet 
 A little sleeping head. 
 
 He came at last, the tiny guest, 
 Ere bleak December fled ; 
 
 That rosy nest he never prest ... 
 Her coffin was his bed. 
 162
 
 BEFORE SEDAN. 
 
 The dead hand clasped a letter." 
 
 SPECIAL CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 HERE, in this leafy place, 
 
 Quiet he lies, 
 Cold, with his sightless face 
 
 Turned to the skies ; 
 'T is but another dead; 
 All you can say is said. 
 
 Carry his body hence, 
 
 Kings must have slaves; 
 
 Kings climb to eminence 
 Over men's graves : 
 
 So this man's eye is dim ; 
 
 Throw the earth over him. 
 
 What was the white you touched, 
 There, at his side ? 
 163
 
 Before Sedan. 
 
 Paper his hand had clutched 
 
 Tight ere he died ; 
 Message or wish, may be ; 
 Smooth the folds out and see. 
 
 Hardly the worst of us 
 
 Here could have smiled !- 
 Only the tremulous 
 
 Words of a child ; 
 Prattle, that has for stops 
 Just a few ruddy drops. 
 
 Look. She is sad to miss, 
 Morning and night, 
 
 His her dead father's kiss; 
 Tries to be bright, 
 
 Good to mamma, and sweet 
 
 That is all. " Marguerite." 
 
 Ah, if beside the dead 
 Slumbered the pain ! 
 
 Ah, if the hearts that bled 
 Slept with the slain ! 
 
 If the grief died ; But no ; 
 
 Death will not have it so. 
 164
 
 THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE. 
 
 A SKETCH IN A CEMETERY. 
 
 OUT from the City's dust and roar, 
 
 You wandered through the open door; 
 
 Paused at a plaything pail and spade 
 
 Across a tiny hillock laid ; 
 
 Then noted on your dexter side 
 
 Some moneyed mourner's "love or pride"; 
 
 And so, beyond a hawthorn-tree, 
 
 Showering its rain of rosy bloom 
 
 Alike on low and lofty tomb, 
 
 You came upon it suddenly. 
 
 How strange ! The very grasses' growth 
 Around it seemed forlorn and loath ; 
 The very ivy seemed to turn 
 
 Askance that wreathed the neighbour urn. 
 165
 
 The Forgotten Grave. 
 
 The slab had sunk ; the head declined. 
 And left the rails a wreck behind. 
 No name ; you traced a " 6," a " 7," 
 Part of "affliction" and of " Heaven" ; 
 And then, in letters sharp and clear, 
 You read O Irony austere ! 
 " The/ 1 lost to Sight, to Memory dear? 
 166
 
 MY LANDLADY. 
 
 A SMALL brisk woman, capped with many a bow ; 
 " Yes," so she says, " and younger, too, than some," 
 Who bids me, bustling, " God speed," when I go, 
 And gives me, rustling, " Welcome " when I come. 
 
 " Ay, sir, 't is cold, and freezing hard, they say ; 
 
 I 'd like to give that hulking brute a hit 
 Beating his horse in such a shameful way ! 
 Step here, sir, till your fire 's blazed up a bit." 
 
 A musky haunt of lavender and shells, 
 
 Quaint-figured Chinese monsters, toys, and trays 
 A life's collection where each object tells 
 
 Of fashions gone and half-forgotten ways : 
 
 A glossy screen, where wide-mouth dragons ramp ; 
 
 A vexed inscription in a sampler-frame ; 
 A shade of beads upon a red-capped lamp ; 
 
 A child's mug graven with a golden name ; 
 ,67
 
 My Landlady. 
 
 A pictured ship, with full-blown canvas set ; 
 
 A cord, with sea-weed twisted to a wreath, 
 Circling a silky curl as black as jet, 
 
 With yellow writing faded underneath. 
 
 Looking, I sink within the shrouded chair, 
 And note the objects slowly, one by one, 
 
 And light at last upon a portrait there, 
 
 Wide-collared, raven -haired. " Yes, 't is my son ! " 
 
 " Where is he ? " " Ah, sir, he is dead my boy ! 
 
 Nigh ten long years ago in 'sixty-three; 
 He 's always living in my head my boy ! 
 He was left drowning in the Southern Sea. 
 
 " There were two souls washed overboard, they said, 
 And one the waves brought back ; but he was left 
 They saw him place the life-buoy o'er his head ; 
 The sea was running wildly ; he was left. 
 
 " He was a strong, strong swimmer. Do you know, 
 
 When the wind whistled yesternight, I cried, 
 And prayed to God . . . though 't was so long ago, 
 He did not struggle much before he died. 
 1 68
 
 My Landlady. 
 
 " 'T was his third voyage. That 's the box he 
 
 brought, 
 
 Or would have brought my poor deserted boy ! 
 
 And these the words the agents sent they thought 
 
 That money, perhaps, could make my loss a joy. 
 
 " Look, sir, I 've something here that I prize more : 
 
 This is a fragment of the poor lad's coat, 
 That other clutched him as the wave went o'er, 
 And this stayed in his hand. That 's what they 
 wrote. 
 
 " Well, well, 't is done. My story 's shocking you ; 
 
 Grief is for them that have both time and wealth : 
 
 We can't mourn much, who have much work to do ; 
 
 Your fire is bright. Thank God, I have my 
 
 health!" 
 
 169
 
 BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 
 
 Miss PEACOCK 's called." And who demurs ? 
 
 Not I who write, for certain ; 
 If praise be due, one sure prefers 
 That some such face as fresh as hers 
 
 Should come before the curtain. 
 
 And yet, most strange to say, I find 
 (E'en bards are sometimes prosy) 
 Her presence here but brings to mind 
 That undistinguished crowd behind 
 For whom life 's not so rosy. 
 
 The pleased young premier led her on, 
 
 But where are all the others ? 
 Where is that nimble servant John ? 
 And where 's the comic Uncle gone ? 
 
 And where that best of Mothers ? 
 
 Where is "Sir Lumley Leycester, Bart."? 
 
 And where the crafty Cousin ? 
 170
 
 Before the Curtain. 
 
 That man may have a kindly heart, 
 And yet each night ('t is in the part) 
 Must poison half-a-dozen ! 
 
 Where is the cool Detective, he 
 
 Should surely be applauded ? 
 The Lawyer, who refused the fee ? 
 The Wedding Guests (in number three) ?- 
 
 Why are they all defrauded ? 
 
 The men who worked the cataract ? 
 
 The plush- clad carpet lifters ? 
 Where is the countless host, in fact, 
 Whose cue is not to speak, but act, 
 
 The "supers" and the shifters? 
 
 Think what a crowd whom none recall, 
 
 Unsung, unpraised, unpitied ; 
 Women for whom no bouquets fall, 
 And men whose names no galleries bawl,- 
 The Great un-Benefit-ed ! 
 
 Ah, Reader, ere you turn the page, 
 
 I leave you this for Moral : 
 Remember those who tread Life's stage 
 With weary feet and scantest wage, 
 And ne'er a leaf for laurel ! 
 171
 
 A NIGHTINGALE IN KENSINGTON 
 GARDENS. 
 
 THEY paused, the cripple in the chair, 
 More bent with pain than age ; 
 
 The mother with her lines of care ; 
 The many-buttoned page ; 
 
 The noisy, red-cheeked nursery-maid, 
 With straggling train of three ; 
 
 The Frenchman with his frogs and braid ; 
 All, curious, paused to see, 
 
 If possible, the small, dusk bird 
 That from the almond bough, 
 Had poured the joyous chant they heard, 
 
 So suddenly, but now. 
 172
 
 A Nightingale in Kensington Garden. 
 
 And one poor POET stopped and thought 
 
 How many a lonely lay 
 That bird had sung ere fortune brought 
 
 It near the common way, 
 
 Where the crowd hears the note. And then,- 
 
 What birds must sing the song, 
 To whom that hour of listening men 
 
 Could ne'er in life belong ! 
 
 But "Art for Art!" the Poet said, 
 "T is still the Nightingale, 
 That sings where no men's feet will tread, 
 And praise and audience fail."
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
 
 A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS 
 
 WHEN Spring comes laughing 
 
 By vale and hill, 
 By wind-flower walking 
 
 And daffodil, 
 Sing stars of morning, 
 
 Sing morning skies, 
 Sing blue of speedwell, 
 
 And my Love's eyes. 
 
 When comes the Summer, 
 Full-leaved and strong, 
 
 And gay birds gossip 
 The orchard long, 
 
 Sing hid, sweet honey 
 That no bee sips ; 
 
 Sing red, red roses, 
 
 And my Love's lips. 
 177
 
 A Song of tfie Four Seasons. 
 
 When Autumn scatters 
 
 The leaves again, 
 And piled sheaves bury 
 
 The broad-wheeled wain, 
 Sing flutes of harvest 
 
 Where men rejoice; 
 Sing rounds of reapers, 
 
 And my Love's voice. 
 
 But when comes Winter 
 
 With hail and storm, 
 And red fire roaring 
 
 And ingle warm, 
 Sing first sad going 
 
 Of friends that part ; 
 Then sing glad meeting 
 
 And my Love's heart. 
 178
 
 THE PARADOX OF TIME. 
 
 (A VARIATION ON RONSARD.) 
 
 14 Le temps fen va, U temps s^en va, ma dame! 
 Las ! k temps non: mats NOUS nous en allons /" 
 
 TIME goes, you say ? Ah no ! 
 Alas, Time stays, we go ; 
 
 Or else, were this not so, 
 What need to chain the hours, 
 For Youth were always ours ? 
 
 Time goes, you say ? ah no I 
 
 Ours is the eyes' deceit 
 Of men whose flying feet 
 
 Lead through some landscape low ; 
 We pass, and think we see 
 The earth's fixed surface flee : 
 
 Alas, Time stays, we go ! 
 179
 
 The Paradox of Time. 
 
 Once in the days of old, 
 Your locks were curling gold, 
 
 And mine had shamed the crow 
 Now, in the self-same stage, 
 We 've reached the silver age ; 
 
 Time goes, you say ? ah no ! 
 
 Once, when my voice was strong, 
 I filled the woods with song 
 
 To praise your "rose" and "snow 1 
 My bird, that sang, is dead ; 
 Where are your roses fled ? 
 
 Alas, Time stays, we go I 
 
 See, in what traversed ways, 
 What backward Fate delays 
 
 The hopes we used to know ; 
 Where are our old desires ? 
 Ah, where those vanished fires ? 
 
 Time goes, you say ? ah no ! 
 
 How far, how far, O Sweet, 
 The past behind our feet 
 
 Lies in the even-glow ! 
 Now, on the forward way, 
 Let us fold our hands and pray; 
 
 Alas, Time stays, we go 1 
 180
 
 TO A GREEK GIRL. 
 (AFTER A WEEK OF LANDOR'S "HELLENICS.") 
 
 WITH breath of thyme and bees that hum, 
 Across the years you seem to come, 
 Across the years with nymph-like head, 
 And wind-blown brows unfilleted ; 
 A girlish shape that slips the bud 
 
 In lines of unspoiled symmetry ; 
 A girlish shape that stirs the blood 
 
 With pulse of Spring, Autonoe ! 
 
 Where'er you pass, where'er you go, 
 I hear the pebbly rillet flow ; 
 Where'er you go, where'er you pass, 
 There comes a gladness on the grass ; 
 You bring blithe airs where'er you tread, 
 Blithe airs that blow from down and sea ; 
 You wake in me a Pan not dead, 
 
 Not wholly dead ! Autonoe 1 
 181
 
 To a Greek Girl. 
 
 How sweet with you on some green sod 
 To wreathe the rustic garden-god ; 
 How sweet beneath the chestnut's shade 
 With you to weave a basket -braid ; 
 To watch across the stricken chords 
 
 Your rosy-twinkling fingers flee; 
 Or woo you in soft woodland words, 
 
 With woodland pipe, Autonoe ! 
 
 In vain, in vain ! The years divide ; 
 Where Thamis rolls a murky tide, 
 I sit and fill my painful reams, 
 And see you only in my dreams ; 
 A vision, like Alcestis, brought 
 
 From under-lands of Memory, 
 A dream of Form in days of Thought, 
 
 A dream, a dream, Autonoe 1 
 182
 
 THE DEATH OF PROCRIS. 
 
 A VERSION SUGGESTED BY THE SO-NAMED PICTURE OF 
 PIERO DI COSIMO, IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY. 
 
 PROCRIS, the nymph, had wedded Cephalus ; 
 He, till the spring had warmed to slow-winged days 
 Heavy with June, untired and amorous, 
 Named her his love; but now, in unknown ways, 
 His heart was gone; and evermore his gaze 
 Turned from her own, and ever farther ranged 
 His woodland war ; while she, in dull amaze, 
 Beholding with the hours her husband changed, 
 Sighed for his lost caress, by some hard god estranged 
 
 So, on a day, she rose and found him not. 
 Alone, with wet, sad eye, she watched the shade 
 Brighten below a soft-rayed sun that shot 
 Arrows of light through all the deep-leaved glade ; 
 Then, with weak hands, she knotted up the braid 
 183
 
 The Death of Procris. 
 
 Of her brown hair, and o'er her shoulders cast 
 Her crimson weed; with faltering fingers made 
 Her golden girdle's clasp to join, and past 
 Down to the trackless wood, full pale and overcast. 
 
 And all day long her slight spear devious flew, 
 And harmless swerved her arrows from their aim, 
 For ever, as the ivory bow she drew, 
 Before her ran the still unwounded game. 
 Then, at the last, a hunter's cry there came, 
 And, lo, a hart that panted with the chase, 
 Thereat her cheek was lightened as with flame, 
 And swift she gat her to a leafy place, 
 Thinking, " I yet may chance unseen to see his face. ' 
 
 Leaping he went, this hunter Cephalus, 
 Bent in his hand his cornel bow he bare, 
 Supple he was, round-limbed and vigorous, 
 Fleet as his dogs, a lean Laconian pair. 
 He, when he spied the brown of Procris' hair 
 Move in the covert, deeming that apart 
 Some fawn lay hidden, loosed an arrow there ; 
 Nor cared to turn and seek the speeded dart, 
 Bounding above the fern, fast following up the hart. 
 
 But Procris lay among the white wind-flowers, 
 Shot in the throat. From out the little wound 
 184
 
 The Death of Procris. 
 
 The slow blood drained, as drops in autumn showers 
 Drip from the leaves upon the sodden ground. 
 None saw her die but Lelaps, the swift hound, 
 That watched her dumbly with a wistful fear, 
 Till, at the dawn, the horned wood-men found 
 And bore her gently on a sylvan bier, 
 To lie beside the sea, with many an uncouth tear.
 
 THE PRAYER OF THE SWINE TO CIRCE. 
 
 HUDDLING they came, with shag sides caked ol 
 
 mire, 
 With hoofs fresh sullied from the troughs o'er- 
 
 turned, 
 
 With wrinkling snouts, yet eyes in which desire 
 Of some strange thing unutterably burned, 
 Unquenchable ; and still where'er She turned 
 They rose about her, striving each o'er each, 
 With restless, fierce importuning that yearned 
 Through those brute masks some piteous tale to 
 
 teach, 
 Yet lacked the words thereto, denied the power of 
 
 speech. 
 
 For these Eurylochus alone escaping 
 In truth, that small exploring band had been, 
 Whom wise Odysseus, dim precaution shaping, 
 Ever at heart, of peril unforeseen, 
 
 Had sent inland; whom then the islet-Queen, 
 1 86
 
 Ike Prayer of the Swine to Circe. 
 
 The fair disastrous daughter of the Sun, 
 Had turned to likeness of the beast unclean, 
 With evil wand transforming one by one 
 To shapes of loathly swine, imbruted and undone. 
 
 But " the men's minds remained," and these for eve 
 Made hungry suppliance through the fire -red eyes ; 
 Still searching aye, with impotent endeavour, 
 To find, if yet, in any look, there lies 
 A saving hope, or if they might surprise 
 In that cold face soft pity's spark concealed, 
 Which she, still scorning, evermore denies ; 
 Nor was there in her any ruth revealed 
 To whom with such mute speech and dumb words they 
 appealed. 
 
 What hope is ours what hope ! To find no mercy 
 After much war, and many travails done ? 
 Ah, kinder far than thy fell philtres, Circe, 
 The ravening Cyclops and the Lcestrigon ! 
 And 0, thrice cursed be Laertes" son, 
 By whom, at last, we watch the days decline 
 With no fair ending of the quest begun, 
 Condemned in styes to weary and to pine 
 And with men's hearts to beat through this foul front oj 
 swine ! 
 
 187
 
 The Prayer of tJte Swine to Circe. 
 
 For us not now, -for us, alas / no more 
 The old green glamour of the glancing sea ; 
 For us not now tJie laughter of the oar, 
 Ihc strong-ribbed keel wherein our comrades bt ; 
 Not now, at even, any more shall we, 
 By low-browed banks and reedy river places , 
 Watch the beast hurry and tJie wild fowl flee ; 
 Or steering shoreward, in the upland spaces 
 Have sight of curling smoke and fair-skinned foreign 
 faces. 
 
 Alas for us ! -for whom the columned houses 
 We left afore-time, cheerless must abide ; 
 Cheerless the hearth where now no guest carouses,* 
 No minstrel raises song at eventide ; 
 And O, more cheerless than aught else beside, 
 The wistful hearts with heavy longing full j 
 TJie wife that watched us on the waning tide, 
 The sire wJwse eyes with weariness are dull, 
 The mother whose slow tears fall on the carded wool. 
 
 If swine we be, if we indeed be swine, 
 Daughter of Per s^, make us swine indeed, 
 Well-pleased on litter-straw to lie supine, 
 Well-pleased on mast and acorn-shales to feed, 
 Stirred by all instincts of the bestial breed; 
 188
 
 The Prayer of the Swine to Circe. 
 
 But O Unmerciful ! O Pitiless ! 
 Leave us not thus with sick men's hearts to bleed ! 
 To waste long days in yearning, dumb distress 
 And memory of things gone, and utter hopelessness ! 
 
 Leave us at least, if not the things we were. 
 At least consentient to the thing we be ; 
 Not hapless doomed to loathe the forms we bear, 
 And senseful roll in senseless savagery ; 
 For surely cursed abwe all cursed are we, 
 And surely this the bitterest of ill ; 
 To feel the old aspirings fair and free, 
 Become blind motions of a powerless will 
 Through swine-like frames dispersed to swine-like issue* 
 still. 
 
 But make us men again, for that thou may'st ! 
 Yea, make us men, Enchantress, and restore 
 These grovelling shapes, degraded and debased, 
 To fair embodiments of men once more ; 
 Yea, by all men that ever woman bore / 
 Yea, e'en by him hereafter born in pain, 
 Shall draw sustainment from thy bosom 1 s core, 
 O'er whom thy face yet kindly shall remain, 
 
 And find its like therein, make thou us men again .' 
 189
 
 TJie Prayer of the Swine to Circe. 
 
 Make thou us men again, if men but groping 
 That dark Hereafter -which th* Olympians keep ; 
 Make thou us men again, if men but hoping 
 Behind death's doors security of sleep ; 
 For yet to laugh is somewhat, and to weep ; 
 To feel delight of living, and to plough 
 The salt-blown acres of the shoreless deep ; 
 Better, -yea better far all these than bow 
 Foul faces to foul earth, and yearn as we do now / 
 
 So they in speech unsyllabled. But She, 
 The fair-tressed Goddess, born to be their bane, 
 Uplifting straight her wand of ivory, 
 Compelled them groaning to the styes again ; 
 Where they in hopeless bitterness were fain 
 To rend the oaken woodwork as before, 
 And tear the troughs in impotence of pain, 
 Not knowing, they, -that even at the door 
 
 Divine Odysseus stood, as Hermes told of yore. 
 190
 
 A CASE OF CAMEOS. 
 (DIXAINS.) 
 
 AGATE. 
 (TJie Power of Love.) 
 
 FIRST, in an Agate-stone, a Centaur strong, 
 With square man-breasts and hide of dapple dun, 
 His brown arms bound behind him with a thong, 
 On strained croup strove to free himself from one 
 A bolder rider than Bellerophon. 
 For, on his back, by some strange power of art, 
 There sat a laughing Boy with bow and dart, 
 Who drove him where he would, and driving him, 
 With that barbed toy would make him rear and start 
 
 To this was writ " World- victor " on the rim. 
 191
 
 A Case of Cameos. 
 
 CHALCEDONY. 
 
 (The TJiefts of Mercury.) 
 THE next in legend bade " Beware of show! " 
 T was graven this on pale Chalcedony. 
 Here great Apollo, with unbended bow, 
 His quiver hard by on a laurel tree, 
 For some new theft was rating Mercury. 
 Who stood with downcast eyes, and feigned distress, 
 As daring not, for utter guiltiness, 
 To meet that angry voice and aspect joined. 
 His very heel-wings drooped; but yet, not less, 
 His backward hand the Sun-God's shafts purloined. 
 
 SARDONYX. 
 
 (TJif Song of Orpheus.) 
 
 THEN, on a Sardonyx, the man of Thrace, 
 The voice supreme that through Hell's portals stole> 
 With carved white lyre and glorious song-lit face, 
 (Too soon, alas! on Hebrus* wave to roll!) 
 Played to the beasts, from a great elm-tree bole. 
 And lo ! with half-shut eyes the leopard spread 
 His lissome length ; and deer with gentle tread 
 Came through the trees ; and, from a nearer spring, 
 The prick-eared rabbit paused ; while overhead 
 
 The stock-dove drifted downward, fluttering. 
 192
 
 A Case of Cameos. 
 
 AMETHYST. 
 
 (The Crowning of Silenus.) 
 NEXT came an Amethyst, the grape in hue. 
 On a mock throne, by fresh excess disgraced, 
 With heavy head, and thyrsus held askew, 
 The Youths, in scorn, had dull Silenus placed, 
 And o'er him "King of Topers" they had traced. 
 Yet but a King of Sleep he seemed at best, 
 With wine-bag cheeks that bulged upon his breast, 
 And vat-like paunch distent from his carouse. 
 Meanwhile, his ass, by no respect represt, 
 Munched at the wreath upon her Master's brows. 
 
 BERYL. 
 
 (The Sirens.) 
 
 LASTLY, with "Pleasure" was a Beryl graven, 
 Clear-hued, divine. Thereon the Sirens sung. 
 What time, beneath, by rough rock-bases caven, 
 And jaw-like rifts where many a green bone clung, 
 The strong flood-tide, in-rushing, coiled and swung. 
 Then, in the offing, on the lift o' the sea, 
 A tall ship drawing shoreward, helplessly. 
 For, from the prow, e'en now the rowers leap 
 Headlong, nor seek from that sweet fate to flee . . . 
 Ah me, those Women-witches of the Deep ! 
 '93
 
 THE SICK MAN AND THE BIRDS. 
 
 SPRING, art thou come, O Spring! 
 
 I am too sick for words ; 
 How hast thou heart to sing, 
 
 O Spring, with all thy birds ? 
 
 MERULA. 
 
 I sing for joy to see again 
 The merry leaves along the lane, 
 
 The little bud grown ripe ; 
 And look, my love upon the bough ! 
 Hark, how she calleth to me now, 
 "Pipe! pipe!" 
 
 ./EGROTUS. 
 Ah ! weary is the sun : 
 
 Love is an idle thing ; 
 But, Bird, thou restless one, 
 
 What ails thee, wandering ? 
 194
 
 The Sick Man and the Birds. 
 
 HIRUNDO. 
 
 By shore and sea I come and go 
 To seek I know not what ; and lo f 
 
 On no man's eaves I sit 
 But voices bid me rise once more, 
 To flit again by sea and shore, 
 Flit! Flit I 
 
 ^EGROTUS. 
 This is Earth's bitter cup : 
 
 Only to seek, not know. 
 But Thou, that strivest up, 
 
 Why dost thou carol so ? 
 
 ALAUDA. 
 
 A secret Spirit gifteth me 
 With song, and wind that lifteth me, 
 
 A Spirit for whose sake, 
 Striving amain to reach the sky, 
 Still to the old dark earth I cry, 
 
 "Wake! wake!" 
 
 ./EGROTUS. 
 My hope hath lost its wing. 
 
 Thou, that to Night dost call, 
 How hast thou heart to sing 
 Thy tears made musical ? 
 195
 
 The Sick Man and ttie Birds. 
 
 PHILOMELA. 
 
 Alas for me ! a dry desire 
 Is all my song, a waste of fire 
 
 That will not fade nor fail ; 
 To me, dim shapes of ancient crime 
 Moan through the windy ways of time, 
 "Wail! wail!" 
 
 This is the sick man's song, 
 Mournful, in sooth, and fit ; 
 
 Unrest that cries " How long ! 
 And the Night answers it. 
 196
 
 A FLOWER SONG OF ANGIOLA. 
 
 DOWN where the garden grows, 
 
 Gay as a banner, 
 Spake to her mate the Rose 
 
 After this manner : 
 u We are the first of flowers, 
 
 Plain-land or hilly, 
 All reds and whites are ours, 
 
 Are they not, Lily ? " 
 
 ^ Then to the flowers I spake,- - 
 " Watch ye my Lady 
 Gone to the leafy brake, 
 
 Silent and shady ; 
 When I am near to her, 
 
 Lily, she knows ; 
 How I am dear to her, 
 
 Look to it, Rose." 
 197
 
 A Flowtr Song of Angiold. 
 
 Straightway the Blue-bell stooped, 
 
 Paler for pride, 
 Down where the Violet drooped, 
 
 Shy, at her side : 
 " Sweetheart, save me and you, 
 
 Where has the summer kist 
 Flowers of as fair a hue, 
 
 Turkis or Amethyst?" 
 
 Therewith I laughed aloud, 
 
 Spake on this wise, 
 ** O little flowers so proud, 
 
 Have ye seen eyes 
 Change through the blue ir idem, 
 
 Change till the mere 
 Loving that grew in them 
 
 Turned to a tear ? 
 
 " Flowers, ye are bright of hue, 
 
 Delicate, sweet ; 
 Flowers, and the sight of you 
 
 Lightens men's feet ; 
 Yea ; but her worth to me, 
 
 Flowerets, even, 
 Sweetening the earth to me, 
 Sweeteneth heaven. 
 198
 
 A Flower Song of Angiola. 
 
 " This, then, O Flowers, I sing ; 
 
 God, when He made ye 
 Made yet a fairer thing 
 
 Making my Lady; 
 Fashioned her tenderly, 
 
 Giving all weal to her; 
 Girdle ye slenderly, 
 
 Go to her, kneel to her, 
 
 " Saying, He sendeth us, 
 
 He the most dutiful, 
 Meetly he endeth us, 
 
 Maiden most beautiful 1 
 Let us get rest of you, 
 
 Sweet, in your breast ; - 
 Die, being prest of you, 
 Die, being blest"' 
 199
 
 A SONG OF ANGIOLA IN HEAVEN 
 
 FLOWERS, that have died upon my Sweet 
 Lulled by the rhythmic dancing beat 
 
 Of her young bosom under you, 
 Now will I show you such a thing 
 As never, through thick buds of Spring, 
 
 Betwixt the daylight and the dew, 
 The Bird whose being no man knows 
 
 The voice that waketh all night through, 
 Tells to the Rose. 
 
 For lo, a garden-place I found, 
 
 Well filled of leaves, and stilled of sound, 
 
 Well flowered, with red fruit marvellous ; 
 And 'twixt the shining trunks would flit 
 Tall knights and silken maids, or sit 
 
 With faces bent and amorous j 
 There, in the heart thereof, and crowned 
 
 With woodbine and amaracus, 
 My Love I found. 
 200
 
 A Song of Angiola in Heaven. 
 
 Alone she walked, ah, well I wis, 
 My heart leapt up for joy of this ! 
 
 Then when I called to her her name,- 
 The name, that like a pleasant thing 
 Men's lips remember, murmuring, 
 
 At once across the sward she came, 
 Full fain she seemed, my own dear maid, 
 
 And asked ever as she came, 
 
 " Where hast thou stayed ? " 
 
 " Where hast thou stayed ? " she asked as though 
 The long years were an hour ago ; 
 But I spake not, nor answered, 
 For, looking in her eyes, I saw, 
 A light not lit of mortal law ; 
 
 And in her clear cheek's changeless red, 
 And sweet, unshaken speaking found 
 That in this place the Hours were dead, 
 And Time was bound. 
 
 " This is well done," she said, " in thee, 
 O Love, that thou art come to me, 
 
 To this green garden glorious; 
 Now truly shall our life be sped 
 In joyance and all goodlihed, 
 For here all things are fair to us, 
 201
 
 A Song of Angiola in Heaven. 
 
 And none with burden is oppressed, 
 And none is poor or piteous, 
 For here is Rest. 
 
 " No formless Future blurs the sky ; 
 Men mourn not here, with dull dead eye, 
 
 By shrouded shapes of Yesterday; 
 Betwixt the Coming and the Past 
 The flawless life hangs fixen fast 
 
 In one unwearying To-Day, 
 That darkens not ; for Sin is shriven, 
 Death from the doors is thrust away, 
 And here is Heaven." 
 
 At " Heaven " she ceased ; and lifted up 
 Her fair head like a flower-cup, 
 
 With rounded mouth, and eyes aglow ; 
 Then set I lips to hers, and felt, 
 Ah, God, the hard pain fade and melt, 
 
 And past things change to painted show ; 
 The song of quiring birds outbroke ; 
 
 The lit leaves laughed, sky shook, and lo, 
 I swooned, and woke. 
 
 And now, O Flowers, 
 
 Ye that indeed are dead, 
 202
 
 A Song of Angiola in Heaven. 
 
 Now for all waiting hours, 
 
 Well am I comforted ; 
 For of a surety, now, I see, 
 
 That, without dim distress 
 
 Of tears, or weariness, 
 My Lady, verily, awaiteth me; 
 So that until with Her I be, 
 
 For my dear Lady's sake 
 
 I am right fain to make 
 Out from my pain a pillow, and to take 
 Grief for a golden garment unto me ; 
 
 Knowing that I, at last, shall stand 
 
 In that green garden-land, 
 And, in the holding of my dear Love's hand 
 
 Forget the grieving and the misery. 
 203
 
 THE DYING OF TANNEGUY DU BOIS. 
 
 " En los nidas antano no hay pajaros hogano" 
 
 LAST WORDS OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 YEA, I am passed away, I think, from this ; 
 
 Nor helps me herb, nor any leechcraft here, 
 But lift me hither the sweet cross to kiss, 
 
 And witness ye, I go without a fear. 
 Yea, I am sped, and never more shall see, 
 
 As once I dreamed, the show of shield and crest, 
 Gone southward to the fighting by the sea; 
 
 Thtrt is no bird in any last year's nest! 
 
 Yea, with me now all dreams are done, I ween, 
 Grown faint and unremembered ; voices call 
 
 High up, like misty warders dimly seen 
 
 Moving at morn on some Burgundian wall ; 
 
 And all things swim as when the charger stands 
 Quivering between the knees, and East and West 
 
 Are filled with flash of scarves and waving hands ; 
 
 There is tw bird in any last year's nest/ 
 204
 
 The Dying of Tanneguy du Bois. 
 
 [ s she a dream I left in Aquitaine ? 
 
 My wife Giselle, who never spoke a word, 
 Although I knew her mouth was drawn with pain, 
 
 Her eyelids hung with tears; and though I heard 
 The strong sob shake her throat, and saw the cord 
 
 Her necklace made about it ; she that prest 
 To watch me trotting till I reached the ford ; 
 
 There is no bird in any last year's nest ! 
 
 Ah ! I had hoped, God wot, had longed that she 
 
 Should watch me from the little-lit tourelle, 
 Me, coming riding by the windy lea 
 
 Me, coming back again to her, Giselle; 
 Yea, I had hoped once more to hear him call, 
 
 The curly-pate, who, rushen lance in rest, 
 Stormed at the lilies by the orchard wall ; 
 
 There is no bird in any last year's nest ! 
 
 But how, my Masters, ye are wrapt in gloom ! 
 
 This Death will come, and whom he loves he cleaves 
 Sheer through the steel and leather; hating whom 
 
 He smites in shameful wise behind the greaves. 
 T is a fair time with Dennis and the Saints, 
 
 And weary work to age, and want for rest, 
 When harness groweth heavy, and one faints, 
 
 With no bird left in any last year's nest! 
 205
 
 The Dying of Tanneguy du Boh. 
 
 Give ye good hap, then, all. For me, I lie 
 
 Broken in Christ's sweet hand, with whom shall rest 
 
 To keep me living, now that I must die ; 
 There is no bird in any last year's nest I 
 206
 
 THE MOSQUE OF THE CALIPH. 
 
 UNTO Seyd the vizier spake the Caliph Abdallah : 
 " Now hearken and hear, I am weary, by Allah ! 
 I am faint with the mere over-running of leisure ; 
 I will rouse me and rear up a palace to Pleasure ! " 
 
 To Abdallah the Caliph spake Seyd the vizier : 
 " All faces grow pale if my Lord draweth near ; 
 And the breath of his mouth not a mortal shall scoff 
 
 it; 
 They must bend and obey, by the beard of the 
 
 Prophet!" 
 
 Then the Caliph that heard, with becoming sedate- 
 ness, 
 
 Drew his hand down his beard as he thought of his 
 greatness ; 
 
 Drained out the last bead of the wine in the chalice : 
 
 " I have spoken, O Seyd ; I will build it, my palace ! 
 207
 
 The Mosque of the Caliph. 
 
 " As a drop from the wine where the wine-cup hath 
 
 spilled it, 
 As a gem from the mine, O my Seyd, I will build 
 
 it; 
 
 Without price, without flaw, it shall stand for a token 
 That the word is a law which the Caliph hath 
 
 spoken ! " 
 
 Yet again to the Caliph bent Seyd the vizier : 
 M Who shall reason or rail if my Lord speaketh clear ? 
 Who shall strive with his might ? Let my Lord live 
 
 for ever ! 
 He shall choose him a site by the side of the river." 
 
 Then the Caliph sent forth unto Kiir, unto Yemen, 
 To the South, to the North, for the skilfullest free- 
 men; 
 
 And soon, in a close, where the river breeze fanned it, 
 The basement uprose, as the Caliph had planned it. 
 
 Now the courses were laid and the corner-piece 
 
 fitted; 
 And the butments and set-stones were shapen and 
 
 knitted, 
 
 When lo ! on a sudden the Caliph heard frowning, 
 That the river had swelled, and the workmen were 
 
 drowning. 
 
 208
 
 The Mosque of the Caliph. 
 
 Then the Caliph was stirred and he flushed in his ire 
 
 as 
 
 He sent forth his word from Teheran to Shiraz ; 
 And the workmen came new, and the palace, built 
 
 faster, 
 From the bases up-grew unto arch and pilaster. 
 
 And the groinings were traced, and the arch-heads 
 
 were chasen, 
 
 When lo ! in hot haste there came flying a mason, 
 For a cupola fallen had whelmed half the workmen ; 
 And Hamet the chief had been slain by the Turc'- 
 
 men. 
 
 Then the Caliph's beard curled, and he foamed in his 
 
 rage as 
 Once more his scouts whirled from the Tell to the 
 
 Hedjaz; 
 " Is my word not my word ? " cried the Caliph Ab- 
 
 dallah; 
 " I will build it up yet ... by the aiding of Allah /" 
 
 Though he spoke in his haste like King David before 
 
 him, 
 Yet he felt as he spoke that a something stole o'ei 
 
 him; 
 
 209
 
 Tfie Mosque of tlie Caliph. 
 
 And his soul grew as glass, and his anger passed from 
 
 it 
 As the vapours that pass from the Pool of Mahomet 
 
 And the doom seemed to hang on the palace no 
 longer, 
 
 Like a fountain it sprang when the sources feed 
 stronger; 
 
 Shaft, turret and spire leaped upward, diminished 
 
 Like the flames of a fire, till the palace was fin- 
 ished 1 
 
 Without price, without flaw. And it lay on the azure 
 
 Like a diadem dropped from an emperor's treasure ; 
 
 And the dome of pearl white and the pinnacles 
 fleckless, 
 
 Flashed back to the light, like the gems in a neck- 
 lace. 
 
 So the Caliph looked forth on the turret-tops gilded ; 
 And he said in his pride, " Is my palace not builded ? 
 Who is more great than I that his word can avail if 
 My will is my will," said Abdallah the Caliph. 
 
 But lo 1 with the light he repented his scorning, 
 For an earthquake had shattered the whole ere the 
 morning; 
 
 210
 
 The Mosque of ttte Caliph. 
 
 Of the pearl-coloured dome there was left but a 
 
 ruin, 
 But an arch as a home for the ring-dove to coo in. 
 
 Shaft, turret and spire all were tumbled and crum- 
 bled; 
 
 And the soul of the Caliph within him was humbled ; 
 
 And he bowed in the dust : " There is none great 
 but Allah ! 
 
 I will build Him a Mosque," said the Caliph Ab- 
 dallah. 
 
 And the Caliph has gone to his fathers for ever, 
 But the Mosque that he builded shines still by the 
 
 river ; 
 
 And the pilgrims up-stream to this day slacken sail if 
 They catch the first gleam of the " Mosque of the 
 
 Calirh." 
 
 211
 
 IN THE BELFRY. 
 
 WRITTEN UNDER RETHEL's "DEATH, THE FRIEND." 
 
 TOLL ! Is it night, or daylight yet ? 
 Somewhere the birds seem singing still, 
 Though surely now the sun has set 
 
 Toll ! But who tolls the Bell once more ? 
 He must have climbed the parapet 
 Did I not bar the belfry door ? 
 
 Who can it be ? the Bernardine, 
 That used to pray with me of yore ? 
 No, for the monk was not so lean. 
 
 This must be He who, legend saith, 
 Comes sometimes with a kindlier mien 
 And tolls a knell. This shape is Death. 
 
 Good-bye, old Bell ! So let it be. 
 How strangely now I draw my breath ! 
 What is this haze of light I see ? ... 
 
 IN MANUS TUAS, DOMINE ! 
 2 12
 
 ARS VICTRIX. 
 (IMITATED FROM THE"OPHILE GAUTIER.) 
 
 YES; when the ways oppose 
 When the hard means rebel, 
 
 Fairer the work out-grows, 
 More potent far the spell. 
 
 O Poet, then, forbear 
 The loosely-sandalled verse, 
 
 Choose rather thou to wear 
 The buskin straight and terse ; 
 
 Leave to the tiro's hand 
 The limp and shapeless style ; 
 
 Sec that thy form demand 
 The labour of the file.
 
 Ars Victrix. 
 
 Sculptor, do thou discard 
 The yielding clay, consign 
 
 To Paros marble hard 
 The beauty of thy line ; 
 
 Model thy Satyr's face 
 In bronze of Syracuse ; 
 
 In the veined agate trace 
 The profile of thy Muse. 
 
 Painter, that still must mix 
 But transient tints anew, 
 
 Thou in the furnace fix 
 The firm enamel's hue; 
 
 Let the smooth tile receive 
 Thy dove-drawn Erycine ; 
 
 Thy Sirens blue at eve 
 Coiled in a wash of wine. 
 
 All passes. ART alone 
 Enduring stays to us ; 
 
 The Bust out-lasts the thronc,- 
 Tl-.e Coin, Tiberius ; 
 214
 
 Ars Victrix. 
 
 Even the gods must go ; 
 
 Only the lofty Rhyme 
 Not countless years o'erthrow,- 
 
 Not long array of time. 
 
 Paint, chisel, then, or write ; 
 
 But, that the work surpass, 
 With the hard fashion fight, 
 
 With the resisting mass. 
 215
 
 ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. 
 
 " They are a school to win 
 The fa-r French daughter to learn English in; 
 
 And, graced with her song, 
 To make the language sweet upon her tongue.' 
 
 BKNjoNSON, Underwoods,
 
 As, to the pipe, with, rhythmic feet 
 In windings of some old-world dance, 
 The smiling couples cross and meet, 
 Join hands, and then in line advance, 
 So to these fair old tunes of France, 
 Through all their maze of to and fro, 
 The light-heeled numbers laughing go, 
 Retreat, return, and ere they flee, 
 One moment pause in panting r<no, 
 And seem to say Vos plaudite 1
 
 ROSE-LEAVES. 
 
 (TRIOLETS.) 
 
 " Sans peser. Sans rester" 
 
 A KISS. 
 
 ROSE kissed me to-day. 
 
 Will she kiss me to-morrow? 
 Let it be as it may, 
 Rose kissed me to-day. 
 But the pleasure gives way 
 
 To a savour of sorrow ; 
 Rose kissed me to-day, 
 
 Will she kiss me to-morrow? 
 
 CIRCE. 
 
 IN the School of Coquettes 
 Madam Rose is a scholar : 
 
 O, they fish with all nets 
 
 In the School of Coquettes ! 
 
 When her brooch she forgets 
 'T is to show her new collar ; 
 
 In the School of Coquettes 
 Madam Rose is a scholar ! 
 221
 
 Rose-Leaves. 
 
 A TEAR. 
 
 THERE 's a tear in her eye, 
 
 Such a clear little jewel ! 
 What can make her cry ? 
 There 's a tear in her eye. 
 " Puck has killed a big fly, 
 
 And it 's horribly cruel ; " 
 There 's a tear in her eye, 
 
 Such a clear little jewel ! 
 
 A GREEK GIFT. 
 
 HERE 's a present for Rose, 
 How pleased she is looking ! 
 
 Is it verse ? is it prose ? 
 
 Here 's a present for Rose ! 
 
 "P/ats," "Entrees," and "dts," 
 Why, it 's " Gouffe on Cooking " ! 
 
 Here 's a present for Rose, 
 How pleased she is looking ! 
 
 " URCEUS EXIT." 
 I INTENDED an Ode, 
 
 And it turned to a Sonnet. 
 It began a la mode, 
 I intended an Ode ; 
 But Rose crossed the road 
 
 In her latest new bonnet ; 
 I intended an Ode, 
 
 And it turned to a Sonnet. 
 
 222
 
 "PERSICOS ODI." 
 
 (TRIOLETS.) 
 
 DAVUS, I detest 
 
 Orient display ; 
 Wreaths on linden drest, 
 Davus, I detest. 
 I^et the late rose rest 
 
 Where it fades away : 
 Davus, I detest 
 
 Orient display. 
 
 Naught but myrtle twine 
 Therefore, Boy, for me 
 
 Sitting 'neath the vine, 
 
 Naught but myrtle twine ; 
 
 Fitting to the wine, 
 Not unfitting thee ; 
 
 Naught but myrtle twine 
 
 Therefore, Boy, foi me. 
 223
 
 THE WANDERER. 
 (RONDEL.) 
 
 LOVE comes back to his vacant dwelling, 
 The old, old Love that we knew of yore ! 
 We see him stand by the open door, 
 
 With his great eyes sad, and his bosom swelling. 
 
 He makes as though in our arms repelling, 
 He fain would lie as he lay before ; 
 
 Love comes back to his vacant dwelling, 
 The old, old Love that we knew of yore ! 
 
 Ah, who shall help us from over-telling 
 That sweet forgotten, forbidden lore ! 
 E'en as we doubt in our heart once more, 
 
 With a rush of tears to our eyelids welling, 
 
 Love comes back to his vacant dwelling. 
 224
 
 "VITAS HINNULEO." 
 
 (RONDEL.) 
 
 You shun me, Chloe, wild and shy 
 
 As some stray fawn that seeks its mother 
 
 Through trackless woods. If spring-winds sigh 
 It vainly strives its fears to smother; 
 
 Its trembling knees assail each other 
 When lizards stir the bramble dry ; 
 You shun me, Chloe, wild and shy 
 
 As some stray fawn that seeks its mother. 
 
 And yet no Libyan lion I, 
 
 No ravening thing to rend another; 
 
 Lay by your tears, your tremors by 
 A Husband 's better than a brother ; 
 
 Nor shun me, Chloe, wild and shy 
 As some stray fawn that seeks its mother. 
 225
 
 "ON LONDON STONES." 
 
 (RONDEAU.) 
 
 ON London stones I sometimes sigh 
 For wider green and bluer sky ; 
 Too oft the trembling note is drowned 
 In this huge city's varied sound ; 
 u Pure song is country -born " I cry. 
 
 Then comes the spring, the months go by, 
 The last stray swallows seaward fly ; 
 And I I too ! no more am found 
 On London stones ! 
 
 In vain ! the woods, the fields deny 
 That clearer strain I fain would try ; 
 Mine is an urban Muse, and bound 
 By some strange law to paven ground ; 
 Abroad she pouts ; she is not shy 
 On London stones I 
 226
 
 "FAREWELL, RENOWN!" 
 (RONDEAU.) 
 
 FAREWELL, Renown ! Too fleeting flower, 
 
 That grows a year to last an hour ; 
 Prize of the race's dust and heat, * 
 Too often trodden under feet, --f 
 
 Why should I court your "barren dower"? 
 
 U 
 Nay ; had I Dryden's angry power, 
 
 The thews of Ben, the wind of Gower, 
 Not less my voice should still repeat 
 "Farewell, Renown!" 
 
 0^ 
 
 Farewell ! Because the Muses' bower 
 Is filled with rival brows that lower; 
 
 Because, howe'er his pipe be sweet, 
 
 The Bard, that "pays," must please the street; 
 But most . . . because the grapes are sour, 
 
 Farewell, Renown ! 
 227
 
 "MORE POETS YET!" 
 
 (RONDEAU.) 
 
 " MORE Poets yet ! " I hear him say, 
 Arming his heavy hand to slay ; 
 " Despite my skill and 'swashing blow,' 
 They seem to sprout where'er I go; 
 I killed a host but yesterday 1" 
 
 Slash on, O Hercules ! You may. 
 Your task 's, at best, a Hydra-fray ; 
 And though you cut, not less will grow 
 More Poets yet ! 
 
 Too arrogant ! For who shall stay 
 The first blind motions of the May ? 
 Who shall out-blot the morning glow ?- 
 Or stem the full heart's overflow ? 
 Who ? There will rise, till Time decay, 
 More Poets yet ! 
 228
 
 "WITH PIPE AND FLUTE." 
 
 (RONDEAU.) 
 
 WITH pipe and flute the rustic Pan 
 Of old made music sweet for man ; 
 And wonder hushed the warbling bird, 
 And closer drew the calm-eyed herd, 
 The rolling river slowlier ran. 
 
 Ah ! would, ah ! would, a little span, 
 Some air of Arcady could fan 
 
 This age of ours, too seldom stirred 
 With pipe and flute ! 
 
 But now for gold we plot and plan ; 
 
 And from Beersheba unto Dan, 
 Apollo's self might pass unheard, 
 Or find the night-jar's note preferred ; 
 
 Not so it fared, when time began, 
 
 With pipe and flute ! 
 229
 
 A RCNDEAU TO ETHEL, 
 
 (Who wishes she had lived- 
 
 " In teacup-limes of hood and hoop, 
 Or while the patch was worn.") 
 
 u IN teacup times ! " The style of dress 
 Would suit your beauty, I confess ; 
 
 BELiNDA-like, the patch you 'd wear; 
 
 I picture you with powdered hair, 
 You 'd make a charming Shepherdess ! 
 
 And I no doubt could well express 
 SIR PLUME'S complete conceitedness, 
 Could poise a clouded cane with care 
 " In teacup-times ! " 
 
 The parts would fit precisely yes : 
 We should achieve a huge success ! 
 You should disdain, and I despair, 
 With quite the true Augustan air; 
 But . . . could I love you more, or less, 
 " In teacup-times ? " 
 230
 
 "O FONS BANDUSLE." 
 (RONDEAU.) 
 
 O BABBLING Spring, than glass more clear, 
 Worthy of wreath and cup sincere, 
 
 To-morrow shall a kid be thine 
 
 With swelled and sprouting brows for sign.- 
 Sure sign ! of loves and battles near. 
 
 Child of the race that butt and rear 1 
 Not less, alas ! his life-blood dear 
 Shall tinge thy cold wave crystalline, 
 O babbling Spring ! 
 
 Thee Sirius knows not. Thou dost cheer 
 With pleasant cool the plough-worn steer, 
 The wandering flock. This verse of mine 
 Shall rank thee one with founts divine ; 
 Men shall thy rock and tree revere, 
 
 O babbling Spring ! 
 231
 
 "VIXI PUELLIS." 
 (RONDEAU OF VILLON.) 
 
 WE loved of yore, in warfare bold, 
 Nor laurelless. Now all must go ; 
 Let this left wall of Venus show 
 
 The arms, the tuneless lyre of old. 
 
 Here let them hang, the torches cold, 
 The portal-bursting bar, the bow, 
 We loved of yore. 
 
 But thou, who Cyprus sweet dost hold, 
 And Memphis free from Thracian snow, 
 Goddess and queen, with vengeful blow, 
 
 Smite, smite but once that pretty scold 
 We loved of yore.
 
 "WHEN I SAW YOU LAST, ROSE." 
 
 (VILLANELLE.) 
 
 WHEN I saw you last, Rose, 
 You were only so high ; 
 How fast the time goes ! 
 
 Like a bud ere it blows, 
 You just peeped at the sky, 
 When I saw you last, Rose ! 
 
 Now your petals unclose, 
 Now your May-time is nigh ; 
 How fast the time goes! 
 
 And a life, how it grows 1 
 You were scarcely so shy, 
 When I saw you last, Rose! 
 233
 
 " WJien I Saw you Last, Rose" 
 
 In your bosom it shows 
 There 's a guest on the sly ; 
 (How fast the time goes !) 
 
 Is it Cupid ? Who knows ! 
 Yet you used not to sigh, 
 When I saw you last, Rose! 
 How fast the time goes I 
 234
 
 ON A NANKIN PLATE. 
 
 (VILLANELLE.) 
 
 " Ah me, but it might have been ! 
 Was there ever so dismal a fate ?" 
 Quoth the little blue mandarin. 
 
 " Such a maid as was never seen ! 
 
 She passed, tho' I cried to her ' Wait,' 
 
 Ah me, but it might have been ! 
 
 " I cried, ' O my Flower, my Queen, 
 Be mine ! ' 'Twas precipitate," 
 Quoth the little blue mandarin, 
 
 " But then .... she was just sixteen, 
 Long-eyed, as a lily straight, 
 Ah me, but it might have been ! 
 
 235
 
 On a Nankin Plate. 
 
 " As it was, from her palankeen, 
 
 She laughed ' You're a week too late ! 
 
 (Quoth the little blue mandarin.) 
 
 " That is why, in a mist of spleen 
 I mourn on this Nankin Plate. 
 Ah me, but it might have been ! " 
 Quoth the little blue mandarin. 
 
 236
 
 FOR A COPY OF THEOCRITUS. 
 
 (VILLANELLE.) 
 
 O SINGER of the field and fold, 
 THEOCRITUS ! Pan's pipe was thine, 
 Thine was the happier Age of Gold. 
 
 For thee the scent of new-turned mould, 
 The bee-hives, and the murmuring pine, 
 O Singer of the field and fold ! 
 
 Thou sang'st the simple feasts of old, 
 The beechen bowl made glad with wine . 
 Thine was the happier Age of Gold. 
 
 Thou bad'st the rustic loves be told, 
 Thou bad'st the tuneful reeds combine, 
 O Singer of the field and fold 1 
 237
 
 For a Copy of Theocritus. 
 
 And round thee, ever-laughing, rolled 
 The blithe and blue Sicilian brine . . 
 Thine was the happier Age of Gold. 
 
 Alas for us ! Our songs are cold ; 
 Our Northern suns too sadly shine : 
 O Singer of the field and fold, 
 Thine was the happier Age of Gold ! 
 238
 
 TU NE QUAESIERIS.* 
 
 (VILLANELLE.) 
 
 SEEK not, O Maid, to know, 
 (Alas ! unblest the trying !) 
 When thou and I must go. 
 
 No lore of stars can show. 
 What shall be, vainly prying, 
 Seek not, O Maid, to know. 
 
 Will Jove long years bestow ? 
 Or is 't with this one dying, 
 That thou and I must go ; 
 
 Now, when the great winds blow. 
 And waves the reef are plying ? . . 
 Seek not, O Maid, to know. 
 239
 
 " Tu ne Quacsieris" 
 
 Rathei let clear wine flow, 
 On no vain hope relying ; 
 When thou and I must go 
 
 Lies dark ; then be it so. 
 Now, now, churl Time is flying; 
 Seek not, O Maid, to know 
 When thou and I must go. 
 240
 
 THE PRODIGALS. 
 (BALLADE: IRREGULAR.) 
 
 " PRINCES ! and you, most valorous, 
 Nobles ! and Barons of all degrees ! 
 
 Hearken awhile to the prayer of us, 
 Beggars that come from the over-seas 1 
 Nothing we ask or of gold or fees ; 
 
 Harry us not with the hounds we pray ; 
 Lo, for the surcote's hem we seize, 
 
 Give us ah ! give us but Yesterday 1 " 
 
 " Dames most delicate, amorous ! 
 
 Damosels blithe as the belted bees ! 
 Hearken awhile to the prayer of us, 
 Beggars that come from the over-seas ! 
 Nothing we ask of the things that please ; 
 Weary are we, and worn, and gray; 
 
 Lo, for we clutch and we clasp your knees,- 
 
 Give us ah ! give us but Yesterday !" 
 241
 
 The Prodigals. 
 
 " Damosels Dames, be piteous ! " 
 
 (But the dames rode fast by the roadway trees. 
 " Hear us, O Knights magnanimous ! " 
 
 (But the knights pricked on in their panoplies.] 
 Nothing they gat or of hope or ease, 
 But only to beat on the breast and say : 
 " Life we drank to the dregs and lees ; 
 Give us ah! give us but Yesterday 1" 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 YOUTH, take heed to the prayer of these ! 
 Many there be by the dusty way, 
 
 Many that cry to the rocks and seas 
 " Give us ah ! give us but Yesterday ! " 
 
 242
 
 ON A FAN THAT BELONGED TO THE 
 MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR. 
 
 (BALLADE.) 
 
 CHICKEN-SKIN, delicate, white, 
 
 Painted by Carlo Vanloo, 
 Loves in a riot of light, 
 
 Roses and vaporous blue ; 
 
 Hark to the dainty frou-frou/ 
 Picture above, if you can, 
 
 Eyes that could melt as the dew, 
 This was the Pompadour's fan ! 
 
 See how they rise at the sight, 
 
 Thronging the (EH de Boeuf through, 
 Courtiers as butterflies bright, 
 
 Beauties that Fragonard drew, 
 
 Talon-rouge, falbala, queue, 
 Cardinal, Duke, to a man, 
 
 Eager to sigh or to sue, 
 This was the Pompadour's fan 1 
 243
 
 TJie Fan of the Marquise de Pompadour. 
 
 Ah, but things more than polite 
 Hung on this toy, voyez-vous / 
 
 Matters of state and of might, 
 Things that great ministers do 
 Things that, may be, overthrew 
 
 Those in whose brains they began ; 
 Here was the sign and the cue, 
 
 This was the Pompadour's fan ! 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 WHERE are the secrets it knew ? 
 
 Weavings of plot and of plan ? 
 But where is the Pompadour, too ? 
 
 This was the Pompadour's Fan t 
 244
 
 A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH 
 of the Spanish Armada. 
 
 (BALLADE.) 
 
 KING PHILLIP had vaunted his claims ; 
 
 He had sworn for a year he would sack us ; 
 With an army of heathenish names 
 
 He was coming to fagot and stack us ; 
 
 Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, 
 And shatter our ships on the main ; 
 
 But we had bold Neptune to back us, 
 And where are the galleons of Spain ? 
 
 His caracks were christened of dames 
 
 To the kirtles whereof he would tack us ; 
 With his saints and his gilded stern-frames, 
 
 He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us ; 
 
 Now Howard may get to his Flaccus, 
 And Drake to his Devon again, 
 
 And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus, 
 For where are the galleons of Spain ? 
 245
 
 A Ballad to Queen Elizabeth. 
 
 Let his Majesty hang to St. James 
 
 The axe that he whetted to hack us ; 
 He must play at some lustier games 
 
 Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us ; 
 
 To his mines of Peru he would pack us 
 To tug at his bullet and chain ; 
 
 Alas ! that his Greatness should lack us I- 
 But where are the galleons of Spain ? 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 GLORIANA ! the Don may attack us 
 Whenever his stomach be fain ; 
 
 He must reach us before he can rack us, . . 
 And where are the galleons of Spain ? 
 246
 
 THE BALLAD OF IMITATION. 
 
 (BALLADE.) 
 
 " C'est imiter quelqu'un que de planter des choux." 
 
 ALFRED DE MUSSEI, 
 
 IF they hint, O Musician, the piece that you played 
 Is nought but a copy of Chopin or Spohr ; 
 
 That the ballad you sing is but merely "conveyed" 
 From the stock of the Arnes and the Purcells of yore, 
 That there 's nothing, in short, in the words or the 
 score 
 
 That is not as out-worn as the "Wandering Jew"; 
 Make answer Beethoven could scarcely do more 
 
 That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too ! 
 
 If they tell you, Sir Artist, your light and your shade 
 
 Are simply "adapted" from other men's lore; 
 That plainly to speak of a "spade" as a "spade" 
 You 've "stolen" your grouping from three or frona 
 four; 
 
 247
 
 The Ballad of Imitation. 
 
 That, however the writer the truth may deplore, 
 T was Gainsborough painted your "Little Boy Blue"; 
 
 Smile only serenely though cut to the core 
 For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too ! 
 
 And you too, my Poet, be never dismayed 
 
 If they whisper your Epic " Sir Eperon d'Or " 
 Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayed 
 
 In a tissue that 's taken from Morris's store ; 
 
 That no one, in fact, but a child could ignore 
 That you "lift" or "accommodate" all that you do; 
 
 Take heart though your Pegasus' withers be sore 
 For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too ! 
 
 POSTSCRIPTUM. And you, whom we all so adore, 
 Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so new ! 
 
 One word in your ear. There were Critics before . . , 
 
 And the man who plants cabbages imitates, too ! 
 
 248
 
 THK BALLAD OF PROSE AND EIIYME. 
 (BALLADE A DOUBLE REFRAIN). 
 
 When the ways are heavy with mire and rut, 
 In November fogs, in December snows, 
 
 When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut 
 There is place and enough for the pains of prose 
 But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows, 
 
 And the jasmine-stars at the casement climb, 
 And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows, 
 
 Then hey ! for the ripple of laughin-g rhyme ! 
 
 When the brain gets dry as an empty nut, 
 When the reason stands on its squarest toes, 
 
 When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut," 
 There is place and enough for the pains of prose j 
 But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows, 
 
 And the young year draws to the " golden prime," 
 And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose, 
 
 Then hey! -for the rbple of laughing rhyme! 
 249
 
 The Ballad of Prose and Rhyme. 
 
 In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant-strut, 
 
 In a changing quarrel of "Ayes" and "Noes," 
 In a starched procession of "If" and "But," , 
 
 There is place and enough for the pains of prose ; 
 
 But whenever a soft glance softer grows 
 And the light hours dance to the trysting-time, 
 
 And the secret is told " that no one knows," 
 Then hey ! for the ripple of laughing rhyme ! 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 IN the work-a-day world, for its needs and woes, 
 There is place and enough for the pains of prose , 
 But whenever the May-bells clash and chime, 
 
 Then hey ! for the npple of laughing rhyme i 
 250
 
 " O NAVIS." 
 (BALLADE.) 
 
 SHIP, to the roadstead rolled, 
 What dost thou ? O, once more 
 
 Regain the port. Behold ! 
 Thy sides are bare of oar, 
 Thy tall mast wounded sore 
 
 Of Africus, and see, 
 
 What shall thy spars restore ! 
 
 Tempt not the tyrant sea ! 
 
 What cable now will hold 
 
 When all drag out from shore ! 
 
 What god canst thou, too bold, 
 In time of need implore ! 
 25'
 
 " O Navis" 
 
 Look ! for thy sails flap o'er, 
 Thy stiff shrouds part and flee, 
 
 Fast fast thy seams outpour, 
 Tempt not the tyrant sea ! 
 
 What though thy ribs of old 
 
 The pines of Pontus bore ! 
 Not now to stern of gold 
 
 Men trust, or painted prore ! 
 
 Thou, or thou count'st it store 
 A toy of winds to be, 
 
 Shun thou the Cyclads' roar, 
 Tempt not the tyrant sea ! 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 SHIP OF THE STATE, before 
 
 A care, and now to me 
 A hope in my heart's core, 
 
 Tempt not the tyrant sea ! 
 
 252
 
 THE DANCE OF DEATH. 
 (CHANT ROYAL, AFTER HOLBEIN.) 
 
 " Contra vim Mortis 
 Non est med teamen in hortis." 
 
 HE is the despots' Despot. All must bide, 
 Later or soon, the message of his might ; 
 Princes and potentates their heads must hide, 
 Touched by the awful sigil of his right ; 
 Beside the Kaiser he at eve doth wait 
 And pours a potion in his cup of state ; 
 The stately Queen his bidding must obey ,' 
 No keen-eyed Cardinal shall him affray j 
 And to the Dame that wantoneth he saith 
 " Let be, Sweet-heart, to junket and to play." 
 There is no king more terrible than Death. 
 
 The lusty Lord, rejoicing in his pride, , 
 He draweth down ; before the armed Knight 
 
 253
 
 The Dance of Death. 
 
 With jingling bridle-rein he still doth ride; 
 He crosseth the strong Captain in the fight; 
 He beckons the grave Elder from debate ; 
 He hales the Abbot by his shaven pate, 
 Nor for the Abbess' wailing will delay; 
 No bawling Mendicant shall say him nay ; 
 E'en to the pyx the Priest he followeth, 
 Nor can the Leech his chilling finger stay . . 
 There is no king more terrible than Death. 
 
 All things must bow to him. And woe betide 
 The Wine-bibber, the Roysterer by night; 
 Him the feast-master, many bouts defied, 
 Him 'twixt the pledging and the cup shall smite; 
 Woe to the Lender at usurious rate, 
 The hard Rich Man, the hireling Advocate ; 
 Woe to the Judge that selleth right for pay; 
 Woe to the Thief that like a beast of prey 
 With creeping tread the traveller harryeth : 
 These, in their sin, the sudden sword shall slay . . 
 There is no king more terrible than Death. 
 
 He hath no pity, nor will be denied. 
 When the low hearth is garnished and bright, 
 Grimly he flingeth the dim portal wide, 
 And steals the Infant in the Mother's sight; 
 254
 
 The Dance of Death. 
 
 He hath no pity for the scorned of fate : 
 He spares not Lazarus lying at the gate, 
 Nay, nor the Blind that stumbleth as he may ; 
 Nay, the tired Ploughman, at the sinking ray, 
 In the last furrow, feels an icy breath, 
 And knows a hand hath turned the team astray 
 There is no king more terrible than Death. 
 
 He hath no pity. For the new-made Bride, 
 Blithe with the promise of her life's delight, 
 That wanders gladly by her Husband's side, 
 He with the clatter of his drum doth fright ; 
 He scares the Virgin at the convent grate; 
 The Maid half- won, the Lover passionate ; 
 He hath no grace for weakness and decay : 
 The tender Wife, the Widow bent and gray, 
 The feeble Sire whose footstep faltereth, 
 All these he leadcth by the lonely way . . 
 There is no king more terrible than Death. 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 YOUTH, for whose ear and monishing of late, 
 I sang of Prodigals and lost estate, 
 Have thou thy joy of living and be gay; 
 255
 
 The Daiice of Death. 
 
 But know not less that there must come a day, 
 Aye, and perchance e'en now it hasteneth, 
 When thine own heart shall speak to thee and 
 
 say, 
 
 There is no king more terrible than Death. 
 256
 
 When Finis comes, the Book we close, 
 
 And somewhat sadly, Fancy goes, 
 
 With backward step, from stage to stage 
 Of that accomplished pilgrimage . . . 
 
 The thorn lies thicker than the rose ! 
 
 There is so much that no one knows, 
 So much un-reached that none suppose ; 
 
 What flaws ! what faults ! on every page, 
 When Finis comes. 
 
 Still, they must pass ! The swift Tide flows. 
 
 Though not for all the laurel grows, 
 Perchance, in this be-slandered age, 
 The worker, mainly, wins his wage ; 
 
 And Time will sweep both friends and foes 
 When FINIS comes !
 
 NOTES.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 " Ensign (of BRAGG'S) made a terrible clangor." PAGE 23. 
 
 DESPITE its suspicious appropriateness in this case, 
 'Bragg's' regiment of Foot-Guards really existed; and was 
 ordered to Flanders in April, 1742. (See Gentleman's Maga- 
 zine, 1742, i. 217.) 
 
 " PoRTO-BELLO at last was ta'en." PAGE 25. 
 
 Porto-Bello was taken in November, 1739. But Vice-Admiral 
 Vernon's despatches did not reach England until the following 
 March. (See Gentleman's Magazine for 1740, i. 124, et seq.) 
 
 " In the fresh contours of his ' Milkmaid's '/ace." PAGE 29. 
 
 See the Enraged Musician, an engraving of which was pub- 
 lished in November of the following year (1741). 
 
 "An Incident in the Life of Francois Boiicher" PAGE 38. 
 
 See Boucher by Arsene Houssaye, Galerie du XVIII' Siecle 
 (Cinquieme Serie), and Charles Blanc, Histoire des Peintres de 
 tons les JScoles. 
 
 261
 
 Notes. 
 
 " The scene, a wood." PAGE 38. 
 
 The picture referred to is Le Punier Mystlrieux by F. Bou- 
 cher ; engraved by R. Gaillard. 
 
 " And far afield were sun-baked savage creatures." PAGE 39. 
 See Les Caracteres de LA BRUYERE, De Fhomme. 
 
 " Whose greatest grace was jupes a la Camargo." PAGE 40. 
 
 " C'ltait le beau temps ou Camargo trouvait ses jupes trop longues 
 pour danser la gargouillade." ARSENE HOUSSAYE. 
 
 "The grass he called ' too green' " PAGE 41. 
 
 " // trouvait la nature trop verte et mal fclairle. Et son ami 
 Lancret, le peintre des salons a la mode, lui rfpondait: ' Je suis 
 de -votre sentiment, la nature manque d'harmonie et de seduction.' " 
 CHARLES BLANC. 
 
 "Nay, 'twas a song of SAiNTE-AuLAiRE." PAGE 52. 
 
 It is but just to the octogenarian Marquis, whom the Duchess 
 of Maine surnamed her " vieux berger" to say that he is guilt- 
 less of the song here ascribed to him. For it, and the similar 
 pieces in these Proverbs, the author is alone responsible. In 
 the Secrets of the Heart, however, he has, without attempting 
 to revive the persons, borrowed the names of the charming 
 heroines of A qitoi rSvent les Jeunes Filles. 
 
 " Some moneyed mourner's ' love or pride.' " PACE 165. 
 
 " Thus much alone we know Metella died, 
 The wealthiest Roman's wife : Behold his love or pride ! " 
 
 Childe Harold, iv. 103. 
 
 "A bolder rider than Bellerofhon." PAGE 191. 
 
 " Equcs ipso melior Bellerophonte." HOR iii. 12. 
 
 262
 
 Notes. 
 
 "The Thefts of Mercury." PAGE 192. 
 
 " Te, boves olim nisi reddidisses 
 Per dolum amotas, puerum minaci 
 Voce dum terret, viduus pharetra 
 
 Risit Apollo." HOR. i. 10. 
 
 " Not countless years overthrow." PAGE 215. 
 
 " innumerabilis 
 Annorum series et f uga temporum." HOR. iii. 30. 
 
 "PERSICOS ODI." PAGE 223. 
 
 The following " Pocket Version " was appended to this, when 
 it first appeared in the second edition of Proverbs in Porcelain, 
 1878: 
 
 " Davus I detest 
 
 Persian decoration ; 
 Roses and the rest, 
 Davus, I detest. 
 Simple myrtle best 
 
 Suits our modest station ; 
 Davus, I detest 
 
 Persian decoration." 
 
 " ON LONDON STONES." PAGE 226. 
 
 Lope de Vega and Hurtado de Mendoza wrote sonnets on 
 Sonnet-making ; Voiture imitated them as regards the Rondeau. 
 Here is a paraphrase of Voiture : 
 
 You bid me try, BLUE-EYES, to write 
 A Rondeau. What ! forthwith ? To-night ? 
 Reflect. Some skill I have, 't is true ; 
 But thirteen lines ! and rhymed on two ! 
 " Refrain," as well. Ah, hapless plight 1 
 263
 
 Notes. 
 
 Still, there are five lines, ranged aright. 
 These Gallic bonds, I feared, would fright 
 My easy Muse. They did, till you 
 You hid me try ! 
 
 That makes them eight. The port 's in sight; - 
 'T is all because your eyes are bright ! 
 Now just a pair to end in " oo," 
 When maids command, what can't we do I 
 Behold ! the RONDEAU, tasteful, light, 
 You bid me try I 
 264