Chapter XVII: Part II (2)

'But why does your figure appear so lean,
Sister Helen?
And why do you dress in sage, sage green?'
'Children should never be heard, if seen,
Little brother.
(_O Mother Carey, mother!_
_What fowls are a-wing in the stormy heaven!_)'

'But why is your face so yellowy white,
Sister Helen?
And why are your skirts so funnily tight?'
'Be quiet, you torment, or how can I write,
Little brother?
(_O Mother Carey, mother!_
_How gathers thy train to the sea from the heaven!_)'

'And who's Mother Carey, and what is her train,
Sister Helen?
And why do you call her again and again?'
'You troublesome boy, why that's the refrain,
Little brother.
(_O Mother Carey, mother!_
_What work is toward in the startled heaven?_)'

'And what's a refrain? What a curious word,
Sister Helen!
Is the ballad you're writing about a sea-bird?'
'Not at all; why should it be? Don't be absurd,
Little brother.
(_O Mother Carey, mother!_
_Thy brood flies lower as lowers the heaven._)'

(A big brother speaketh:)
'The refrain you've studied a meaning had,
Sister Helen!
It gave strange force to a weird ballàd.
But refrains have become a ridiculous "fad,"
Little brother.
And _Mother Carey, mother_,
Has a bearing on nothing in earth or heaven.

'But the finical fashion has had its day,
Sister Helen.
And let's try in the style of a different lay
To bid it adieu in poetical way,
Little brother.
So, Mother Carey, mother!
Collect your chickens and go to--heaven.'
(_A pause. Then the big brother singeth, accompanying
himself in a plaintive wise on the
triangle:_)

'Look in my face. My name is Used-to-was,
I am also called Played-out and Done-to-death,
And It-will-wash-no-more. Awakeneth
Slowly, but sure awakening it has,
The common-sense of man; and I, alas!
The ballad-burden trick, now known too well,
Am turned to scorn, and grown contemptible--
A too transparent artifice to pass.

'What a cheap dodge I am! The cats who dart
Tin-kettled through the streets in wild surprise
Assail judicious ears not otherwise;
And yet no critics praise the urchin's "art,"
Who to the wretched creature's caudal part
Its foolish empty-jingling "burden" ties.'

ANDREW LANG.

'OH, NO, WE NEVER MENTION HER.'

(ROSSETTI)

Love spake to me and said:
'O lips, be mute;
Let that one name be dead,
That memory flown and fled,
Untouched that lute!
Go forth,' said Love, 'with willow in thy hand,
And in thy hair
Dead blossoms wear,
Blown from the sunless land.

'Go forth,' said Love; 'thou never more shalt see
Her shadow, glimmer by the trysting tree;
But _she_ is glad,
With roses crowned and clad,
Who hath forgotten thee!'
But I made answer: 'Love!
Tell me no more thereof,
For she has drunk of that same cup as I.
Yea, though her eyes be dry,
She garners there for me
Tears salter than the sea,
Even till the day she die.'
So gave I Love the lie.

BALLADE OF CRICKET.

TO T. W. LANG.

(SWINBURNE)

The burden of hard hitting: slog away!
Here shalt thou make a 'five' and there a 'four,'
And then upon thy bat shalt lean, and say,
That thou art in for an uncommon score.
Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar,
And thou to rival THORNTON shalt aspire,
When lo, the Umpire gives thee 'leg before,'--
'This is the end of every man's desire!'

The burden of much bowling, when the stay
Of all thy team is 'collared,' swift or slower,
When 'bailers' break not in their wonted way,
And 'yorkers' come not off as here-to-fore,
When length balls shoot no more, ah never more,
When all deliveries lose their former fire,
When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door,--
'This is the end of every man's desire!'

The burden of long fielding, when the clay
Clings to thy shoon in sudden shower's downpour,
And running still thou stumblest, or the ray
Of blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore.
And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore,
Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a 'skyer,'
And lose a match the Fates cannot restore,--
'This is the end of every man's desire!'

ENVOY.

Alas, yet liefer on Youth's hither shore
Would I be some poor Player on scant hire,
Than King among the old, who play no more,--
'_This_ is the end of every man's desire!'

BRAHMA.

(EMERSON)

If the wild bowler thinks he bowls,
Or if the batsman thinks he's bowled,
They know not, poor misguided souls,
They, too, shall perish unconsoled.
_I_ am the batsman and the bat,
_I_ am the bowler and the ball,
The umpire, the pavilion cat,
The roller, pitch, and stumps, and all.

THE PALACE OF BRIC-À-BRAC.

(SWINBURNE)

Here, where old Nankin glitters,
Here, where men's tumult seems
As faint as feeble twitters
Of sparrows heard in dreams,
We watch Limoges enamel,
An old chased silver camel,
A shawl, the gift of Schamyl,
And manuscripts in reams.

Here, where the hawthorn pattern
On flawless cup and plate
Need fear no housemaid slattern,
Fell minister of fate,
'Mid webs divinely woven,
And helms and hauberks cloven,
On music of Beethoven
We dream and meditate.

We know not, and we need not
To know how mortals fare,
Of Bills that pass, or speed not,
Time finds us unaware,
Yea, creeds and codes may crumble,
And Dilke and Gladstone stumble.
And eat the pie that's humble,
We neither know nor care!

Can kings or clergies alter
The crackle on one plate?
Can creeds or systems palter
With what is truly great?
With Corots and with Millets,
With April daffodillies,
Or make the maiden lilies
Bloom early or bloom late?

Nay, here 'midst Rhodian roses,
'Midst tissues of Cashmere,
The Soul sublime reposes,
And knows not hope nor fear;
Here all she sees her own is,
And musical her moan is,
O'er Caxtons and Bodonis,
Aldine and Elzevir!

'GAILY THE TROUBADOUR.'

(MORRIS)

Sir Ralph he is hardy and mickle of might,
_Ha, la belle blanche aubépine!_
Soldans seven hath he slain in fight,
_Honneur à la belle Isoline!_

Sir Ralph he rideth in riven mail,
_Ha, la belle blanche aubépine!_
Beneath his nasal is his dark face pale,
_Honneur à la belle Isoline!_

His eyes they blaze as the burning coal,
_Ha, la belle blanche aubépine!_
He smiteth a stave on his gold citole,
_'Honneur à la belle Isoline!'_

From her mangonel she looketh forth,
_Ha, la belle blanche aubépine!_
'Who is he spurreth so late to the north?'
_Honneur à la belle Isoline!_

Hark! for he speaketh a knightly name,
_Ha, la belle blanche aubépine!_
And her wan cheek glows as a burning flame,
_Honneur à la belle Isoline!_

For Sir Ralph he is hardy and mickle of might,
_Ha, la belle blanche aubépine!_
And his love shall ungirdle his sword to-night,
_Honneur à la belle Isoline!_

ARTHUR CLEMENT HILTON.

THE VULTURE AND THE HUSBANDMAN.

BY LOUISA CAROLINE.

('LEWIS CARROLL')

N.B.--A _Vulture_ is a rapacious and obscene bird, which destroys its prey by _plucking_ it limb from limb with its powerful beak and talons.

A _Husbandman_ is a man in a low position of life, who supports himself by the use of the _plough_.--_Johnson's Dictionary._

The rain was raining cheerfully,
As if it had been May;
The Senate-House appeared inside
Unusually gay;
And this was strange, because it was
A Viva-Voce day.

The men were sitting sulkily,
Their paper work was done;
They wanted much to go away
To ride or row or run;
'It's very rude,' they said, 'to keep
Us here, and spoil our fun.'

The papers they had finished lay
In piles of blue and white.
They answered everything they could,
And wrote with all their might,
But, though they wrote it all by rote,
They did not write it right.

The Vulture and the Husbandman
Beside these piles did stand,
They wept like anything to see
The work they had in hand,
'If this were only finished up,'
Said they, 'it would be grand!'

'If seven D's or seven C's
We give to all the crowd,
Do you suppose,' the Vulture said,
'That we could get them ploughed?'
'I think so,' said the Husbandman,
'But pray don't talk so loud.'

'O undergraduates, come up,'
The Vulture did beseech,
'And let us see if you can learn
As well as we can teach;
We cannot do with more than two
To have a word with each.'

Two Undergraduates came up,
And slowly took a seat,
They knit their brows, and bit their thumbs,
As if they found them sweet,
And this was odd, because you know
Thumbs are not good to eat.

'The time has come,' the Vulture said,
'To talk of many things,
Of Accidence and Adjectives,
And names of Jewish kings,
How many notes a sackbut has,
And whether shawms have strings.'

'Please, sir,' the Undergraduates said,
Turning a little blue,
'We did not know that was the sort
Of thing we had to do.'
'We thank you much,' the Vulture said,
'Send up another two.'

Two more came up, and then two more;
And more, and more, and more;
And some looked upwards at the roof,
Some down upon the floor,
But none were any wiser than
The pair that went before.

'I weep for you,' the Vulture said,
'I deeply sympathize!'
With sobs and tears he gave them all
D's of the largest size,
While at the Husbandman he winked
One of his streaming eyes.

'I think,' observed the Husbandman,
'We're getting on too quick.
Are we not putting down the D's
A little bit too thick?'
The Vulture said with much disgust
'Their answers make me sick.'

'Now, Undergraduates,' he cried,
'Our fun is nearly done,
Will anybody else come up?'
But answer came there none;
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd ploughed them every one!

THE HEATHEN PASS-EE.

BEING THE STORY OF A PASS EXAMINATION. BY BRED HARD.

(BRET HARTE)

Which I wish to remark,
And my language is plain,
That for plots that are dark
And not always in vain,
The heathen Pass-ee is peculiar,
And the same I would rise to explain.

I would also premise
That the term of Pass-ee
Most fitly applies,
As you probably see,
To one whose vocation is passing
The 'ordinary B.A. degree.'

Tom Crib was his name.
And I shall not deny
In regard to the same
What that name might imply,
But his face it was trustful and childlike,
And he had the most innocent eye.

Upon April the First
The Little-Go fell,
And that was the worst
Of the gentleman's sell,
For he fooled the Examining Body
In a way I'm reluctant to tell.

The candidates came
And Tom Crib soon appeared;
It was Euclid. The same
Was 'the subject he feared,'
But he smiled as he sat by the table
With a smile that was wary and weird.

Yet he did what he could,
And the papers he showed
Were remarkably good,
And his countenance glowed
With pride when I met him soon after
As he walked down the Trumpington Road.

We did not find him out,
Which I bitterly grieve,
For I've not the least doubt
That he'd placed up his sleeve
Mr. Todhunter's excellent Euclid,
The same with intent to deceive.

But I shall not forget
How the next day at two
A stiff paper was set
By Examiner U...
On Euripides' tragedy, Bacchae.
A subject Tom 'partially knew.'

But the knowledge displayed
By that heathen Pass-ee,
And the answers he made
Were quite frightful to see,
For he rapidly floored the whole paper
By about twenty minutes to three.

Then I looked up at U...
And he gazed upon me.
I observed, 'This won't do.'
He replied, 'Goodness me!
We are fooled by this artful young person,'
And he sent for that heathen Pass-ee.

The scene that ensued
Was disgraceful to view,
For the floor it was strewed
With a tolerable few
Of the 'tips' that Tom Crib had been hiding
For the 'subject he partially knew.'

On the cuff of his shirt
He had managed to get
What we hoped had been dirt,
But which proved, I regret,
To be notes on the rise of the Drama,
A question invariably set.

In his various coats
We proceeded to seek,
Where we found sundry notes
And--with sorrow I speak--
One of Bohn's publications, so useful
To the student of Latin or Greek.

In the crown of his cap
Were the Furies and Fates,
And a delicate map
Of the Dorian States,
And we found in his palms which were hollow,
What are frequent in palms,--that is dates.

Which is why I remark,
And my language is plain,
That for plots that are dark
And not always in vain,
The heathen Pass-ee is peculiar,
Which the same I am free to maintain.

OCTOPUS.[125]

BY ALGERNON CHARLES SIN-BURN.

(SWINBURNE)

Strange beauty, eight-limbed and eight-handed,
Whence camest to dazzle our eyes?
With thy bosom bespangled and banded
With the hues of the seas and the skies;
Is thy home European or Asian,
O mystical monster marine?
Part molluscous and partly crustacean,
Betwixt and between.

Wast thou born to the sound of sea-trumpets?
Hast thou eaten and drunk to excess
Of the sponges--thy muffins and crumpets,
Of the seaweed--thy mustard and cress?
Wast thou nurtured in caverns of coral,
Remote from reproof or restraint?
Art thou innocent, art thou immoral,
Sinburnian or Saint?

Lithe limbs, curling free, as a creeper
That creeps in a desolate place,
To enrol and envelop the sleeper
In a silent and stealthy embrace,
Cruel beak craning forward to bite us,
Our juices to drain and to drink,
Or to whelm us in waves of Cocytus,
Indelible ink!

O breast, that 'twere rapture to writhe on!
O arms 'twere delicious to feel
Clinging close with the crush of the Python,
When she maketh her murderous meal!
In thy eight-fold embraces enfolden,
Let our empty existence escape;
Give us death that is glorious and golden,
Crushed all out of shape!

Ah! thy red lips, lascivious and luscious,
With death in their amorous kiss!
Cling round us, and clasp us, and crush us,
With bitings of agonized bliss;
We are sick with the poison of pleasure,
Dispense us the potion of pain;
Ope thy mouth to its uttermost measure
And bite us again!

HENRY CUYLER BUNNER.

HOME, SWEET HOME, WITH VARIATIONS.

BEING SUGGESTIONS OF THE VARIOUS STYLES IN WHICH
AN OLD THEME MIGHT HAVE BEEN TREATED BY
CERTAIN METRICAL COMPOSERS.

FANTASIA.

I.

THE ORIGINAL THEME, AS JOHN HOWARD PAYNE WROTE IT:

'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is not met with elsewhere.
Home, Home! Sweet, Sweet Home!
There's no place like Home!

An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain!
Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
The birds singing gaily that came at my call!
Give me them! and the peace of mind dearer than all.
Home, Home! Sweet, Sweet Home!
There's no place like Home!

II.

AS ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE MIGHT HAVE WRAPPED IT UP
IN VARIATIONS:

[_'Mid pleasures and palaces_--]

As sea-foam blown of the winds, as blossom of brine that is drifted
Hither and yon on the barren breast of the breeze,
Though we wander on gusts of a god's breath shaken and shifted,
The salt of us stings, and is sore for the sobbing seas.
For home's sake hungry at heart, we sicken in pillared porches
Of bliss, made sick for a life that is barren of bliss,
For the place whereon is a light out of heaven that sears not nor
scorches,
Nor elsewhere than this.

[_An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain_--]

For here we know shall no gold thing glisten,
No bright thing burn, and no sweet thing shine;
Nor Love lower never an ear to listen
To words that work in the heart like wine.
What time we are set from our land apart,
For pain of passion and hunger of heart,
Though we walk with exiles fame faints to christen,
Or sing at the Cytherean's shrine.

[VARIATION: _An exile from home_--]

Whether with him whose head
Of gods is honourèd,
With song made splendent in the sight of men--
Whose heart most sweetly stout,
From ravished France cast out,
Being firstly hers, was hers most wholly then--
Or where on shining seas like wine
The dove's wings draw the drooping Erycine.

[_Give me my lowly thatched cottage_--]

For Joy finds Love grow bitter,
And spreads his wings to quit her,
At thought of birds that twitter
Beneath the roof-tree's straw--
Of birds that come for calling,
No fear or fright appalling,
When dews of dusk are falling,
Or daylight's draperies draw.

[_Give me them, and the peace of mind_--]

Give me these things then back, though the giving
Be at cost of earth's garner of gold;
There is no life without these worth living,
No treasure where these are not told.
For the heart give the hope that it knows not,
Give the balm for the burn of the breast--
For the soul and the mind that repose not,
O, give us a rest!

III.

AS MR. FRANCIS BRET HARTE MIGHT HAVE WOVEN IT INTO
A TOUCHING TALE OF A WESTERN GENTLEMAN
IN A RED SHIRT:

Brown o' San Juan,
Stranger, I'm Brown.
Come up this mornin' from Frisco--
Be'n a-saltin' my specie-stacks down.

Be'n a-knockin' around,
Fer a man from San Juan,
Putty consid'able frequent--
Jes' catch onter that streak o' the dawn!

Right thar lies my home--
Right thar in the red--
I could slop over, stranger, in po'try
Would spread out old Shakspoke cold dead.

Stranger, you freeze to this: there ain't no kinder gin-palace,
Nor no variety-show lays over a man's own rancho.
Maybe it hain't no style, but the Queen in the Tower o' London
Ain't got naathin' I'd swop for that house over thar on the
hill-side.

Thar is my ole gal, 'n' the kids, 'n' the rest o' my live stock;
Thar my Remington hangs, and thar there's a griddle-cake br'ilin'--
For the two of us, pard--and thar, I allow, the heavens
Smile more friendly-like than on any other locality.

Stranger, nowhere else I don't take no satisfaction.
Gimme my ranch, 'n' them friendly old Shanghai chickens--
I brung the original pair f'm the States in eighteen-'n'-fifty--
Gimme them and the feelin' of solid domestic comfort.

Yer parding, young man--
But this landscape a kind
Er flickers--I 'low 'twuz the po'try--
I thought thet my eyes hed gone blind.

* * * * *

Take that pop from my belt!
Hi, thar--gimme yer han'--
Or I'll kill myself--Lizzie!--she's left me--
_Gone off with a purtier man!_

Thar, I'll quit--the ole gal
An' the kids--run away!
I be derned! Howsomever, come in, pard--
The griddle-cake's thar, anyway.

IV.

AS AUSTIN DOBSON MIGHT HAVE TRANSLATED IT FROM HORACE,
IF IT HAD EVER OCCURRED TO HORACE TO WRITE IT:

RONDEAU.

Palatiis in remotis voluptates
Si quæris...
FLACCUS, 2. HORATIUS, _Carmina, Lib. V._, 1

At home alone, O Nomades,
Although Maecenas' marble frieze
Stand not between you and the sky,
Nor Persian luxury supply
Its rosy surfeit, find ye ease.
Tempt not the far Ægean breeze;
With home-made wine and books that please,
To duns and bores the door deny
At home, alone.

Strange joys may lure. Your deities
Smile here alone. Oh, give me these:
Low eaves, where birds familiar fly,
And peace of mind, and, fluttering by,
My Lydia's graceful draperies,
At home, _alone_.

V.

AS IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN CONSTRUCTED IN 1744,
OLIVER GOLDSMITH, AT 19, WRITING THE
FIRST STANZA, AND ALEXANDER POPE,
AT 52, THE SECOND:

Home! at the word, what blissful visions rise;
Lift us from earth, and draw toward the skies!
'Mid mirag'd towers, or meretricious joys,
Although we roam, one thought the mind employs:
Or lowly hut, good friend, or loftiest dome,
Earth knows no spot so holy as our Home.
There, where affection warms the father's breast,
There is the spot of heav'n most surely blest.
Howe'er we search, though wandering with the wind
Through frigid Zembla, or the heats of Ind,
Not elsewhere may we seek, nor elsewhere know,
The light of heav'n upon our dark below.

When from our dearest hope and haven reft,
Delight nor dazzles, nor is luxury left,
We long, obedient to our nature's law,
To see again our hovel thatched with straw:
See birds that know our avenaceous store
Stoop to our hand, and thence repleted soar:
But, of all hopes the wanderer's soul that share,
His pristine peace of mind 's his final prayer.

VI.

AS WALT WHITMAN MIGHT HAVE WRITTEN ALL
AROUND IT:

1.

You over there, young man with the guide-book, red-bound,
covered flexibly with red linen,
Come here, I want to talk with you; I, Walt, the Manhattanese,
citizen of these States, call you.
Yes, and the courier, too, smirking, smug-mouthed, with oil'd
hair; a garlicky look about him generally; him, too, I take
in, just as I would a coyote, or a king, or a toad-stool, or a
ham-sandwich, or anything or anybody else in the world.
Where are you going?
You want to see Paris, to eat truffles, to have a good time;
in Vienna, London, Florence, Monaco, to have a good time; you
want to see Venice.
Come with me. I will give you a good time; I will give you all
the Venice you want, and most of the Paris.
I, Walt, I call to you. I am all on deck! Come and loaf with
me! Let me tote you around by your elbow and show you things.
You listen to my ophicleide!
Home!
Home, I celebrate. I elevate my fog-whistle, inspir'd by the
thought of home.
Come in!--take a front seat; the jostle of the crowd not
minding; there is room enough for all of you.
This is my exhibition--it is the greatest show on earth
--there is no charge for admission.
All you have to pay me is to take in my romanza.

2.

1. The brown-stone house; the father coming home worried
from a bad day's business; the wife meets him in the
marble-pav'd vestibule; she throws her arms about him; she
presses him close to her; she looks him full in the face
with affectionate eyes; the frown from his brow disappearing.
_Darling, she says, Johnny has fallen down and cut his head;
the cook is going away, and the boiler leaks._
2. The mechanic's dark little third story room, seen in a
flash from the Elevated Railway train; the sewing-machine in a
corner; the small cook-stove; the whole family eating cabbage
around a kerosene lamp; of the clatter and roar and groaning
wail of the Elevated train unconscious; of the smell of the
cabbage unconscious.
Me, passant, in the train, of the cabbage not quite so
unconscious.
3. The French flat; the small rooms, all right angles,
unindividual; the narrow halls; the gaudy cheap decorations
everywhere.
The janitor and the cook exchanging compliments up and down
the elevator-shaft; the refusal to send up more coal, the
solid splash of the water upon his head, the language he sends
up the shaft, the triumphant laughter of the cook, to her
kitchen retiring.
4. The widow's small house in the suburbs of the city;
the widow's boy coming home from his first day down town;
he is flushed with happiness and pride; he is no longer a
school-boy, he is earning money; he takes on the airs of a man
and talks learnedly of business.
5. The room in the third-class boarding-house; the mean little
hard-coal fire, the slovenly Irish servant-girl making it,
the ashes on the hearth, the faded furniture, the private
provender hid away in the closet, the dreary back-yard out the
window; the young girl at the glass, with her mouth full of
hair-pins, doing up her hair to go downstairs and flirt with
the young fellows in the parlour.
6. The kitchen of the old farm-house; the young convict just
return'd from prison--it was his first offence, and the judges
were lenient to him.
He is taking his first meal out of prison; he has been
receiv'd back, kiss'd, encourag'd to start again; his lungs,
his nostrils expand with the big breaths of free air; with
shame, with wonderment, with a trembling joy, his heart too
expanding.
The old mother busies herself about the table; she has ready
for him the dishes he us'd to like; the father sits with his
back to them, reading the newspaper, the newspaper shaking
and rustling much; the children hang wondering around the
prodigal----they have been caution'd: _Do not ask where our
Jim has been; only say you are glad to see him_.
The elder daughter is there, pale-fac'd, quiet; her young man
went back on her four years ago; his folks would not let him
marry a convict's sister. She sits by the window, sewing on
the children's clothes, the clothes not only patching up; her
hunger for children of her own invisibly patching up.
The brother looks up; he catches her eye, he fearful,
apologetic; she smiles back at him, not reproachfully smiling,
with loving pretence of hope smiling --it is too much for him;
he buries his face in the folds of the mother's black gown.
7. The best room of the house, on the Sabbath only open'd;
the smell of horse-hair furniture and mahogany varnish; the
ornaments on the whatnot in the corner; the wax-fruit, dusty,
sunken, sagged in, consumptive-looking, under a glass globe;
the sealing-wax imitation of coral; the cigar boxes with
shells plastered over; the perforated card-board motto.
The kitchen; the housewife sprinkling the clothes for the fine
ironing to-morrow--it is Third-day night, and the plain things
are already iron'd, now in cupboards, in drawers stowed away.
The wife waiting for the husband--he is at the tavern, jovial,
carousing; she, alone in the kitchen sprinkling clothes--the
little red wood clock with peaked top, with pendulum wagging
behind a pane of gaily painted glass, strikes twelve.
The sound of the husband's voice on the still night air--he is
singing: _We won't go home till morning!_ --the wife arising,
toward the wood-shed hastily going, stealthily entering, the
voice all the time coming nearer, inebriate, chantant.
The wood-shed; the club behind the door of the wood-shed;
the wife annexing the club; the husband approaching, always
inebriate, chantant.
The husband passing the door of the wood-shed; the club over
his head, now with his head in contact; the sudden cessation
of the song; the temperance pledge signed the next morning;
the benediction of peace over the domestic foyer temporarily
resting.

3.

I sing the soothing influences of home.
You, young man, thoughtlessly wandering, with courier, with
guide-book wandering,
You hearken to the melody of my steam-calliope.
Yawp!

JAMES KENNETH STEPHEN.

ODE ON A RETROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.

(GRAY)

Ye bigot spires, ye Tory towers,
That crown the watery lea,
Where grateful science still adores
The aristocracy:
A happy usher once I strayed
Beneath your lofty elm trees' shade,
With mind untouched by guilt or woe:
But mad ambition made me stray
Beyond the round of work and play
Wherein we ought to go.

My office was to teach the young
Idea how to shoot:
But, ah! I joined with eager tongue
Political dispute:
I ventured humbly to suggest
That all things were not for the best
Among the Irish peasantry:
And finding all the world abuse
My simple unpretending views,
I thought I'd go and see.

I boldly left the College bounds:
Across the sea I went,
To probe the economic grounds
Of Irish discontent.
My constant goings to and fro
Excited some alarm; and so
Policemen girded up their loins,
And, from his innocent pursuits,--
Morose unsympathetic brutes,--
They snatched a fearful Joynes.

Escaped, I speedily returned
To teach the boys again:
But ah, my spirit inly burned
To think on Ireland's pain.
Such wrongs must out: and then, you see,
My own adventures might not be
Uninteresting to my friends:
I therefore ventured to prepare
A little book, designed with care,
To serve these humble ends.

Our stern head-master spoke to me
Severely:--'You appear
(_Horresco referens_) to be
A party pamphleteer.
If you _must_ write, let Cæsar's page
Or Virgil's poetry engage
Your all too numerous leisure hours:
But now annihilate and quash
This impious philanthropic bosh:
Or quit these antique towers.'

It seems that he who dares to write
Is all unfit to teach:
And literary fame is quite
Beyond an usher's reach.
I dared imprisonment in vain:
The little bantling of my brain
I am compelled to sacrifice.
The moral, after all, is this:--
That here, where ignorance is bliss,
'Tis folly to be wise.

A SONNET.

(WORDSWORTH)

Two voices are there: one is of the deep;
It learns the storm-cloud's thunderous melody,
Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea,
Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep:
And one is of an old half-witted sheep
Which bleats articulate monotony,
And indicates that two and one are three,
That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep:
And, Wordsworth, both are thine: at certain times
Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes,
The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst:
At other times--good Lord! I'd rather be
Quite unacquainted with the ABC
Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.

SINCERE FLATTERY OF R. B.

(BROWNING)

Birthdays? yes, in a general way;
For the most if not for the best of men:
You were born (I suppose) on a certain day:
So was I: or perhaps in the night: what then?

Only this: or at least, if more,
You must know, not think it, and learn, not speak:
There is truth to be found on the unknown shore,
And many will find where few will seek.

For many are called and few are chosen,
And the few grow many as ages lapse:
But when will the many grow few: what dozen
Is fused into one by Time's hammer-taps?

A bare brown stone in a babbling brook:--
It was wanton to hurl it there, you say:
And the moss, which clung in the sheltered nook
(Yet the stream runs cooler), is washed away.

That begs the question: many a prater
Thinks such a suggestion a sound 'stop thief!'
Which, may I ask, do you think the greater,
Sergeant-at-arms or a Robber Chief?

And if it were not so? still you doubt?
Ah! yours is a birthday indeed if so.
That were something to write a poem about,
If one thought a little. I only know.

P.S.

There's a Me Society down at Cambridge,
Where my works, _cum notis variorum_,
Are talked about; well, I require the same bridge
That Euclid took toll at as _Asinorum_:

And, as they have got through several ditties
I thought were as stiff as a brick-built wall,
I've composed the above, and a stiff one _it_ is,
A bridge to stop asses at, once for all.

SINCERE FLATTERY OF W. W. (AMERICANUS).

(WHITMAN)

The clear cool note of the cuckoo which has ousted the legitimate
nest-holder,
The whistle of the railway guard dispatching the train to the
inevitable collision,
The maiden's monosyllabic reply to a polysyllabic proposal,
The fundamental note of the last trump, which is presumably D
natural;
All of these are sounds to rejoice in, yea to let your very ribs
re-echo with:
But better than all of them is the absolutely last chord of the
apparently inexhaustible pianoforte player.

TO A. T. M.

(F. W. H. MYERS)

See where the K., in sturdy self-reliance,
Thoughtful and placid as a brooding dove,
Stands, firmly sucking, in the cause of science,
Just such a peppermint as schoolboys love.

Suck, placid K.: the world will be thy debtor;
Though thine eyes water and thine heart grow faint,
Suck: and the less thou likest it the better;
Suck for our sake, and utter no complaint.

Near thee a being, passionate and gentle,
Man's latest teacher, wisdom's pioneer,
Calmly majestically monumental,
Stands: the august Telepathist is here.

Waves of perception, subtle emanations,
Thrill through the ether, circulate amain;
Delicate soft impalpable sensations,
Born of thy palate, quiver in his brain.

Lo! with a voice unspeakably dramatic,
Lo! with a gesture singularly fine,
He makes at last a lucid and emphatic
Statement of what is in that mouth of thine.

He could detect that peppermint's existence,
He read its nature in the book of doom;
Standing at some considerable distance;
Standing, in fact, in quite another room.

Was there a faint impenetrable essence
Wafted towards him from the sucking K.?
Did some pale ghost inform him of its presence?
Or did it happen in some other way?

These are the questions nobody can answer,
These are the problems nobody can solve;
Only we know that Man is an Advancer:
Only we know the Centuries revolve.

FRANCIS THOMPSON.

WAKE! FOR THE RUDDY BALL HAS TAKEN FLIGHT.

(EDWARD FITZGERALD)

I.

Wake! for the Ruddy Ball has taken flight
That scatters the slow Wicket of the Night;
And the swift Batsman of the Dawn has driven
Against the Star-spiked Rails a fiery Smite.

Wake, my Belovèd! take the Bat that clears
The sluggish Liver, and Dyspeptics cheers:
To-morrow? Why, to-morrow I may be
Myself with Hambledon and all its Peers.

To-day a Score of Batsmen brings, you say?
Yes, but where leaves the Bats of yesterday?
And this same summer day that brings a Knight
May take the Grace and Ranjitsinjh away.

Willsher the famed is gone with all his 'throws,'
And Alfred's Six-foot Reach where no man knows;
And Hornby--that great hitter--his own Son
Plays in his place, yet recks not the Red Rose.

And Silver Billy, Fuller Pilch and Small,
Alike the pigmy Briggs and Ulyett tall,
Have swung their Bats an hour or two before,
But none played out the last and silent Ball.

Well, let them Perish! What have we to do
With Gilbert Grace the Great, or that Hindu?
Let Hirst and Spooner slog them as they list,
Or Warren bowl his 'snorter'; care not you!

With me along the Strip of Herbage strown,
That is not laid or watered, rolled or sown,
Where name of Lord's and Oval is forgot,
And peace to Nicholas on his bomb-girt Throne.

A level Wicket, as the Ground allow,
A driving Bat, a lively Ball, and thou
Before me bowling on the Cricket-Pitch--
O Cricket-pitch were Paradise enow!

II.

I listened where the Grass was shaven small,
And heard the Bat that groaned against the Ball:
Thou pitchest Here and There, and Left and Right,
Nor deem I where the Spot thou next may'st Fall.

Forward I play, and Back, and Left and Right,
And overthrown at once, or stay till Night:
But this I know, where nothing else I know,
The last is Thine, how so the Bat shall smite.

This thing is sure, where nothing else is sure,
The boldest Bat may but a Space endure;
And he who One or who a Hundred hits
Falleth at ending to thy Force or Lure.

Wherefore am I allotted but a Day
To taste Delight, and make so brief a stay;
For Meed of all my Labour laid aside,
Ended alike the Player and the Play?

Behold, there is an Arm behind the Ball,
Nor the Bat's Stroke of its own Striking all;
And who the Gamesters, to what end the Game,
I think thereof our Willing is but small.

Against the Attack and Twist of Circumstance
Though I oppose Defence and shifty Glance,
What Power gives Nerve to me, and what Assaults,--
This is the Riddle. Let dull bats cry 'Chance.'

Is there a Foe that [domineers] the Ball?
And one that Shapes and wields us Willows all?
Be patient if Thy Creature in Thy Hand
Break, and the so-long-guarded Wicket fall!

Thus spoke the Bat. Perchance a foolish Speech
And wooden, for a Bat has straitened Reach:
Yet thought I, I had heard Philosophers
Prate much on this wise, and aspire to Teach.

Ah, let us take our Stand, and play the Game,
But rather for the Cause than for the Fame;
Albeit right evil is the Ground, and we
Know our Defence thereon will be but lame.

O Love, if thou and I could but Conspire
Against this Pitch of Life, so false with Mire,
Would we not Doctor it afresh, and then
Roll it out smoother to the Bat's Desire?

ROBERT FULLER MURRAY.

THE POET'S HAT.

(TENNYSON)

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose,
He passed through the doorway into the street,
A strong wind lifted his hat from his head,
And he uttered some words that were far from sweet.
And then he started to follow the chase,
And put on a spurt that was wild and fleet,
It made the people pause in a crowd,
And lay odds as to which would beat.

The street cad scoffed as he hunted the hat,
The errand-boy shouted hooray!
The scavenger stood with his broom in his hand,
And smiled in a very rude way;
And the clergyman thought, 'I have heard many words,
But never, until to-day,
Did I hear any words that were quite so bad
As I heard that young man say.'

A TENNYSONIAN FRAGMENT.

[Inserted by special permission of the Proprietors of _Punch_.]

(TENNYSON)

So in the village inn the poet dwelt.
His honey-dew was gone; only the pouch,
His cousin's work, her empty labour, left.
But still he sniffed it, still a fragrance clung
And lingered all about the broidered flowers.
Then came his landlord, saying in broad Scotch
'Smoke plug, mon,' whom he looked at doubtfully.
Then came the grocer, saying, 'Hae some twist
At tippence,' whom he answered with a qualm.

But when they left him to himself again,
Twist, like a fiend's breath from a distant room
Diffusing through the passage, crept; the smell
Deepening had power upon him, and he mixt
His fancies with the billow-lifted bay
Of Biscay and the rollings of a ship.

And on that night he made a little song,
And called his song 'The Song of Twist and Plug,'
And sang it; scarcely could he make or sing.

'Rank is black plug, though smoked in wind and rain;
And rank is twist, which gives no end of pain;
I know not which is ranker, no, not I.

'Plug, art thou rank? then milder twist must be;
Plug, thou art milder: rank is twist to me.
O twist, if plug be milder, let me buy.

'Rank twist that seems to make me fade away,
Rank plug, that navvies smoke in loveless clay,
I know not which is ranker, no, not I.

'I fain would purchase flake, if that could be;
I needs must purchase plug, ah, woe is me!
Plug and a cutty, a cutty, let me buy.'

ANDREW M'CRIE.

(FROM THE UNPUBLISHED REMAINS OF
EDGAR ALLAN POE)

It was many and many a year ago,
In a city by the sea,
That a man there lived whom I happened to know
By the name of Andrew M'Crie;
And this man he slept in another room,
But ground and had meals with me.

I was an ass and he was an ass,
In this city by the sea;
But we ground in a way which was more than a grind,
I and Andrew M'Crie;
In a way that the idle semis next door
Declared was shameful to see.

And this was the reason that, one dark night,
In this city by the sea,
A stone flew in at the window, hitting
The milk-jug and Andrew M'Crie.
And once some low-bred tertians came,
And bore him away from me,
And shoved him into a private house
Where the people were having tea.

Professors, not half so well up in their work,
Went envying him and me--
Yes!--that was the reason, I always thought
(And Andrew agreed with me),
Why they ploughed us both at the end of the year,
Chilling and killing poor Andrew M'Crie.

But his ghost is more terrible far than the ghosts
Of many more famous than he--
Of many more gory than he--
And neither visits to foreign coasts,
Nor tonics, can ever set free
Two well-known Profs from the haunting wraith
Of the injured Andrew M'Crie.

For at night, as they dream, they frequently scream,
'Have mercy, Mr. M'Crie!'
And at morn they will rise with bloodshot eyes,
And the very first thing they will see,
When they dare to descend to their coffee and rolls,
Sitting down by the scuttle, the scuttle of coals,
With a volume of notes on its knee,
Is the spectre of Andrew M'Crie.

UNKNOWN.

THE TOWN LIFE

(ROGERS)

Mine is a house at Notting Hill:
The Indian's tum-tum smites my ear;
A crowd enjoys a casual 'mill'
With no policeman lingering near.

The thief attempts the chain and watch
Conspicuous in my spacious vest;
Their balls of brass the tumblers catch,
In soiled and spangled garments dressed.

Around my steps street-organs bring
The dirtiest brats that can be seen;
And boys turn wheels, and niggers sing
To banjo and to tambourine.

The dustman bawls; the beggars tease
When coppers are not duly given;
Whilst papers, flowers, and fusees,
Annoy me six days out of seven.

FISH HAVE THEIR TIMES TO BITE.

(MRS. HEMANS)

Fish have their times to bite--
The bream in summer, and the trout in spring,
What time the hawthorn buds are white,
And streams are clear, and winds low-whispering.

The pike bite free when fall
The autumn leaves before the north-wind's breath,
And tench in June, but there are all--
There are all seasons for the gudgeon's death.

The trout his ambush keeps
Crafty and strong, in Pangbourne's eddying pools,
And patient still in Marlow deeps
For the shy barbel wait expectant fools.

Many the perch but small
That swim in Basildon, and Thames hath nought
Like Cookham's pike, but, oh! in all--
Yes, in all places are the gudgeon caught.

The old man angles still
For roach, and sits red-faced and fills his chair;
And perch, the boy expects to kill,
And roves and fishes here and fishes there.

The child but three feet tall
For the gay minnows and the bleak doth ply
His bending hazel, but by all--
Oh! by all hands the luckless gudgeon die.

ANOTHER ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND

(KINGSLEY)

Hang thee, vile North Easter:
Other things may be
Very bad to bear with,
Nothing equals thee.
Grim and grey North Easter,
From each Essex-bog,
From the Plaistow marshes,
Rolling London fog--
'Tired we are of Summer'
Kingsley may declare,
I give the assertion
Contradiction bare,
I, in bed, this morning
Felt thee, as I lay:
'There's a vile North Easter
Out of doors to-day!'
Set the dust clouds blowing
Till each face they strike,
With the blacks is growing
Chimney-sweeper like.
Fill our rooms with smoke gusts
From the chimney-pipe.
Fill our eyes with water,
That defies the wipe.
Through the draughty passage
Whistle loud and high,
Making doors and windows
Rattle, flap and fly;
Mark, that vile North Easter
Roaring up the vent,
Nipping soul and body,
Breeding discontent!
Squall, my noisy children;
Smoke, my parlour grate;
Scold, my shrewish partner;
I accept my fate.
All is quite in tune with
This North Eastern Blast;
Who can look for comfort
Till this wind be past?
If all goes contrary,
Who can feel surprise,
With this Rude North Easter
In his teeth and eyes?
It blows much too often.
Nine days out of ten,
Yet we boast our climate,
Like true English men!
In their soft South Easters
Could I bask at ease,
I'd let France and Naples
Bully as they please,
But while this North Easter
In one's teeth is hurled,
Liberty seems worth just
Nothing in the world.
Come, as came our fathers
Heralded by thee,
Blasting, blighting, burning
Out of Normandy.
Come and flay and skin us,
And dry up our blood--
All to have a Kingsley
Swear it does him good!

A GIRTONIAN FUNERAL.

(BROWNING)

The _Academy_ reports that the students of Girton College have dissolved their 'Browning Society,' and expended its remaining funds, two shillings and twopence, upon chocolate creams.

Let us begin and portion out these sweets,
Sitting together.
Leave we our deep debates, our sage conceits,--
Wherefore? and whether?
Thus with a fine that fits the work begun
Our labours crowning,
For we, in sooth, our duty well have done
By Robert Browning.
Have we not wrought at essay and critique,
Scorning supine ease?
Wrestled with clauses crabbed as Bito's Greek,
Baffling as Chinese?
Out the Inn Album's mystic heart we took,
Lucid of soul, and
Threaded the mazes of the Ring and Book;
Cleared up Childe Roland.
We settled Fifine's business--let her be--
(Strangest of lasses;)
Watched by the hour some thick-veiled truth to see
Where Pippa passes.
(Though, dare we own, secure in victors' gains,
Ample to shield us?
Red Cotton Night-cap Country for our pains
Little would yield us.)
What then to do? Our culture-feast drag out
E'en to satiety?
Oft such the fate that findeth, nothing doubt,
Such a Society.
Oh, the dull meetings! Some one yawns an _aye_,
One gapes again a _yea_.
We girls determined not to yawn, but buy
Chocolate Ménier.
Fry's creams are cheap, but Cadbury's excel,
(Quick, Maud, for none wait)
Nay, now, 'tis Ménier bears away the bell,
Sold by the ton-weight.
So, with unburdened brains and spirits light,
Blithe did we troop hence,
All our funds voted for this closing rite,--
Just two-and-two-pence.
Do--make in scorn, old Crœsus, proud and glum,
Peaked eyebrow lift eye;
Put case one stick's a halfpenny; work the sum;
Full two and fifty.
Off with the twine! who scans each smooth brown slab
Yet not supposeth
What soft, sweet, cold, pure whiteness, bound in drab.
Tooth's bite discloseth?
Are they not grand? Why (you may think it odd)
Some power alchemic
Turns, as we munch, to Zeus-assenting nod
Sneers Academic.
Till, when one cries, ''Ware hours that fleet like clouds,
Time, deft escaper!'
We answer bold: 'Leave Time to Dons and Dowds;
(Grace, pass the paper)
Say, boots it aught to evermore affect
Raptures high-flying?
Though _we_ choose chocolate, will the world suspect
Genius undying?'

NOTES

P. 1. _Rejected Addresses._ First published anonymously in the autumn of 1812. The authors, James Smith (1775-1839) and Horace Smith (1779-1849) were brothers, the former a solicitor, the latter a stockbroker. James wrote a number of 'entertainments' for Charles Mathews, who described him as 'the only man in London who can write good nonsense.' Horace wrote more than a score of novels and collections of stories, of which, perhaps, _Brambletye House_ is the best remembered. It was of him that Shelley wrote, in the _Letter to Maria Gisborne_:

Wit and sense,
Virtue and human knowledge; all that might
Make this dull world a business of delight,
Are all combined in Horace Smith.

How the _Rejected Addresses_ came to be written is told in the authors' prefaces: