Chapter I: Front Matter

GREEN BAYS.

VERSES AND PARODIES.

BY ARTHUR THOMAS QUILLER-COUCH (Q).

ET, SI NON ALIUM LATE JACTARET ODOREM LAURUS ERAT.

Most of the verses in this volume were written at Oxford, and first appeared in the 'Oxford Magazine.' A few are reprinted from 'The Speaker' and a few from certain works of fiction published by Messrs. Cassell and Co.

Q.

CONTENTS.

IN A COLLEGE GARDEN.

THE SPLENDID SPUR.

THE WHITE MOTH.

IRISH MELODIES I. TIM THE DRAGOON. II. KENMARE RIVER.

LADY JANE (SAPPHICS).

A TRIOLET.

AN OATH.

UPON GRACIOSA, WALKING AND TALKING.

WRITTEN UPON LOVE'S FRONTIER-POST.

TITANIA.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

RETROSPECTION.

WHY THIS VOLUME IS SO THIN.

NUGAE OXONIENSES.

TWILIGHT.

WILLALOO.

THE SAIR STROKE.

THE DOOM OF THE ESQUIRE BEDELL.

'BEHOLD! I AM NOT ONE THAT GOES TO LECTURES.'

CALIBAN UPON RUDIMENTS.

SOLVITUR ACRIS HIEMPS.

A LETTER.

OCCASIONAL VERSES.

ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS.

UNITY PUT QUARTERLY.

FIRE!

DE TEA FABULA.

L'ENVOI (AS I LAYE A-DREAMYNGE).

IN A COLLEGE GARDEN.

Senex. Saye, cushat, callynge from the brake,
What ayles thee soe to pyne?
Thy carefulle heart shall cease to ake
When dayes be fyne
And greene thynges twyne:
Saye, cushat, what thy griefe to myne?

Turtur. Naye, gossyp, loyterynge soe late,
What ayles thee thus to chyde?
My love is fled by garden-gate;
Since Lammas-tyde
I wayte my bryde.
Saye, gossyp, whom dost thou abyde?

Senex. Loe! I am he, the 'Lonelie Manne,'
Of Time forgotten quite,
That no remembered face may scanne--
Sadde eremyte,
I wayte tonyghte
Pale Death, nor any other wyghte.

O cushat, cushat, callynge lowe,
Goe waken Time from sleepe:
Goe whysper in his ear, that soe
His besom sweepe
Me to that heape
Where all my recollections keepe.

Hath he forgott? Or did I viewe
A ghostlye companye
This even, by the dismalle yewe,
Of faces three
That beckoned mee
To land where no repynynges bee?

O Harrye, Harrye, Tom and Dicke,
Each lost companion!
Why loyter I among the quicke,
When ye are gonne?
Shalle I alone
Delayinge crye 'Anon, Anon'?

Naye, let the spyder have my gowne,
To brayde therein her veste.
My cappe shal serve, now I 'goe downe,'
For mouse's neste.
Loe! this is best.
I care not, soe I gayne my reste.

THE SPLENDID SPUR.

Not on the neck of prince or hound,
Nor on a woman's finger twin'd,
May gold from the deriding ground
Keep sacred that we sacred bind:
Only the heel
Of splendid steel
Shall stand secure on sliding fate,
When golden navies weep their freight.

The scarlet hat, the laurell'd stave
Are measures, not the springs, of worth;
In a wife's lap, as in a grave,
Man's airy notions mix with earth.
Seek other spur
Bravely to stir
The dust in this loud world, and tread
Alp-high among the whisp'ring dead.

_Trust in thyself_,--then spur amain:
So shall Charybdis wear a grace,
Grim Aetna laugh, the Libyan plain
Take roses to her shrivell'd face.
This orb--this round
Of sight and sound--
Count it the lists that God hath built
For haughty hearts to ride a-tilt.

THE WHITE MOTH.

_If a leaf rustled, she would start:
And yet she died, a year ago.
How had so frail a thing the heart
To journey where she trembled so?
And do they turn and turn in fright,
Those little feet, in so much night?_

The light above the poet's head
Streamed on the page and on the cloth,
And twice and thrice there buffeted
On the black pane a white-wing'd moth;
'Twas Annie's soul that beat outside
And 'Open, open, open!' cried:

'I could not find the way to God;
There were too many flaming suns
For signposts, and the fearful road
Led over wastes where millions
Of tangled comets hissed and burned--
I was bewilder'd and I turned.

'O, it was easy then! I knew
Your window and no star beside.
Look up, and take me back to you!'
--He rose and thrust the window wide.
'Twas but because his brain was hot
With rhyming; for he heard her not.

But poets polishing a phrase
Show anger over trivial things;
And as she blundered in the blaze
Towards him, on ecstatic wings,
He raised a hand and smote her dead;
Then wrote '_That I had died instead!_'

IRISH MELODIES.

I.

TIM THE DRAGOON (From 'Troy Town')

Be aisy an' list to a chune
That's sung of bowld Tim the Dragoon--
Sure, 'twas he'd niver miss
To be stalin' a kiss,
Or a brace, by the light of the moon--
Aroon--
Wid a wink at the Man in the Moon!

Rest his sowl where the daisies grow thick;
For he's gone from the land of the quick:
But he's still makin' love
To the leddies above,
An' be jabbers! he'll tache 'em the thrick--
Avick--
Niver doubt but he'll tache 'em the thrick!

'Tis by Tim the dear saints'll set sthore,
And 'ull thrate him to whisky galore:
For they 've only to sip
But the tip of his lip
An' bedad! they'll be askin' for more--
Asthore--
By the powers, they'll be shoutin' 'Ancore!'

IRISH MELODIES.