Chapter II: Part 2

While cynic CHARLES still trimm'd the vane
'Twixt _Querouaille_ and _Castlemaine_,
In days that shocked JOHN EVELYN,
My First Possessor fixed me in.
In days of _Dutchmen_, and of frost,
The narrow sea with JAMES I cross'd,
Returning when once more began
The Age of _Saturn_ and of ANNE.
I am a part of all the past;
I knew the GEORGES, first and last;
I have been oft where else was none
Save the great wig of ADDISON;
And seen on shelves beneath me grope
The little eager form of POPE.
I lost the Third that owned me when
French NOAILLES fled at Dettingen;
The year JAMES WOLFE surpris'd Quebec,
The Fourth in hunting broke his neck;
The day that WILLIAM HOGARTH dy'd,
The Fifth one found me in Cheapside.
This was a _Scholar_, one of those
Whose _Greek_ is sounder than their _hose_;
He lov'd old Books and nappy ale,
So liv'd at Streatham, next to THRALE.
'Twas there this stain of grease I boast
Was made by Dr. JOHNSON'S toast.
(He did it, as I think, for Spite;
My Master call'd him _Jacobite_!)
And now that I so long to-day
Have rested _post discrimina_,
Safe in the brass-wir'd book-case where
I watch'd the Vicar's whit'ning hair,
Must I these travell'd bones inter
In some _Collector's_ sepulchre!
Must I be torn herefrom and thrown
With _frontispiece_ and _colophon_!
With vagrant _E's_, and _I's_, and _O's_,
The spoil of plunder'd _Folios_!
With scraps and snippets that to ME
Are naught but _kitchen company_!
Nay, rather, FRIEND, this favour grant me:
Tear me at once; _but don't transplant me_.

Cheltenham,
_Sept. 31, 1792._

PALOMYDES.

Him best in all the dim Arthuriad,
Of lovers of fair women, him I prize,--
The Pagan Palomydes. Never glad
Was he with sweetness of his lady's eyes,
Nor joy he had.

But, unloved ever, still must love the same,
And riding ever through a lonely world,
Whene'er on adverse shield or crest he came,
Against the danger desperately hurled,
Crying her name.

So I, who strove to You I may not earn,
Methinks, am come unto so high a place,
That though from hence I can but vainly yearn
For that averted favour of your face,
I shall not turn.

No, I am come too high. Whate'er betide,
To find the doubtful thing that fights with me,
Toward the mountain tops I still shall ride,
And cry your name in my extremity,
As Palomyde,
Until the issue come. Will it disclose
No gift of grace, no pity made complete,
After much labour done,--much war with woes?
Will you deny me still in Heaven, my sweet;--
Ah, Death--who knows?

ANDRÉ LE CHAPELAIN.

(_Clerk of Love, 1170._)

HIS PLAINT TO VENUS OF THE COMING YEARS.

"_Plus ne suis ce que j'ay esté_
_Et ne le sçaurois jamais estre;_
_Mon beau printemps et mon esté_
_Ont fait le saut par la fenestre._"

Queen Venus, round whose feet,
To tend thy sacred fire,
With service bitter-sweet
Nor youths nor maidens tire;--
Goddess, whose bounties be
Large as the un-oared sea;--

Mother, whose eldest born
First stirred his stammering tongue,
In the world's youngest morn,
When the first daisies sprung:--
Whose last, when Time shall die,
In the same grave shall lie:--

Hear thou one suppliant more!
Must I, thy Bard, grow old,
Bent, with the temples frore,
Not jocund be nor bold,
To tune for folk in May
Ballad and virelay?

Shall the youths jeer and jape,
"Behold his verse doth dote,--
Leave thou Love's lute to scrape,
And tune thy wrinkled throat
To songs of 'Flesh is Grass,'"--
Shall they cry thus and pass?

And the sweet girls go by?
"Beshrew the grey-beard's tune!--
What ails his minstrelsy
To sing us snow in June!"
Shall they too laugh, and fleet
Far in the sun-warmed street?

But Thou, whose beauty bright,
Upon thy wooded hill,
With ineffectual light
The wan sun seeketh still;--
Woman, whose tears are dried,
Hardly, for Adon's side,--

Have pity, Erycine!
Withhold not all thy sweets;
Must I thy gifts resign
For Love's mere broken meats;
And suit for alms prefer
That was thine Almoner?

Must I, as bondsman, kneel
That, in full many a cause,
Have scrolled thy just appeal?
Have I not writ thy Laws?
_That none from Love shall take
Save but for Love's sweet sake;_--

_That none shall aught refuse
To Love of Love's fair dues;--
That none dear Love shall scoff
Or deem foul shame thereof;--
That none shall traitor be
To Love's own secrecy;_--

Avert,--avert it, Queen!
Debarred thy listed sports,
Let me at least be seen
An usher in thy courts,
Outworn, but still indued
With badge of servitude.

When I no more may go,
As one who treads on air,
To string-notes soft and slow,
By maids found sweet and fair--
When I no more may be
Of Love's blithe company;--

When I no more may sit
Within thine own pleasànce,
To weave, in sentence fit,
Thy golden dalliance;
When other hands than these
Record thy soft decrees;--

Leave me at least to sing
About thine outer wall,
To tell thy pleasuring,
Thy mirth, thy festival;
Yea, let my swan-song be
Thy grace, thy sanctity.

[_Here ended André's words:_
_But One that writeth, saith--_
_Betwixt his stricken chords_
_He heard the Wheels of Death;_
_And knew the fruits Love bare_
_But Dead-Sea apples were._]

THE WATER OF GOLD.

"Buy,--who'll buy?" In the market-place,
Out of the market din and clatter,
The quack with his puckered persuasive face
Patters away in the ancient patter.

"Buy,--who'll buy? In this flask I hold--
In this little flask that I tap with my stick, Sir--
Is the famed, infallible Water of Gold,--
The One, Original, True Elixir!

"Buy--who'll buy? There's a maiden there,--
She with the ell-long flaxen tresses,--
Here is a draught that will make you fair,
Fit for an emperor's own caresses!

"Buy,--who'll buy? Are you old and gray?
Drink but of this, and in less than a minute,
Lo! you will dance like the flowers in May,
Chirp and chirk like a new-fledged linnet!

"Buy,--who'll buy? Is a baby ill?
Drop but a drop of this in his throttle,
Straight he will gossip and gorge his fill,
Brisk as a burgher over a bottle!

"Here is wealth for your life,--if you will but ask;
Here is health for your limb, without lint or lotion;
Here is all that you lack, in this tiny flask;
And the price is a couple of silver groschen!

"Buy,--who'll buy?" So the tale runs on:
And still in the great world's market-places
The Quack, with his quack catholicon,
Finds ever his crowd of upturned faces;

For he plays on our hearts with his pipe and drum,
On our vague regret, on our weary yearning;
For he sells the thing that never can come,
Or the thing that has vanished, past returning.

A FANCY FROM FONTENELLE.

"_De mémoires de Roses on n'a point vu mourir le Jardinier._"

The Rose in the garden slipped her bud,
And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood,
As she thought of the Gardener standing by--
"He is old,--so old! And he soon must die!"

The full Rose waxed in the warm June air,
And she spread and spread till her heart lay bare;
And she laughed once more as she heard his tread--
"He is older now! He will soon be dead!"

But the breeze of the morning blew, and found
That the leaves of the blown Rose strewed the ground;
And he came at noon, that Gardener old,
And he raked them gently under the mould.

_And I wove the thing to a random rhyme,
For the Rose is Beauty, the Gardener, Time._

DON QUIXOTE.

Behind thy pasteboard, on thy battered hack,
Thy lean cheek striped with plaster to and fro,
Thy long spear levelled at the unseen foe,
And doubtful Sancho trudging at thy back,
Thou wert a figure strange enough, good lack!
To make Wiseacredom, both high and low,
Rub purblind eyes, and (having watched thee go)
Dispatch its Dogberrys upon thy track:
Alas! poor Knight! Alas! poor soul possest?
Yet would to-day when Courtesy grows chill,
And life's fine loyalties are turned to jest,
Some fire of thine might burn within us still!
Ah, would but one might lay his lance in rest,
And charge in earnest--were it but a mill!

A BROKEN SWORD.

(To A. L.)

The shopman shambled from the doorway out
And twitched it down--
Snapped in the blade! 'Twas scarcely dear, I doubt,
At half-a-crown.

Useless enough! And yet can still be seen,
In letters clear,
Traced on the metal's rusty damaskeen--
"_Povr Paruenyr._"

Whose was it once?--Who manned it once in hope
His fate to gain?
Who was it dreamed his oyster-world should ope
To this--in vain?

Maybe with some stout Argonaut it sailed
The Western Seas;
Maybe but to some paltry Nym availed
For toasting cheese!

Or decked by Beauty on some morning lawn
With silken knot,
Perchance, ere night, for Church and King 'twas drawn--
Perchance 'twas not!

Who knows--or cares? To-day, 'mid foils and gloves
Its hilt depends,
Flanked by the favours of forgotten loves,--
Remembered friends;--

And oft its legend lends, in hours of stress,
A word to aid;
Or like a warning comes, in puffed success,
Its broken blade.

THE POET'S SEAT.

AN IDYLL OF THE SUBURBS.

"_Ille terrarum mihi præter omnes
Angulus_ Ridet."
--Hor. ii. 6.

It was an elm-tree root of yore,
With lordly trunk, before they lopped it,
And weighty, said those five who bore
Its bulk across the lawn, and dropped it
Not once or twice, before it lay.
With two young pear-trees to protect it,
Safe where the Poet hoped some day
The curious pilgrim would inspect it.

He saw him with his Poet's eye,
The stately Maori, turned from etching
The ruin of St. Paul's, to try
Some object better worth the sketching:--
He saw him, and it nerved his strength
What time he hacked and hewed and scraped it,
Until the monster grew at length
The Master-piece to which he shaped it.

To wit--a goodly garden seat,
And fit alike for Shah or Sophy,
With shelf for cigarettes complete,
And one, but lower down, for coffee;
He planted pansies 'round its foot,--
"Pansies for thoughts!" and rose and arum;
The Motto (that he meant to put)
Was "_Ille angulus terrarum._"

But "Oh! the change" (as Milton sings)--
"The heavy change!" When May departed,
When June with its "delightful things"
Had come and gone, the rough bark started,--
Began to lose its sylvan brown,
Grew parched, and powdery, and spotted;
And, though the Poet nailed it down,
It still flapped up, and dropped, and rotted.

Nor was this all. 'Twas next the scene
Of vague (and viscous) vegetations;
Queer fissures gaped, with oozings green,
And moist, unsavoury exhalations,--
Faint wafts of wood decayed and sick,
Till, where he meant to carve his Motto,
Strange leathery fungi sprouted thick,
And made it like an oyster grotto.

Briefly, it grew a seat of scorn,
Bare,--shameless,--till, for fresh disaster,
From end to end, one April morn,
'Twas riddled like a pepper caster,--
Drilled like a vellum of old time;
And musing on this final mystery,
The Poet left off scribbling rhyme,
And took to studying Natural History.

This was the turning of the tide;
His five-act play is still unwritten;
The dreams that now his soul divide
Are more of Lubbock than of Lytton;
"_Ballades_" are "verses vain" to him
Whose first ambition is to lecture
(So much is man the sport of whim!)
On "Insects and their Architecture."

THE LOST ELIXIR.

"_One drop of ruddy human blood puts more life into the veins of a poem than all the delusive 'aurum potabile' that can be distilled out of the choicest library._"--Lowell.

Ah, yes, that "drop of human blood!"--
We had it once, may be,
When our young song's impetuous flood
First poured its ecstasy;
But now the shrunk poetic vein
Yields not that priceless drop again.

We toil,--as toiled we not of old;
Our patient hands distil
The shining spheres of chemic gold
With hard-won, fruitless skill;
But that red drop still seems to be
Beyond our utmost alchemy.

Perchance, but most in later age,
Time's after-gift, a tear,
Will strike a pathos on the page
Beyond all art sincere;
But that "one drop of human blood"
Has gone with life's first leaf and bud.

MEMORIAL VERSES.

A DIALOGUE

TO THE MEMORY OF MR. ALEXANDER POPE.

"_Non injussa cano._"
Virg.

POET. I sing of POPE--

FRIEND. What, POPE, the _Twitnam_ Bard,
Whom _Dennis_, _Cibber_, _Tibbald_ push'd so hard!
POPE of the _Dunciad_! POPE who dar'd to woo,
And then to libel, _Wortley-Montagu_!
POPE of the _Ham-walks_ story--

P. Scandals all!
Scandals that now I care not to recall.
Surely a little, in two hundred Years,
One may neglect Contemporary Sneers:--
Surely Allowance for the Man may make
That had all _Grub-street_ yelping in his Wake!
And who (I ask you) has been never Mean,
When urged by Envy, Anger or the Spleen?
No: I prefer to look on POPE as one
Not rightly happy till his Life was done;
Whose whole Career, romance it as you please,
Was (what he call'd it) but a "long Disease:"
Think of his Lot,--his Pilgrimage of Pain,
His "crazy Carcass" and his restless Brain;
Think of his Night-Hours with their Feet of Lead,
His dreary Vigil and his aching Head;
Think of all this, and marvel then to find
The "crooked Body with a crooked Mind!"
Nay rather, marvel that, in Fate's Despite,
You find so much to solace and delight,--
So much of Courage, and of Purpose high
In that unequal Struggle _not_ to die.
I grant you freely that POPE played his Part
Sometimes ignobly--but he lov'd his Art;
I grant you freely that he sought his Ends
Not always wisely--but he lov'd his Friends;
And who of Friends a nobler Roll could show--
_Swift_, _St. John_, _Bathurst_, _Marchmont_, _Peterb'ro'_,
_Arbuthnot_--

FR. ATTICUS?

P. Well (_entre nous_),
Most that he said of _Addison_ was _true_.
Plain Truth, you know--

FR. Is often not polite
(So _Hamlet_ thought)--

P. And _Hamlet_ (Sir) was right.
But leave POPE'S Life. To-day, methinks, we touch
The Work too little and the Man too much.
Take up the _Lock_, the _Satires_, _Eloise_--
What Art supreme, what Elegance, what Ease!
How keen the Irony, the Wit how bright,
The Style how rapid, and the Verse how light!
Then read once more, and you shall wonder yet
At Skill, at Turn, at Point, at Epithet.
"True Wit is Nature to Advantage dress'd"--
Was ever Thought so pithily express'd?
"And ten low Words oft creep in one dull Line"--
Ah, what a Homily on Yours ... and Mine!
Or take--to choose at Random--take but This--
"Ten censure wrong for one that writes amiss."

FR. Pack'd and precise, no Doubt. Yet surely those
Are but the Qualities we ask of Prose,
Was he a POET?

P. Yes: if that be what
_Byron_ was certainly and _Bowles_ was not;
Or say you grant him, to come nearer Date,
What _Dryden_ had, that was denied to _Tate_--

FR. Which means, you claim for him the Spark divine,
Yet scarce would place him on the highest Line--

P. True, there are Classes. POPE was most of all
Akin to _Horace_, _Persius_, _Juvenal_;
POPE was, like them, the Censor of his Age,
An Age more suited to Repose than Rage;
When Rhyming turn'd from Freedom to the Schools,
And shock'd with Licence, shudder'd into Rules;
When _Phoebus_ touch'd the Poet's trembling Ear
With one supreme Commandment _Be thou Clear_;
When Thought meant less to reason than compile,
And the _Muse_ labour'd ... chiefly with the File.
Beneath full Wigs no Lyric drew its Breath
As in the Days of great ELIZABETH;
And to the Bards of ANNA was denied
The Note that _Wordsworth_ heard on _Duddon_-side.
But POPE took up his Parable, and knit
The Woof of Wisdom with the Warp of Wit;
He trimm'd the Measure on its equal Feet,
And smooth'd and fitted till the Line was neat;
He taught the Pause with due Effect to fall;
He taught the Epigram to come at Call;
He wrote----

FR. His _Iliad_!

P. Well, suppose you own
You like your _Iliad_ in the Prose of _Bohn_,--
Tho' if you'd learn in Prose how _Homer_ sang,
'Twere best to learn of _Butcher_ and of _Lang_,--
Suppose you say your Worst of POPE, declare
His Jewels Paste, his Nature a Parterre,
His Art but Artifice--I ask once more
Where have you seen such Artifice before?
Where have you seen a Parterre better grac'd,
Or gems that glitter like his Gems of Paste?
Where can you show, among your Names of Note,
So much to copy and so much to quote?
And where, in Fine, in all our English Verse,
A Style more trenchant and a Sense more terse?

So I, that love the old _Augustan_ Days
Of formal Courtesies and formal Phrase;
That like along the finish'd Line to feel
The Ruffle's Flutter and the Flash of Steel;
That like my Couplet as compact as clear;
That like my Satire sparkling tho' severe,
Unmix'd with Bathos and unmarr'd by Trope,
I fling my Cap for Polish--and for POPE!

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE

_To * * Esq. of * * with a Life of the late Ingenious M^r. W^m. Hogarth._

Dear Cosmopolitan,--I know
I should address you a _Rondeau_,
Or else announce what I've to say
At least _en Ballade fratrisée_;
But No: for once I leave Gymnasticks,
And take to simple _Hudibrasticks_;
Why should I choose another Way,
When this was good enough for GAY?

You love, my FRIEND, with me, I think,
That Age of Lustre and of Link;
Of _Chelsea_ China and long "s"es,
Of Bag-wigs and of flowered Dresses;
That Age of Folly and of Cards,
Of Hackney Chairs and Hackney Bards;
--No H--LTS, no K--G--N P--LS were then
Dispensing Competence to Men;
The gentle Trade was left to Churls,
Your frowsy TONSONS and your CURLLS;
Mere Wolves in Ambush to attack
The AUTHOR in a Sheep-skin Back;
Then SAVAGE and his Brother-Sinners
In _Porridge-Island_ div'd for Dinners;
Or doz'd on _Covent Garden_ Bulks,
And liken'd Letters to the Hulks;--
You know that by-gone Time, I say,
That aimless easy-moral'd Day,
When rosy Morn found MADAM still
Wrangling at _Ombre_ or _Quadrille_,
When good Sir JOHN reel'd Home to Bed,
From _Pontack's_ or the _Shakespear's Head_;
When TRIP _convey'd_ his Master's Cloaths,
And took his Titles and his Oaths;
While BETTY, in a cast _Brocade_,
Ogled MY LORD at Masquerade;
When GARRICK play'd the guilty _Richard_,
Or mouth'd _Macbeth_ with Mrs. PRITCHARD;
When FOOTE grimac'd his snarling Wit;
When CHURCHILL bullied in the Pit;
When the CUZZONI sang--
But there!
The further Catalogue I spare,
Having no Purpose to eclipse
That tedious Tale of HOMER'S Ships;--
This is the MAN that drew it all
From _Pannier Alley_ to the _Mall_,
Then turn'd and drew it once again
From _Bird-Cage Walk_ to _Lewknor's Lane_;--
Its Rakes and Fools, its Rogues and Sots;
Its brawling Quacks, its starveling Scots;
Its Ups and Downs, its Rags and Garters,
Its HENLEYS, LOVATS, MALCOLMS, CHARTRES;
Its Splendour, Squalor, Shame, Disease;
Its _quicquid agunt Homines_;--
Nor yet omitted to pourtray
_Furens quid possit Foemina_;--
In short, held up to ev'ry Class
NATURE'S unflatt'ring looking-Glass;
And, from his Canvass, spoke to All
The Message of a JUVENAL.

Take Him. His Merits most aver:
His weak Point is--his Chronicler!

Nov^r. 1, 1879.

HENRY FIELDING.

(To James Russell Lowell.)

Not from the ranks of those we call
Philosopher or Admiral,--
Neither as LOCKE was, nor as BLAKE,
Is that Great Genius for whose sake
We keep this Autumn festival.

And yet in one sense, too, was he
A soldier--of humanity;
And, surely, philosophic mind
Belonged to him whose brain designed
That teeming COMIC EPOS where,
As in CERVANTES and MOLIÈRE,
Jostles the medley of Mankind.

Our ENGLISH NOVEL'S pioneer!
His was the eye that first saw clear
How, not in natures half-effaced
By cant of Fashion and of Taste,--
Not in the circles of the Great,
Faint-blooded and exanimate,--
Lay the true field of Jest and Whim,
Which we to-day reap after him.
No:--he stepped lower down and took
The piebald PEOPLE for his Book!

Ah, what a wealth of Life there is
In that large-laughing page of his!
What store and stock of Common-Sense,
Wit, Wisdom, Books, Experience!
How his keen Satire flashes through,
And cuts a sophistry in two!
How his ironic lightning plays
Around a rogue and all his ways!
Ah, how he knots his lash to see
That ancient cloak, Hypocrisy!

Whose are the characters that give
Such round reality?--that live
With such full pulse? Fair SOPHY yet
Sings _Bobbing Joan_ at the spinet;
We see AMELIA cooking still
That supper for the recreant WILL;
We hear Squire WESTERN'S headlong tones
Bawling "Wut ha?--wut ha?" to JONES.
Are they not present now to us,--
The Parson with his _Æschylus_?
SLIPSLOP the frail, and NORTHERTON,
PARTRIDGE, and BATH, and HARRISON?--
Are they not breathing, moving,--all
The motley, merry carnival
That FIELDING kept, in days agone?

He was the first who dared to draw
Mankind the mixture that he saw;
Not wholly good nor ill, but both,
With fine intricacies of growth.
He pulled the wraps of flesh apart,
And showed the working human heart;
He scorned to drape the truthful nude
With smooth, decorous platitude!

He was too frank, may be; and dared
Too boldly. Those whose faults he bared,
Writhed in the ruthless grasp that brought
Into the light their secret thought.
Therefore the TARTUFFE-throng who say
"_Couvrez ce sein_," and look that way,--
Therefore the Priests of Sentiment
Rose on him with their garments rent.
Therefore the gadfly swarm whose sting
Plies ever round some generous thing,
Buzzed of old bills and tavern-scores,
Old "might-have-beens" and "heretofores";--
Then, from that garbled record-list,
Made him his own Apologist.

And was he? Nay,--let who has known
Nor Youth nor Error, cast the stone!
If to have sense of Joy and Pain
Too keen,--to rise, to fall again,
To live too much,--be sin, why then,
This was no pattern among men.
But those who turn that later page,
The Journal of his middle-age,
Watch him serene in either fate,--
Philanthropist and Magistrate;
Watch him as Husband, Father, Friend,
Faithful, and patient to the end;
Grieving, as e'en the brave may grieve,
But for the loved ones he must leave:
These will admit--if any can--
That 'neath the green Estrella trees,
No Artist merely, but a MAN,
Wrought on our noblest island-plan,
Sleeps with the alien Portuguese.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

"_Nec turpem senectam
Degere, nec cithara carentem._"
--Hor. i. 31.

"Not to be tuneless in old age!"
Ah! surely blest his pilgrimage,
Who, in his Winter's snow,
Still sings with note as sweet and clear
As in the morning of the year
When the first violets blow!

Blest!--but more blest, whom Summer's heat,
Whom Spring's impulsive stir and beat,
Have taught no feverish lure;
Whose Muse, benignant and serene,
Still keeps his Autumn chaplet green
Because his verse is pure!

Lie calm, O white and laureate head!
Lie calm, O Dead, that art not dead,
Since from the voiceless grave,
Thy voice shall speak to old and young
While song yet speaks an English tongue
By Charles' or Thamis' wave!

CHARLES GEORGE GORDON.

"Rather be dead than praised," he said,
That hero, like a hero dead,
In this slack-sinewed age endued
With more than antique fortitude!

"Rather be dead than praised!" Shall we,
Who loved thee, now that Death sets free
Thine eager soul, with word and line
Profane that empty house of thine?

Nay,--let us hold, be mute. Our pain
Will not be less that we refrain;
And this our silence shall but be
A larger monument to thee.

VICTOR HUGO.

He set the trumpet to his lips, and lo!
The clash of waves, the roar of winds that blow,
The strife and stress of Nature's warring things,
Rose like a storm-cloud, upon angry wings.

He set the reed-pipe to his lips, and lo!
The wreck of landscape took a rosy glow,
And Life, and Love, and gladness that Love brings
Laughed in the music, like a child that sings.

Master of each, Arch-Master! We that still
Wait in the verge and outskirt of the Hill
Look upward lonely--lonely to the height
Where thou has climbed, for ever, out of sight!

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

EMIGRAVIT, OCTOBER VI., MDCCCXCII.

Grief there will be, and may,
When King Apollo's bay
Is cut midwise;
Grief that a song is stilled,
Grief for the unfulfilled
Singer that dies.

Not so we mourn thee now,
Not so we grieve that thou,
MASTER, art passed,
Since thou thy song didst raise,
Through the full round of days,
E'en to the last.

Grief there may be, and will,
When that the Singer still
Sinks in the song;
When that the wingéd rhyme
Fails of the promised prime,
Ruined and wrong.

Not thus we mourn thee--we--
Not thus we grieve for thee,
MASTER and Friend;
Since, like a clearing flame,
Clearer thy pure song came
E'en to the end.

Nay--nor for thee we grieve
E'en as for those that leave
Life without name;
Lost as the stars that set,
Empty of men's regret,
Empty of fame.

Rather we count thee one
Who, when his race is run,
Layeth him down,
Calm--through all coming days,
Filled with a nation's praise,
Filled with renown.

FABLES OF LITERATURE AND ART.

THE POET AND THE CRITICS.

If those who wield the Rod forget,
'Tis truly--_Quis custodiet?_

A certain Bard (as Bards will do)
Dressed up his Poems for Review.
His Type was plain, his Title clear;
His Frontispiece by FOURDRINIER.
Moreover, he had on the Back
A sort of sheepskin Zodiac;--
A Mask, a Harp, an Owl,--in fine,
A neat and "classical" Design.
But the _in_-Side?--Well, good or bad,
The Inside was the best he had:
Much Memory,--more Imitation;--
Some Accidents of Inspiration;--
Some Essays in that finer Fashion
Where Fancy takes the place of Passion;--
And some (of course) more roughly wrought
To catch the Advocates of Thought.

In the less-crowded Age of ANNE,
Our Bard had been a favoured Man;
Fortune, more chary with the Sickle,
Had ranked him next to GARTH or TICKELL;--
He might have even dared to hope
A Line's Malignity from POPE!
But now, when Folks are hard to please,
And Poets are as thick as--Peas,
The Fates are not so prone to flatter,
Unless, indeed, a Friend ... No Matter.

The Book, then, had a minor Credit:
The Critics took, and doubtless read it.
Said A.--_These little Songs display
No lyric Gift; but still a Ray,--
A Promise. They will do no Harm._
'Twas kindly, if not _very_ warm.
Said B.--_The Author may, in Time,
Acquire the Rudiments of Rhyme:
His Efforts now are scarcely Verse._
This, certainly, could not be worse.

Sorely discomfited, our Bard
Worked for another ten Years--hard.
Meanwhile the World, unmoved, went on;
New Stars shot up, shone out, were gone;
Before his second Volume came
His Critics had forgot his Name:

And who, forsooth, is bound to know
Each Laureate _in embryo_!
They tried and tested him, no less,-
The sworn Assayers of the Press.
Said A.--_The Author may, in Time...._
Or much what B. had said of Rhyme.
Then B.--_These little Songs display...._
And so forth, in the sense of A.
Over the Bard I throw a Veil.

There is no MORAL to this Tale.

THE TOYMAN.

With Verse, is Form the first, or Sense?
Hereon men waste their Eloquence.

"Sense (cry the one Side), Sense, of course.
How can you lend your Theme its Force?
How can you be direct and clear,
Concise, and (best of all) sincere,
If you must pen your Strain sublime
In Bonds of Measure and of Rhyme?
Who ever heard true Grief relate
Its heartfelt Woes in 'six' and 'eight'?
Or felt his manly Bosom swell
Beneath a French-made _Villanelle_?
How can your _Mens divinior_ sing
Within the Sonnet's scanty Ring,
Where she must chant her Orphic Tale
In just so many Lines, or fail?..."

"Form is the first (the Others bawl);
If not, why write in Verse at all?
Why not your throbbing Thoughts expose
(If verse be such Restraint) in Prose?
For surely if you speak your Soul
Most freely where there's least Control,
It follows you must speak it best
By Rhyme (or Reason) unreprest.
Blest Hour! be not delayed too long,
When Britain frees her Slaves of Song;
And barred no more by Lack of Skill,
The Mob may crowd _Parnassus_ Hill!..."

Just at this Point--for you must know,
All this was but the To-and-fro
Of MATT and DICK who played with Thought,
And lingered longer than they ought
(So pleasant 'tis to tap one's Box
And trifle round a Paradox!)--
There came--but I forgot to say,
'Twas in the Mall, the Month was May--
There came a Fellow where they sat,
His Elf-locks peeping through his Hat,
Who bore a Basket. Straight his Load
He set upon the Ground, and showed
His newest Toy--a Card with Strings.
On this side was a Bird with Wings,
On that, a Cage. You twirled, and lo!
The Twain were one.
Said MATT, "E'en so.
Here's the Solution in a Word:--
Form is the Cage and Sense the Bird.
The Poet twirls them in his Mind,
And wins the Trick with both combined."

THE SUCCESSFUL AUTHOR.

When Fate presents us with the Bays,
We prize the Praiser, not the Praise.
We scarcely think our Fame eternal
If vouched for by the _Farthing Journal_;
But when the _Craftsman's_ self has spoken,
We take it for a certain Token.
This an Example best will show,
Derived from DENNIS DIDEROT.

A hackney Author, who'd essayed
All Hazards of the scribbling Trade;
And failed to live by every Mode,
From _Persian Tale_ to _Birthday Ode_;
Embarked at last, thro' pure Starvation,
In Theologic Speculation.
'Tis commonly affirmed his Pen
Had been most orthodox till then;
But oft, as SOCRATES has said,
The Stomach's stronger than the Head;
And, for a sudden Change of Creed,
There is no _Jesuit_ like Need.
Then, too, 'twas cheap; he took it all,
By force of Habit, from the Gaul.
He showed (the Trick is nowise new)
That Nothing we believe is true;
But chiefly that Mistake is rife
Touching the point of _After-Life_;
Here all were wrong from PLATO down:
His Price (in Boards) was Half-a-Crown.
The Thing created quite a Scare:--
He got a Letter from VOLTAIRE,
Naming him _Ami_ and _Confrère_;
Besides two most attractive Offers
Of Chaplaincies from noted Scoffers.
He fell forthwith his Head to lift,
To talk of "I and DR. SW--FT;"
And brag, at Clubs, as one who spoke,
On equal Terms, with BOLINGBROKE.
But, at the last, a Missive came
That put the Copestone to his Fame.
The Boy who brought it would not wait:
It bore a _Covent-Garden_ Date;--
A woful Sheet with doubtful Ink.
And Air of _Bridewell_ or the Clink,
It ran in this wise:--_Learned Sir!
We, whose Subscriptions follow here,
Desire to state our Fellow-feeling
In this Religion you're revealing.
You make it plain that if so be_
_We 'scape on Earth from_ Tyburn Tree,
_There's nothing left for us to fear
In this--or any other Sphere.
We offer you our Thanks; and hope
Your Honor, too, may cheat the Rope!_
With that came all the Names beneath,
As BLUESKIN, JERRY CLINCH, MACHEATH,
BET CARELESS, and the Rest--a Score
Of Rogues and _Bona Robas_ more.

This _Newgate Calendar_ he read:
'Tis not recorded what he said.

THE DILETTANT.

The most oppressive Form of Cant
Is that of your Art-Dilettant:--
Or rather "was." The Race, I own,
To-day is, happily, unknown.

A Painter, now by Fame forgot,
Had painted--'tis no matter what;
Enough that he resolved to try
The Verdict of a critic Eye.
The Friend he sought made no Pretence
To more than candid Common-sense,
Nor held himself from Fault exempt.
He praised, it seems, the whole Attempt.
Then, pausing long, showed here and there
That Parts required a nicer Care,--
A closer Thought. The Artist heard,
Expostulated, chafed, demurred.

Just then popped in a passing Beau,
Half Pertness, half Pulvilio;--
One of those Mushroom Growths that spring
From _Grand Tours_ and from Tailoring;--
And dealing much in terms of Art
Picked up at Sale and auction Mart.
Straight to the Masterpiece he ran
With lifted Glass, and thus began,
Mumbling as fast as he could speak:--
"Sublime!--prodigious!--truly Greek!
That 'Air of Head' is just divine;
That contour GUIDO, every line;
That Forearm, too, has quite the _Gusto_
Of the third Manner of ROBUSTO...."
Then, with a Simper and a Cough,
He skipped a little farther off:--
"The middle Distance, too, is placed
Quite in the best Italian Taste;
And Nothing could be more effective
Than the _Ordonnance_ and Perspective....
You've sold it?--No?--Then take my word,
I shall speak of it to MY LORD.
What!--I insist. Don't stir, I beg.
Adieu!" With that he made a Leg,
Offered on either Side his Box,--
So took his _Virtú_ off to COCK'S.

The Critic, with a Shrug, once more
Turned to the Canvas as before.
"Nay,"--said the Painter--"I allow
The Worst that you can tell me now.
'Tis plain my Art must go to School,
To win such Praises--from a FOOL!"

THE TWO PAINTERS.

In Art some hold Themselves content
If they but compass what they meant;
Others prefer, their Purpose gained,
Still to find Something unattained--
Something whereto they vaguely grope
With no more Aid than that of Hope.
Which are the Wiser? Who shall say!
The prudent Follower of GAY
Declines to speak for either View,
But sets his Fable 'twixt the two.

Once--'twas in good Queen ANNA'S Time--
While yet in this benighted Clime
The GENIUS of the ARTS (now known
On mouldy Pediments alone)
Protected all the Men of Mark,
Two Painters met Her in the Park.
Whether She wore the Robe of Air
Portrayed by VERRIO and LAGUERRE;
Or, like BELINDA, trod this Earth,
Equipped with Hoop of monstrous Girth,
And armed at every Point for Slaughter
With Essences and Orange-water,
I know not: but it seems that then,
After some talk of Brush and Pen,--
Some chat of Art both High and Low,
Of VAN'S "Goose-Pie" and KNELLER'S "_Mot_,"--
The Lady, as a Goddess should,
Bade Them ask of Her what They would.
"Then, Madam, my request," says BRISK,
Giving his _Ramillie_ a whisk,
"Is that your Majesty will crown
My humble Efforts with Renown.
Let me, I beg it--Thanks to You--
Be praised for Everything I do,
Whether I paint a Man of Note,
Or only plan a Petticoat."
"Nay," quoth the other, "I confess"
(This One was plainer in his Dress,
And even poorly clad), "for me,
I scorn Your Popularity.
Why should I care to catch at once
The Point of View of every Dunce?
Let me do well, indeed, but find
The Fancy first, the Work behind;
Nor wholly touch the thing I wanted...."
The Goddess both Petitions granted.

Each in his Way, achieved Success;
But One grew Great. And which One? Guess.

THE CLAIMS OF THE MUSE.

Too oft we hide our Frailties' Blame
Beneath some simple-sounding Name!
So Folks, who in gilt Coaches ride,
Will call Display but _Proper Pride_;
So Spendthrifts, who their Acres lose,
Curse not their Folly but the _Jews_;
So _Madam_, when her Roses faint,
Resorts to ... anything but _Paint_.

An honest Uncle, who had plied
His Trade of Mercer in _Cheapside_,
Until his Name on _'Change_ was found
Good for some Thirty Thousand Pound,
Was burdened with an Heir inclined
To thoughts of quite a different Kind.
His Nephew dreamed of Naught but Verse
From Morn to Night, and, what was worse,
He quitted all at length to follow
That "sneaking, whey-faced God, APOLLO."
In plainer Words, he ran up Bills
At _Child's_, at _Batson's_ and at _Will's_;
Discussed the Claims of rival Bards
At Midnight,--with a Pack of Cards;
Or made excuse for "t'other Bottle"
Over a point in ARISTOTLE.
This could not last, and like his Betters
He found, too soon, the _Cost_ of Letters.
Back to his Uncle's House he flew,
Confessing that he'd not a _Sou_.
'Tis true, his Reasons, if sincere,
Were more poetical than clear:
"Alas!" he said, "I name no Names:
The _Muse_, dear Sir, the _Muse_ has claims."
His Uncle, who, behind his Till,
Knew less of _Pindus_ than _Snow-Hill_,
Looked grave, but thinking (as Men say)
That Youth but once can have its Day,
Equipped anew his _Pride_ and _Hope_
To frisk it on _Parnassus_ Slope.
In one short Month he sought the Door
More shorn and ragged than before.
This Time he showed but small Contrition,
And gloried in his mean Condition.
"The greatest of our Race," he said,
"Through _Asian_ Cities begged his Bread.
The _Muse_--the _Muse_ delights to see
Not _Broadcloth_ but _Philosophy_!
Who doubts of this her Honour shames,
But (as you know) she has her Claims...."
"Friend," quoth his Uncle then, "I doubt
This scurvy Craft that you're about
Will lead your _philosophic_ Feet
Either to _Bedlam_ or the _Fleet_.
Still, as I would not have you lack,
Go get some _Broadcloth_ to your Back,
And--if it please this precious _Muse_--
'Twere well to purchase decent Shoes.
Though harkye, Sir...." The Youth was gone,
Before the good Man could go on.

And yet ere long again was seen
That Votary of _Hippocrene_.
As along _Cheap_ his Way he took,
His Uncle spied him by a Brook,
Not such as _Nymphs Castalian_ pour,--
'Twas but the Kennel, nothing more.
His Plight was plain by every Sign
Of Idiot Smile and Stains of Wine.
He strove to rise, and wagged his Head--
"The _Muse_, dear Sir, the _Muse_--" he said.
"_Muse!_" quoth the Other, in a Fury,
"The _Muse_ shan't serve you, I assure ye.
She's just some wanton, idle _Jade_
That makes young Fools forget their Trade,--
Who should be whipped, if I'd my Will,
From _Charing Cross_ to _Ludgate Hill_.
She's just...." But he began to stutter,
So left SIR GRACELESS in the Gutter.

THE 'SQUIRE AT VAUXHALL.

Nothing so idle as to waste
This Life disputing upon _Taste_;
And most--let that sad Truth be written--
In this contentious Land of _Britain_,
Where each one holds "it seems to me"
Equivalent to Q. E. D.,
And if you dare to doubt his Word
Proclaims you Blockhead and absurd.
And then, too often, the Debate
Is not 'twixt First and Second-rate,
Some narrow Issue, where a Touch
Of more or less can't matter much,
But, and this makes the Case so sad,
Betwixt undoubted Good and Bad.
Nay,--there are some so strangely wrought,--
So warped and twisted in their Thought,--
That, if the Fact be but confest,
They like the baser Thing the best.
Take BOTTOM, who for one, 'tis clear,
Possessed a "reasonable Ear;"
He might have had at his Command
The Symphonies of _Fairy-Land_;
Well, our immortal SHAKESPEAR owns
The Oaf preferred the "Tongs and Bones!"

'Squire HOMESPUN from _Clod-Hall_ rode down,
As the Phrase is--"to see the Town;"
(The Town, in those Days, mostly lay
Betwixt the _Tavern_ and the _Play_.)
Like all their Worships the J.P.'s,
He put up at the _Hercules_;
Then sallied forth on Shanks his Mare,
Rather than jolt it in a Chair,--
A curst, new-fangled _Little-Ease_,
That knocks your Nose against your Knees.
For the good 'Squire was Country-bred,
And had strange Notions in his Head,
Which made him see in every Cur
The starveling Breed of _Hanover_;
He classed your Kickshaws and _Ragoos_
With Popery and Wooden Shoes;
Railed at all Foreign Tongues as Lingo,
And sighed o'er _Chaos_ Wine for Stingo.

Hence, as he wandered to and fro,
Nothing could please him, high or low.
As _Savages_ at _Ships of War_
He looked unawed on _Temple-Bar_;
Scarce could conceal his Discontent
With _Fish-Street_ and the _Monument_;
And might (except at Feeding-Hour)
Have scorned the Lion in the _Tower_,
But that the Lion's Race was run,
And--for the Moment--there was none.

At length, blind Fate, that drives us all,
Brought him at Even to _Vauxhall_,
What Time the eager Matron jerks
Her slow Spouse to the _Water-Works_,
And the coy Spinster, half-afraid
Consults the _Hermit_ in the Shade.
Dazed with the Din and Crowd, the 'Squire
Sank in a Seat before the Choir.
The FAUSTINETTA, fair and showy,
Warbled an Air from _Arsinoë_,
Playing her Bosom and her Eyes
As Swans do when they agonize.
Alas! to some a Mug of Ale
Is better than an _Orphic Tale_!
The 'Squire grew dull, the 'Squire grew bored;
His chin dropt down; he slept; he snored.
Then, straying thro' the "poppied Reign,"
He dreamed him at _Clod-Hall_ again;
He heard once more the well-known Sounds,
The Crack of Whip, the Cry of Hounds.

He rubbed his Eyes, woke up, and lo!
A Change had come upon the Show.
Where late the Singer stood, a Fellow,
Clad in a Jockey's Coat of Yellow,
Was mimicking a Cock that crew.
Then came the Cry of Hounds anew,
_Yoicks! Stole Away!_ and harking back;
Then Ringwood leading up the Pack.
The 'Squire in Transport slapped his Knee
At this most hugeous Pleasantry.
The sawn Wood followed; last of all
The Man brought something in a Shawl,--
Something that struggled, scraped, and squeaked
As Porkers do, whose tails are tweaked.
Our honest 'Squire could scarcely sit
So excellent he thought the Wit.
But when _Sir Wag_ drew off the Sheath
And showed there was no Pig beneath,
His pent-up Wonder, Pleasure, Awe,
Exploded in a long Guffaw:
And, to his dying Day, he'd swear
That Naught in Town the Bell could bear
From "Jockey wi' the Yellow Coat
That had a Farm-Yard in his Throat!"

MORAL THE FIRST you may discover:
The 'Squire was like TITANIA'S lover;
He put a squeaking Pig before
The Harmony of CLAYTON'S Score.

MORAL THE SECOND--not so clear;
But still it shall be added here:
He praised the Thing he understood;
'Twere well if every Critic would.

THE CLIMACTERIC.

When do the reasoning Powers decline?
The Ancients said at Forty-Nine.
At Forty-Nine behoves it then
To quit the Inkhorn and the Pen,
Since ARISTOTLE so decreed.
Premising thus, we now proceed.

In that thrice-favoured Northern Land,
Where most the Flowers of Thought expand,
And all things nebulous grow clear,
Through Spectacles and Lager-Beer,
There lived, at _Dumpelsheim_ the Lesser,
A certain High-Dutch Herr Professor.
Than GROTIUS more alert and quick,
More logical than BURGERSDYCK,
His Lectures both so much transcended,
That far and wide his Fame extended,
Proclaiming him to every clime
Within a Mile of _Dumpelsheim_.
But chief he taught, by Day and Night,
The Doctrine of the Stagirite,
Proving it fixed beyond Dispute,
In Ways that none could well refute;
For if by Chance 'twas urged that Men
O'er-stepped the Limit now and then,
He'd show unanswerably still
Either that all they did was "Nil,"
Or else 'twas marked by Indication
Of grievous mental Degradation:
Nay--he could even trace, they say,
That Degradation to a Day.

The Years rolled on, and as they flew,
More famed the Herr Professor grew,
His "_Locus_ of the Pineal Gland"
(A Masterpiece he long had planned)
Had reached the End of Book Eleven,
And he was nearing Forty-Seven.
Admirers had not long to wait;
The last Book came at Forty-Eight,
And should have been the Heart and Soul--
The Crown and Summit--of the whole.
But now the oddest Thing ensued;
'Twas so insufferably crude,
So feeble and so poor, 'twas plain
The Writer's Mind was on the wane.
Nothing could possibly be said;
E'en Friendship's self must hang the head,
While jealous Rivals, scarce so civil,
Denounced it openly as "Drivel."
Never was such Collapse. In brief,
The poor Professor died of Grief.

With fitting mortuary Rhyme
They buried him at _Dumpelsheim_,
And as they sorrowing set about
A "Short Memoir," the Truth came out.
He had been older than he knew.
The Parish Clerk had put a "2"
In place of "Nought," and made his Date
Of Birth a Brace of Years too late.
When he had written Book the Last,
His true Climacteric had past!

MORAL.--To estimate your Worth,
Be certain as to date of Birth.

TALES IN RHYME.

THE VIRGIN WITH THE BELLS.

Much strange is true. And yet so much
Dan Time thereto of doubtful lays
He blurs them both beneath his touch:--

In this our tale his part he plays.
At Florence, so the legend tells,
There stood a church that men would praise

(Even where Art the most excels)
For works of price; but chief for one
They called the "Virgin with the Bells."

Gracious she was, and featly done,
With crown of gold about the hair,
And robe of blue with stars thereon,

And sceptre in her hand did bear;
And o'er her, in an almond tree,
Three little golden bells there were,

Writ with Faith, Hope, and Charity.
None knew from whence she came of old,
Nor whose the sculptor's name should be

Of great or small. But this they told:--
That once from out the blaze of square,
And bickering folk that bought and sold,

More moved no doubt of heat than prayer,
Came to the church an Umbrian,
Lord of much gold and champaign fair,

But, for all this, a hard, haught man.
To whom the priests, in humbleness,
At once to beg for alms began,

Praying him grant of his excess
Such as for poor men's bread might pay,
Or give their saint a gala-dress.

Thereat with scorn he answered--"Nay,
Most Reverend! Far too well ye know,
By guile and wile, the fox's way

"To swell the Church's overflow.
But ere from me the least carline
Ye win, this summer's sky shall snow;

"Or, likelier still, your doll's-eyed queen
Shall ring her bells ... but not of craft.
By Bacchus! ye are none too lean

"For fasting folk!" With that he laughed,
And so, across the porphyry floor,
His hand upon his dagger-haft,

Strode, and of these was seen no more.
Nor, of a truth, much marvelled they
At those his words, since gear and store

Oft dower shrunk souls. But, on a day,
While yet again throughout the square,
The buyers in their noisy way,

Chaffered around the basket ware,
It chanced (I but the tale reveal,
Nor true nor false therein declare)--

It chanced that when the priest would kneel
Before the taper's flickering flame,
Sudden a little tremulous peal

From out the Virgin's altar came.
And they that heard must fain recall
The Umbrian, and the words of shame

Spoke in his pride, and therewithal
Came news how, at that very date
And hour of time was fixed his fall,

Who, of the Duke, was banned the State,
And all his goods, and lands as well,
To Holy Church were confiscate.

Such is the tale the Frati tell.

A TALE OF POLYPHEME.

"There's nothing new"--Not that I go so far
As he who also said "There's nothing true,"
Since, on the contrary, I hold there are
Surviving still a verity or two;
But, as to novelty, in my conviction,
There's nothing new,--especially in fiction.

Hence, at the outset, I make no apology,
If this _my_ story is as old as Time,
Being, indeed, that idyll of mythology,--
The Cyclops' love,--which, somewhat varied, I'm
To tell once more, the adverse Muse permitting,
In easy rhyme, and phrases neatly fitting.

"Once on a time"--there's nothing new, I said--
It may be fifty years ago or more,
Beside a lonely posting-road that led
Seaward from Town, there used to stand of yore,
With low-built bar and old bow-window shady,
An ancient Inn, the "Dragon and the Lady."

Say that by chance, wayfaring Reader mine,
You cast a shoe, and at this dusty Dragon,
Where beast and man were equal on the sign,
Inquired at once for Blacksmith and for flagon:
The landlord showed you, while you drank your hops,
A road-side break beyond the straggling shops.

And so directed, thereupon you led
Your halting roadster to a kind of pass,
This you descended with a crumbling tread,
And found the sea beneath you like a glass;
And soon, beside a building partly walled--
Half hut, half cave--you raised your voice and called.

Then a dog growled; and straightway there began
Tumult within--for, bleating with affright,
A goat burst out, escaping from the can;
And, following close, rose slowly into sight--
Blind of one eye, and black with toil and tan--
An uncouth, limping, heavy-shouldered man.

Part smith, part seaman, and part shepherd too:
You scarce knew which, as, pausing with the pail
Half filled with goat's milk, silently he drew
An anvil forth, and reaching shoe and nail,
Bared a red forearm, bringing into view
Anchors and hearts in shadowy tattoo.

And then he lit his fire.... But I dispense
Henceforth with you, my Reader, and your horse,
As being but a colorable pretence
To bring an awkward hero in perforce;
Since this our smith, for reasons never known,
To most society preferred his own.

Women declared that he'd an "Evil Eye,"--
This in a sense was true--he had but one;
Men, on the other hand, alleged him shy:
We sometimes say so of the friends we shun;
But, wrong or right, suffices to affirm it--
The Cyclops lived a veritable hermit,--

Dwelling below the cliff, beside the sea,
Caved like an ancient British Troglodyte,
Milking his goat at eve, and it may be,
Spearing the fish along the flats at night,
Until, at last, one April evening mild,
Came to the Inn a Lady and a Child.

The Lady was a nullity; the Child
One of those bright bewitching little creatures,
Who, if she once but shyly looked and smiled,
Would soften out the ruggedest of features;
Fragile and slight,--a very fay for size,--
With pale town-cheeks, and "clear germander eyes."

Nurses, no doubt, might name her "somewhat wild;"
And pedants, possibly, pronounce her "slow;"
Or corset-makers add, that for a child,
She needed "cultivation;"--all I know
Is that whene'er she spoke, or laughed, or romped, you
Felt in each act the beauty of impromptu.

The Lady was a nullity--a pale,
Nerveless and pulseless quasi-invalid,
Who, lest the ozone should in aught avail,
Remained religiously indoors to read;
So that, in wandering at her will, the Child
Did, in reality, run "somewhat wild."

At first but peering at the sanded floor
And great shark jaw-bone in the cosy bar;
Then watching idly from the dusky door,
The noisy advent of a coach or car;
Then stealing out to wonder at the fate
Of blistered Ajax by the garden gate,--

Some old ship's figure-head--until at last,
Straying with each excursion more and more,
She reached the limits of the road, and passed,
Plucking the pansies, downward to the shore,
And so, as you, respected Reader, showed,
Came to the smith's "desirable abode."

There by the cave the occupant she found,
Weaving a crate; and, with a gladsome cry,
The dog frisked out, although the Cyclops frowned
With all the terrors of his single eye;
Then from a mound came running, too, the goat,
Uttering her plaintive, desultory note.

The Child stood wondering at the silent man,
Doubtful to go or stay, when presently
She felt a plucking, for the goat began
To crop the trail of twining briony
She held behind her; so that, laughing, she
Turned her light steps, retreating, to the sea.

But the goat followed her on eager feet,
And therewithal an air so grave and mild,
Coupled with such a deprecatory bleat
Of injured confidence, that soon the Child
Filled the lone shore with louder merriment,
And e'en the Cyclops' heavy brow unbent.

Thus grew acquaintanceship between the pair,
The girl and goat;--for thenceforth, day by day,
The Child would bring her four-foot friend such fare
As might be gathered on the downward way:--
Foxglove, or broom, and "yellow cytisus,"
Dear to all goats since Greek Theocritus.

But, for the Cyclops, that misogynist
Having, by stress of circumstances, smiled,
Felt it at least incumbent to resist
Further encroachment, and as one beguiled
By adverse fortune, with the half-door shut,
Dwelt in the dim seclusion of his hut.

And yet not less from thence he still must see
That daily coming, and must hear the goat
Bleating her welcome; then, towards the sea,
The happy voices of the playmates float;
Until, at last, enduring it no more,
He took his wonted station by the door.

Here was, of course, a pitiful surrender;
For soon the Child, on whom the Evil Eye
Seemed to exert an influence but slender,
Would run to question him, till, by and by,
His moody humor like a cloud dispersing,
He found himself uneasily conversing.

That was a sow's-ear, that an egg of skate,
And this an agate rounded by the wave.
Then came inquiries still more intimate
About himself, the anvil, and the cave;
And then, at last, the Child, without alarm
Would even spell the letters on his arm.

"G--A--L--_Galatea_." So there grew
On his part, like some half-remembered tale,
The new-found memory of an ice-bound crew,
And vague garrulities of spouting whale,--
Of sea-cow basking upon berg and floe.
And Polar light, and stunted Eskimo.

Till, in his heart, which hitherto had been
Locked as those frozen barriers of the North,
There came once more the season of the green,--
The tender bud-time and the putting forth,
So that the man, before the new sensation,
Felt for the child a kind of adoration;--