Chapter I: Front Matter

THE BATTLE OF THE BAYS

_By the same Author_

IN CAP AND BELLS
HORACE AT CAMBRIDGE
TILLERS OF THE SAND

BY OWEN SEAMAN

JOHN LANE
THE BODLEY HEAD
LONDON & NEW YORK
1902

_Copyright in the United States._
_All Rights Reserved._

_Eighth Edition_

CONTENTS.

PAGE
I. The Battle of the Bays 1
1. A Song of Renunciation 1
2. For the Albums of Crowned Heads Only 5
3. Marsyas in Hades 11
4. The Rhyme of the Kipperling 15
5. A Ballad of a Bun 22
6. A Vigo-Street Eclogue 27
7. An Ode to Spring in the Metropolis 37
8. Yet 42
9. Elegi Musarum 44
II. To Mr. William Watson 49
III. England's Alfred Abroad 53
IV. Lilith Libifera 57
V. Ars Postera 58
VI. A New Blue Book 61
VII. To a Boy-Poet of the Decadence 64
VIII. To Julia in Shooting Togs 66
IX. The Links of Love 69
X. Swords and Ploughshares 71
XI. To the Lord of Potsdam 76
XII. From the Lord of Potsdam 80
XIII. 'The Spacious Times' 83

I. THE BATTLE OF THE BAYS.

1.

A SONG OF RENUNCIATION.

(AFTER A. C. S.)

In the days of my season of salad,
When the down was as dew on my cheek,
And for French I was bred on the ballad,
For Greek on the writers of Greek,--
Then I sang of the rose that is ruddy,
Of 'pleasure that winces and stings,'
Of white women and wine that is bloody,
And similar things.

Of Delight that is dear as Desi-er,
And Desire that is dear as Delight;
Of the fangs of the flame that is fi-er,
Of the bruises of kisses that bite;
Of embraces that clasp and that sever,
Of blushes that flutter and flee
Round the limbs of Dolores, whoever
Dolores may be.

I sang of false faith that is fleeting
As froth of the swallowing seas,
Time's curse that is fatal as Keating
Is fatal to amorous fleas;
Of the wanness of woe that is whelp of
The lust that is blind as a bat--
By the help of my Muse and the help of
The relative THAT.

Panatheist, bruiser and breaker
Of kings and the creatures of kings,
I shouted on Freedom to shake her
Feet loose of the fetter that clings;
Far rolling my ravenous red eye,
And lifting a mutinous lid,
To all monarchs and matrons I said I
Would shock them--and did.

Thee I sang, and thy loves, O Thalassian,
O 'noble and nude and antique!'
Unashamed in the 'fearless old fashion'
Ere washing was done by the week;
When the 'roses and rapture' that girt you
Were visions of delicate vice,
And the 'lilies and languors of virtue'
Not nearly so nice.

O delights of the time of my teething,
Félise, Fragoletta, Yolande!
Foam-yeast of a youth in its seething
On blasted and blithering sand!
Snake-crowned on your tresses and belted
With blossoms that coil and decay,
Ye are gone; ye are lost; ye are melted
Like ices in May.

Hushed now is the bibulous bubble
Of 'lithe and lascivious' throats;
Long stript and extinct is the stubble
Of hoary and harvested oats;
From the sweets that are sour as the sorrel's
The bees have abortively swarmed;
And Algernon's earlier morals
Are fairly reformed.

I have written a loyal Armada,
And posed in a Jubilee pose;
I have babbled of babies and played a
New tune on the turn of their toes;
Washed white from the stain of Astarte,
My books any virgin may buy;
And I hear I am praised by a party
Called Something Mackay!

When erased are the records, and rotten
The meshes of memory's net;
When the grace that forgives has forgotten
The things that are good to forget;
When the trill of my juvenile trumpet
Is dead and its echoes are dead;
Then the laurel shall lie on the crumpet
And crown of my head!

2.

FOR THE ALBUMS OF CROWNED HEADS ONLY.

(AFTER SIR E. A.)

1. _From the third Sa'dine Box of the eighth Gazelle of Ghazal._

Yá Yá! Best-Belovéd! I look to thy dimples and drink;
Tiddlihî! to thy cheek-pits and chin-pit, my Tulip, my Pink!

See my heart rises up like a bubble, and bursts in my throat,
And the dimples that draw it are Three, like the Men in a Boat.

Thrice Three are the Muses, and I that begat her should guess
That the Tenth is the TELE-EPHEMERA, Pride of the PRESS!

And the Graces were triplets till lately the fruitful Dîtî
Propagated a Fourth, and the infant was W. G.

From my post of Propinquity prone on my languorous knees
My tears slither down like the Gum of Arabia's trees.

"Am I drunk?" Heart-Entangler! By Hafiz, the Blender of Squish!
'Tis the camel that sits on the prayer-mat is drunk as a fish.

As I hope for the future Uprising, deny it who can,
Two years I have worn the Blue Ribbon, come next Ramadan!

Chest-Preserver! thou knowest thine eyes, they alone, are my drink,
Blue-black as the sloes of the Garden or Stephens his Ink.

On thy sugar-sweet liplets, my Cypress! I browse like a bee,
And am aching, as after a surfeit of Melon, for thee!

Low laid at thy feet--little feet--in the dust like a worm,
Round the train of thy skirt, O my Peacock, I fitfully squirm.

By Allah! I swoon, I rotate, I am sickly of hue!
And the Infidel swore that Jam-Jam was a Temperance brew!

Heart-Punisher! Surely I think it was jalapped with gin!
Aha! Paradise! I am passing! So be it! Amin!

2. _From a little thing by the Princess Onono Goawai._

The bulbul hummeth like a book
Upon the pooh-pooh tree,
And now and then he takes a look
At you and me,
At me and you.
Kuchi!
Kuchoo!

3. _From the Sanskrit of Matabîlîwaijo._

Wind! a word with thee! thou goest where my Well-Preservéd lies
On her bed of bonny briers keeping off the wicked flies.

Thou shalt know her by th' aroma of her bosom, which is musk,
And her ivories that glisten like an elephantine tusk.

Seek her coral-guarded tympanum and whisper "Poppinjai!"
And (referring to her lover) kindly add "A-lal-lal-lai!"

Breeze! thou knowest my condition; state it broadly, if you please,
In a smattering of Indo-Turco-Perso-Japanese.

Say my youth is flitting freely, and before the season goes
From the garden of my Tûtsi I am fain to pluck a rose.

Tell her I'm a wanton Sufí (what a Sufí really is
She may know, perhaps--I count it one of Allah's mysteries).

Fly, O blessed Breeze, and hither bring me back the net result;
Fly as flies the rude mosquito from Abdullah's catapult.

Fly as flies the rusty rickshaw of the Kurumayasan,
When he scents a Hippopotam down the groves of Gulistan.

Fly and cull, O cull, a section of my Pipkin's purple tress;
Thou shalt find me drinking deeply with the Lords that rule the
Mess;

Quaffing mead and mighty sodas with the Johnís, Lords of War,
Talking 'jungle in the gun-room,' underneath the deodar.

Hoo Tawâ! I go to join them; he that cometh late is curst,
For the Lords of War (by Akbar) have a most amazing thirst!

3.

MARSYAS IN HADES.

(AFTER SIR L. M.)

Next I saw
A pensive gentleman of middle age,
That leaned against a Druid oak, his pipe
Pendent beneath his chin--a double one--
(Meaning the pipe); reluctant was his breath,
For he had mingled in the Morris dance
And rested blown; but damsels in their teens,
All decorous and decorously clad,
Their very ankles hardly visible,
Recalled his motions; while, for chaperon,
Good Mrs. Grundy up against the wall
Beamed approbation.

On his face I read
Signs of high sadness such as poets wear,
Being divinely discontented with
The praise of _jeunes filles_. Even as I looked,
He touched the portion of his pipe reserved
For minor poetry of solemn tone,
Checking the humorous stops intended for
Electioneering posters and the like;
And therewithal he made the following
Addition to his _Songs Unsung_, or else
His _Unremarked Remarks_:

"Dear Sir," he said,
"Excuse my saying 'Sir' like that; it is
Our way in Hades here among the damned;
For you must know that some of us are damned
Not only by faint praise but full applause
Of simple critics. Take my case. In me
Behold the good knight Marsyas, M.A.,
Three times a candidate for Parliament,
And twice retired; a Justice of the Peace;
Master of Arts (I said), and better known
In literary spheres as Master of
The Mediocre-Obvious; and read
By boarding-misses in their myriads.
These dote upon me. Sweetly have I sung
The commonplaces of philosophy
In common parlance.

You have read perhaps
The Cymric Triads? Poetry, they say,
Excels alone by sheer simplicity
Of language, subject, and invention. Sir!
The excellence of mine lay that way too.
But fate is partial. Heaven's fulgour moulds
'To happiness some, some to unhappiness!'
(Look you, the harp was Welsh that figured forth
That excellent last line.) I ask you, Sir,
What would you? Ill content with mortal praise,
And haply somewhat overbold, I sought
To be as gods be; sought, in fact, to filch
Apollo's bays!

Ah me! Dear me! I fain
Would use a stronger phrase, but hardly dare,
Being, whatever else, respectable.
I say I tired of vulgar homage, gift
Of ignorance. 'High failure overleaps
The bounds of low successes' (there, again,
The harp that twanged was Welsh, but with an echo
Of Browning). Godlike it must be, I thought,
To climb the giddy brink; to pen, for instance,
An Ode to the Imperial Institute,
And fall, if bound to, from a decent height.

I did and missed the laurel; still I go
On writing; what you hear just now is blank,
Distinctly blank, and might be measured by
The kilomètre; yet I rhyme as well
A little; but it takes a lot of time,
And checks the lapse of my pellucid stream
Not all conveniently."

Thereat he paused,
And wrung the moisture from his pipe; but I,
As one that was intolerably bored,
Took even this occasion to be gone;
And, going, marked him how he took his stile,
Polished the waxen tablets, and began
To make a Royal Pæan _by request_,
Or so he said.

4.

THE RHYME OF THE KIPPERLING.

(AFTER R. K.)

[N.B.--No nautical terms or statements guaranteed.]

Away by the haunts of the Yang-tse-boo,
Where the Yuletide runs cold gin,
And the rollicking sign of the _Lord Knows Who_
Sees mariners drink like sin;
Where the _Jolly Roger_ tips his quart
To the luck of the _Union Jack_;
And some are screwed on the foreign port,
And some on the starboard tack;--
Ever they tell the tale anew
Of the chase for the kipperling swag;
How the smack _Tommy This_ and the smack _Tommy That_
They broached each other like a whiskey-vat,
And the _Fuzzy-Wuz_ took the bag.

Now this is the law of the herring fleet that harries the northern
main,
Tattooed in scars on the chests of the tars with a brand like the
brand of Cain:
That none may woo the sea-born shrew save such as pay their way
With a kipperling netted at noon of night and cured ere the crack of
day.

It was the woman Sal o' the Dune, and the men were three to one,
Bill the Skipper and Ned the Nipper and Sam that was Son of a Gun;
Bill was a Skipper and Ned was a Nipper and Sam was the Son of a
Gun,
And the woman was Sal o' the Dune, as I said, and the men were three
to one.

There was never a light in the sky that night of the soft midsummer
gales,
But the great man-bloaters snorted low, and the young 'uns sang like
whales;
And out laughed Sal (like a dog-toothed wheel was the laugh that Sal
laughed she):
"Now who's for a bride on the shady side of up'ards of forty-three?"

And Neddy he swore by butt and bend, and Billy by bend and bitt,
And nautical names that no man frames but your amateur nautical
wit;
And Sam said, "Shiver my topping-lifts and scuttle my foc's'le
yarn,
And may I be curst, if I'm not in first with a kipperling slued
astarn!"

Now the smack _Tommy This_ and the smack _Tommy That_ and the
_Fuzzy-Wuz_ smack, all three,
Their captains bold, they were Bill and Ned and Sam respectivelee.

And it's writ in the rules that the primary schools of kippers
should get off cheap
For a two mile reach off Foulness beach when the July tide's at
neap;
And the lawless lubbers that lust for loot and filch the yearling
stock
They get smart raps from the coastguard chaps with their blunderbuss
fixed half-cock.

Now Bill the Skipper and Ned the Nipper could tell green cheese from
blue,
And Bill knew a trick and Ned knew a trick, but Sam knew a trick
worth two.

So Bill he sneaks a corporal's breeks and a belt of pipeclayed
hide,
And splices them on to the jibsail-boom like a troopship on the
tide.

And likewise Ned to his masthead he runs a rag of the Queen's,
With a rusty sword and a moke on board to bray like the Horse
Marines.

But Sam sniffs gore and he keeps off-shore and he waits for things
to stir,
Then he tracks for the deep with a long fog-horn rigged up like a
bowchasér.

Now scarce had Ned dropped line and lead when he spots the
pipeclayed hide,
And the corporal's breeks on the jibsail-boom like a troopship on
the tide;
And Bill likewise, when he ups and spies the slip of a rag of the
Queen's,
And the rusty sword, and he sniffs aboard the moke of the Horse
Marines.

So they each luffed sail, and they each turned tail, and they
whipped their wheels like mad,
When the one he said "By the Lord, it's Ned!" and the other, "It's
Bill, by Gad!"

Then about and about, and nozzle to snout, they rammed through
breach and brace,
And the splinters flew as they mostly do when a Government test
takes place.

Then up stole Sam with his little ram and the nautical talk flowed
free,
And in good bold type might have covered the two front sheets of the
_P. M. G._

But the fog-horn bluff was safe enough, where all was weed and
weft,
And the conger-eels were a-making meals, and the pick of the tackle
left
Was a binnacle-lid and a leak in the bilge and the chip of a cracked
sheerstrake
And the corporal's belt and the moke's cool pelt and a portrait of
Francis Drake.

So Sam he hauls the dead men's trawls and he booms for the
harbour-bar,
And the splitten fry are salted dry by the blink of the morning
star.

And Sal o' the Dune was wed next moon by the man that paid his way
With a kipperling netted at noon of night and cured ere the crack of
day;
For such is the law of the herring fleet that bloats on the northern
main,
Tattooed in scars on the chests of the tars with a brand like the
brand of Cain.

And still in the haunts of the Yang-tse-boo
Ever they tell the tale anew
Of the chase for the kipperling swag;
How the smack _Tommy This_ and the smack _Tommy That_
They broached each other like a whiskey-vat,
And the _Fuzzy-Wuz_ took the bag.

5.

A BALLAD OF A BUN.

(AFTER J. D.)

'I am sister to the mountains now,
And sister to the sun and moon.'

'Heed not belletrist jargon.'

JOHN DAVIDSON.

From Whitsuntide to Whitsuntide--
That is to say, all through the year--
Her patient pen was occupied
With songs and tales of pleasant cheer.

But still her talent went to waste
Like flotsam on an open sea;
She never hit the public taste,
Or knew the knack of Bellettrie.

Across the sounding City's fogs
There hurtled round her weary head
The thunder of the rolling logs;
"The Critics' Carnival!" she said.

Immortal prigs took heaven by storm,
Prigs scattered largesses of praise;
The work of both was rather warm;
"This is," she said, "the thing that pays!"

Sharp envy turned her wine to blood--
I mean it turned her blood to wine;
And this resolve came like a flood--
"The cake of knowledge must be mine!

"I am in Eve's predicament--
I sha'n't be happy till I've sinned;
Away!" She lightly rose, and sent
Her scruples sailing down the wind.

She did not tear her open breast,
Nor leave behind a track of gore,
But carried flannel next her chest,
And wore the boots she always wore.

Across the sounding City's din
She wandered, looking indiscreet,
And ultimately landed in
The neighbourhood of Regent Street.

She ran against a resolute
Policeman standing like a wall;
She kissed his feet and asked the route
To where they held the Carnival.

Her strange behaviour caused remark;
They said, "Her reason has been lost;"
Beside her eyes the gas was dark,
But that was owing to the frost.

A Decadent was dribbling by;
"Lady," he said, "you seem undone;
You need a panacea; try
This sample of the Bodley bun.

"It is fulfilled of precious spice,
Whereof I give the recipe;--
Take common dripping, stew in vice,
And serve with vertu; taste and see!

"And lo! I brand you on the brow
As kin to Nature's lowest germ;
You are sister to the microbe now,
And second-cousin to the worm."

He gave her of his golden store,
Such hunger hovered in her look;
She took the bun, and asked for more,
And went away and wrote a book.

To put the matter shortly, she
Became the topic of the town;
In all the lists of Bellettrie
Her name was regularly down.

"We recognise," the critics wrote,
"Maupassant's verve and Heine's wit;"
Some even made a verbal note
Of Shakespeare being out of it.

The seasons went and came again;
At length the languid Public cried:
"It is a sorry sort of Lane
That hardly ever turns aside.

"We want a little change of air;
On that," they said, "we must insist;
We cannot any longer bear
The seedy sex-impressionist."

Across the sounding City's din
This rumour smote her on the ear:
"The publishers are going in
For songs and tales of pleasant cheer!"

"Alack!" she said, "I lost the art,
And left my womanhood foredone,
When first I trafficked in the mart
All for a mess of Bodley bun.

"I cannot cut my kin at will,
Or jilt the protoplastic germ;
I am sister to the microbe still,
And second-cousin to the worm!"

6.

A VIGO-STREET ECLOGUE.

(AFTER THE SAME)

Mæcenas. John. George. Arthur. Grant. Richard.

MÆCENAS.

What ho! a merry Christmas! Pff!
Sharp blows the frosty blizzard's whff!
Pile on more logs and let them roll,
And pass the humming wassail-bowl!

JOHN.

The wassail-bowl! the wind is snell!
Drinc hael! and warm the poet's pell!

MÆCENAS.

Richard! say something rustic.

RICHARD.

Lo!
The customary mistletoe,
Prehensile on the apple-bough,
Invites the usual kiss.

GEORGE.

And now
Cathartic hellebore should be
A cure for imbecility.

GRANT.

Now holly-berries have begun
To blush for Women That Have Done.

ARTHUR.

The farmer sticks his stuffy goose!

MÆCENAS.

Come, come, you grow a little loose;
That's Michaelmas; you must remember
That Michaelmas is in September!

ARTHUR.

Northward the swallow sweeps his wing.

MÆCENAS.

No, no! the bird arrives in spring!

ARTHUR.

Such knowledge fits the country clown;
We've better things to note in town.
What's Nature's lore compared with women's?

JOHN.

For this enigma go to S-m-ns;
He is the----

ARTHUR.

Yes, I am, I know,
The devil of a Romeo!

JOHN.

Hark! hark! the waits, the precious waits!
Their music beats at Heaven's gates.

MÆCENAS.

What Bodley wight will sing a stave
To match their strumming? I would have
The manly bass of Hobbes's voice;
But Unwin's house is Hobbes's choice.
George! you've a baritone at need.

GEORGE.

Alas! my famous _Keynotes_ lead
To _Discords_.

JOHN.

I've a little thing
_Of Resurrection_. Shall I sing?

ARTHUR.

Please do; but _à propos_ of what?

JOHN.

I cannot say, unless _de bottes_.

[_Proceeds to sing a Ballad of Resurrection._

A letter-card from my dear love!
O folded page of blessed blue!
She burst her many-buttoned glove,
And ripped the perforation through.

"My love, to-night, about eleven,
With never a priest or passing-bell,
We die! and meet, with luck, in Heaven,
But anyhow at least in Hell!"

Her courage very nearly failed,
In fact she swooned along the floor;
But curiosity prevailed,
She came again and read some more.

"There is no way but this to choose;
My people fain would have us wed;
But you and I have later views,
And scorn the vulgar marriage-bed.

"Far be it from me to dictate
How best to break the mortal bond,
But personally I may state
That I shall use the village pond.

"Be punctual, love, and let us meet
For weal or woe!
This line has lost a pair of feet;
The post is now about to go."

Ay, ay, she thought, to meet were well,
But if we found each other out?
You, say, in Heaven, I in Hell,
Or else the other way about!

Nay, there be heavy odds, she said,
One fate shall save us both or damn;
We surely shall be bracketed!
She ceased and sent a telegram.

To Guy le Preux de Balthazar--
Here followed his address, and then
This pregnant message--"Right you are!"
She wrote it with the office pen.

She flashed the phrase along the wires,
Then, passing by a dagger-shop,
Bought one and wiped it on her sire's
Best graduated razor-strop.

On second thoughts, she said, I lean
To poison; true, a knife like this
Looks pretty, rib and rib between,
But people very often miss.

She sought the chemist in his place;
He sampled her with searching eye;
She looked him frankly in the face,
And told a wicked, wicked lie.

"My hen," she said,--"a bantam blend--
Has hatched a poor demented chick;
To ease the gentle creature's end
I want a pint of arsenic."

The chemist deemed the order large,
But said no thing and drew the drug;
She seized and bore the sacred charge
Before her in a pewter mug.

At tea she faced her fell intent;
Dressing, she lightly laughed at doom;
Dined with the family, and spent
The evening in the drawing-room.

At ten the early rooster crowed;
Ten-thirty struck and she was gone;
She crossed alone the naked road;
The road had really nothing on.

Her golden braids hung down her back;
Within her side she felt a stitch;
And once the moon behind the wrack
Came out and caught her in a ditch.

Once ere she reached the trysting-pear
She broke the slumber of the rooks;
She wrung her hands, she tore her hair,
And did as people do in books.

From out her cloak she fetched the drug--
"Thy health, my love, in Heaven or Hell!"
Deep to the dregs she drained the mug
And dropped it, feeling far from well.

Upon the punctual stroke her fond
True lover kept the oath he swore;
Plunged softly in the village pond,
But feeling chilly swam ashore.

Next morning in the judgment-place
Two pallid prisoners were tried;
Their guilt was plain; it was a case
Of ineffective suicide.

Yestreen a member of the Force
Had found a woman deadly sick,
Lamenting, with sincere remorse,
An overdose of arsenic.

Another heard upon his beat
One darkly muttering, "This is Hell!"
His weed was wet from head to feet;
He put him in a common cell.

The Justice chewed the evidence;
His eyes were soft, his lips were bland;
It was, he said, a first offence;
He merely gave a reprimand.

"Go free, my poppets, keep the laws,
And get ye wed at once," said he;
The court indulged in rude applause;
The usher cleared the gallery.

The prison-warder, deeply stirred,
Approached the culprits at the bar;
Then haled them forth without a word
Towards the nearest Registrar.

RICHARD.

John, you surpass yourself. Next week
Expect a flattering critique!

JOHN.

The waits are whining in the cold
With clavicorn and clarigold;
They play them like a crumpled horn,
The clarigold and clavicorn.

7.

AN ODE TO SPRING IN THE METROPOLIS.

(AFTER R. LE G.)

Is this the Seine?
And am I altogether wrong
About the brain,
Dreaming I hear the British tongue?
Dear Heaven! what a rhyme!
And yet 'tis all as good
As some that I have fashioned in my time,
Like _bud_ and _wood_;
And on the other hand you couldn't have a more precise or neater
Metre.

Is this, I ask, the Seine?
And yonder sylvan lane,
Is it the _Bois_?
_Ma foi!_
_Comme elle est chic_, my Paris, my grisette!
Yet may I not forget
That London still remains the missus
Of this Narcissus.

No, no! 'tis not the Seine!
It is the artificial mere
That permeates St. James's Park.
The air is bosom-shaped and clear;
And, Himmel! do I hear the lark,
The good old Shelley-Wordsworth lark?
Even now, I prithee,
Hark
Him hammer
On Heaven's harmonious stithy,
Dew-drunken--like my grammar!

And O the trees!
Beneath their shade the hairless coot
Waddles at ease,
Hushing the magic of his gurgling beak;
Or haply in Tree-worship leans his cheek
Against their blind
And hoary rind,
Observing how the sap
Comes humming upwards from the tap-
Root!
Thrice happy, hairless coot!

And O the sun!
See, see, he shakes
His big red hands at me in wanton fun!
A glorious image that! it might be Blake's;
As in my critical capacity I took occasion to remark elsewhere,
When heaping praise
On this exceptionally happy phrase,
Although I made it up myself.
But I and Blake, we really constitute a pair,
Each being rather like an artless woodland elf.

And O the stars! I cannot say
I see a star just now,
Not at this time of day;
But anyhow
The stars are all my brothers;
(This verse is shorter than the others).

O Constitution Hill!
(This verse is shorter still).

Ah! London, London in the Spring!
You are, you know you are,
So full of curious sights,
Especially by nights.
From gilded bar to gilded bar
Youth goes his giddy whirl,
His heart fulfilled of Music-Hall,
His arm fulfilled of girl!
I frankly call
That last effect a perfect pearl!

I know it's
Not given to many poets
To frame so fair a thing
As this of mine, of Spring.
Indeed, the world grows Lilliput
All but
A precious few, the heirs of utter godlihead,
Who wear the yellow flower of blameless bodlihead!

And they, with Laureates dead, look down
On smaller fry unworthy of the crown,
Mere mushroom men, puff-balls that advertise
And bravely think to brush the skies.
Great is advertisement with little men!
_Moi, qui vous parle, L- G-ll--nn-_,
Have told them so;
I ought to know!

8.

YET.

(AFTER F. E. W.)

Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!
Sing by the sunset's glow;
Now while the shadows are long, darling;
Now while the lights are low;
Something so chaste and so coy, darling!
Something that melts the chest;
Milder than even Molloy, darling!
Better than Bingham's best.

Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!
Sing as you sang of yore,
Lisping of love that is strong, darling!
Strong as a big barn-door;
Let the true knight be bold, darling!
Let him arrive too late;
Stick in a bower of gold, darling!
Stick in a golden gate.

Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!
Bear on the angels' wings
Children that know no wrong, darling!
Little cherubic things!
Sing of their sunny hair, darling!
Get them to die in June;
Wake, if you can, on the stair, darling!
Echoes of tiny shoon.

Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!
Sentiment may be false,
Yet it will worry along, darling!
Set to a tum-tum valse;
See that the verses are few, darling!
Keep to the rule of three;
That will be better for you, darling!
Certainly better for me.

9.

ELEGI MUSARUM.

(AFTER W. W.)

[To Mr. St. Loe Strachey.]

Dawn of the year that emerges, a fine and ebullient Phoenix,
Forth from the cinders of Self, out of the ash of the Past;
Year that discovers my Muse in the thick of purpureal sonnets,
Slating diplomacy's sloth, blushing for 'Abdul the d----d';
Year that in guise of a herald declaring the close of the tourney
Clears the redoubtable lists hot with the Battle of Bays;
Binds on the brows of the Tory, the highly respectable Austin,
Laurels that Phoebus of old wore on the top of his tuft;

Leaving the locks of the hydra, of Bodley the numerous-headed,
Clean as the chin of a boy, bare as a babe in a bath;
Year that--I see in the vista the principal verb of the sentence
Loom as a deeply-desired bride that is late at the post--
Year that has painfully tickled the lachrymal nerves of the Muses,
Giving Another the gift due to Respectfully Theirs;--
_Hinc illæ lacrimæ!_ Ah, reader! I grossly misled you;
See, it was false; there is no principal verb after all!

His likewise is the anguish, who followed with soft serenading
Me as the tremulous tide tracks the meandering moon;
Climbing as Romeo clomb, peradventure by help of a flower-pot,
Where in her balconied bower lay, inexpressibly coy,
Juliet, not as the others, supinely, insanely erotic,
Pallid and yellow of hue, very degenerate souls,
Rioting round with the rapture of palpitant ichorous ardour,
But an immaculate maid, 'one,' you may say, 'of the best'!
His, I repeat, is the anguish--my journalist, eulogist critic,
Strachey, the generous judge, Saintly unlimited Loe!

Vainly the stolid _Spectator_, bewildered with fabulous bow-wows,
Sick with a surfeit of dog, ran me for all it was worth!
Vainly--if I may recur to a metaphor drawn from the ocean,
Long (in a figure of speech) tied to the tail of the moon--
Vainly, O excellent organ! with ample and aqueous unction
Once, as a rule, in a week, 'cleansing the Earth of her stain';
(Here you will possibly pardon the natural scion of poets,
Proud with humility's pride, spoiling a passage from Keats)--
Vainly your voice on the ears of impregnable Laureate-makers,
Rang as the sinuous sea rings on a petrified coast;
Vainly your voice with a subtle and slightly indelicate largess,
Broke on an obdurate world hymning the advent of Me;
When from the 'commune of air,' from 'the exquisite fabric of
Silence,'
I, a superior orb, burst into exquisite print!

What shall we say for your greeting, O good horticultural Alfred!
Royalty's darling and pride, crown of the Salisbury Press?
Now when the negligent Public, in search of a subject for dinner,
Asks for the names of your books, Lord! what a boom there will
be!
Hoarse in Penbryn are the howlings that rise for the hope of the
Cymri;
Over her Algernon's head Putney composes a dirge;
Edwin anathematises politely in various lingos;
Davidson ruminates hard over a _Ballad of Hell_;
Fondly Le Gallienne fancies how pretty the Delphian laurels
Would have appeared on his own hairy and passionate poll;
I, imperturbably careless, untainted of jealousy's jaundice,
Simply regret the profane contumely done to the Muse;
Done to the Muse in the person of Me, her patron, that never
Licked Ministerial lips, dusted the boots of the Court!
Surely I hear through the noisy and nauseous clamour of Carlton
Sobs of the sensitive Nine heave upon Helicon's hump!

II. TO MR. WILLIAM WATSON.

[On writing the first instalment of _The Purple East_, a 'fine sonnet which it is our privilege to publish.'--_Westminster Gazette_, Dec. 16, 1895.]

Dear Mr. Watson, we have heard with wonder,
Not all unmingled with a sad regret,
That little penny blast of purple thunder,
You issued in the _Westminster Gazette_;
The Editor describes it as a sonnet;
I wish to make a few remarks upon it.

_Never, O craven England, nevermore
Prate thou of generous effort, righteous aim!_
So ran the lines, and left me very sore,
For you may guess my heart was hot with shame:
Even thus early in your ample song
I felt that something must be really wrong.

But when I learned that our ignoble nation
Lay sleeping like a log, and lay alone,
Propping, according to your information,
_Abdul the Damned on his infernal throne_,
O then I scattered to the wind my fears,
And nearly went and joined the Volunteers.

But just in time the thought occurred to me
That England commonly commits her course
To men as good at heart as even we
And possibly much richer in resource;
That we had better mind our own affairs
And leave these gentlemen to manage theirs.

It further seemed a work uncommon light
For one like you, a casual civilian,
To order half a hemisphere to fight
And slaughter one another by the million,
While you yourself, a paper Galahad,
Spilt ink for blood upon a blotting-pad.

The days are gone when sword and poet's pen
One gallant gifted hand was wont to wield;
When Taillefer in face of Harold's men
Rode foremost on to Senlac's fatal field,
And tossed his sword in air, and sang a spell
Of Roland's battle-song, and, singing, fell.

The days are gone when troubadours by dozens
Polished their steel and joined the stout crusade,
Strumming, in memory of pretty cousins,
_The Girl I left behind Me_, on parade;
They often used to rattle off a ballad in
The intervals of punishing the Saladin.

In later times, of course I know there's Byron,
Who by his own report could play the man;
I seem to see him with his Lesbian lyre on,
And brandishing a useful yataghan;
Though never going altogether strong, he
Managed at least to die at Missolonghi.

No more the trades of lute and lance are linked,
Though doubtless under many martial bonnets
Brave heads there be that harbour the distinct
Belief that they can manufacture sonnets;
But on the other hand a bard is not
Supposed to run the risk of being shot.

Then since your courage lacks a crucial test,
And politics were never your profession,
Dear Mr. Watson, won't you find it best
To temper valour with a due discretion?
That so, despite the fond _Spectator's_ booming,
Above your brow the bays may yet be blooming.

III. ENGLAND'S ALFRED ABROAD.

[M. Alfred Austin, poète-lauréat d'Angleterre, vient d'arriver à Nice, où il a devancé la Reine. Il était, hier, dans les jardins de Monte-Carlo. Sera-ce sous notre ciel qu'il écrira son premier poème?--_Menton-Mondain_.]

Wrong? are they wrong? Of course they are,
I venture to reply;
For I bore 'my first' (and, I hope, my worst)
A month or so gone by;
And I can't repeat it under this
Or any other sky.

What! has the public never heard
In these benighted climes
That nascent note of my Laureate throat,
That fluty fitte of rhymes
Which occupied about a half
A column of the _Times_?

They little know what they have lost,
Nor what a carnal beano
They might have spent in the thick of Lent
If only Daniel Leno
Had sung them _Jameson's Ride_ and knocked
The Monaco Casino.

Some day the croupiers' furtive eyes
Will all be wringing wet;
Even the Prince will hardly mince
The language of regret
At entertaining unawares
The famed Alhambra Pet.

But still not quite incognito
I mark the moving scene,
In a tepid zone where (like my own)
The palms are ever green,
And find myself reported as
A herald of the Queen.

Here where aloft the heavens are blue,
And blue the seas below,
I roll my eye and fondly try
To get the rhymes to go,
As I pace _The Garden that I love_,
Composing all I know.

But when my poet-pinions droop,
And all the air is wan,
I enter in to the courts of sin
And put a louis on,
And hold my heart and look again,
And lo! the thing is gone!

Wrong? is it wrong? To baser crafts
Has England's Alfred pandered,
Who once to the sign of Phoebus' shrine
With awesome gait meandered,
And ever wrote in the cause of right
According to his _Standard_?

Nay! this is life! to take a turn
On Fortune's captious crust;
To pluck the day in a human way
Like men of common dust;
But O! if England's only bard
Should absolutely bust!

A laureate never borrows on
His coming quarter's pay;
And I mean to stop or ever I pop
My crown of peerless bay;
So I'll take the next _rapide_ to Nice,
And the 'bus to Cimiez.

_MENTONE, Feb., 1896._

IV. LILITH LIBIFERA.

Exhumed from out the inner cirque of Hell
By kind permission of the Evil One,
Behold her devilish presentment, done
By Master Aubrey's weird unearthly spell!
This is that Lady known as Jezebel,
Or Lilith, Eden's woman-scorpion,
Libifera, that is, that takes the bun,
Borgia, Vivien, Cussed Damosel.

Hers are the bulging lips that fairly break
The pumpkin's heart; and hers the eyes that shame
The wanton ape that culls the cocoa-nuts.
Even such the yellow-bellied toads that slake
Nocturnally their amorous-ardent flame
In the wan waste of weary water-butts.

V. ARS POSTERA.

[On an advertisement of _A Comedy of Sighs_.]

Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,
You're getting quite a high renown;
Your Comedy of Leers, you know,
Is posted all about the town;
This sort of stuff I cannot puff,
As Boston says, it makes me 'tired';
Your Japanee-Rossetti girl
Is not a thing to be desired.

Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,
New English Art (excuse the chaff)
Is like the Newest Humour style,
It's not a thing at which to laugh;
But all the same, you need not maim
A beauty reared on Nature's rules;
A simple maid _au naturel_
Is worth a dozen spotted ghouls.

Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,
You put strange phantoms on our walls,
If not so daring as _To-day's_,
Nor quite so Hardy as _St. Paul's_;
Her sidelong eyes, her giddy guise,--
_Grande Dame Sans Merci_ she may be;
But there is that about her throat
Which I myself don't care to see.

Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,
The Philistines across the way,
They say her lips--well, never mind
Precisely what it is they say;
But I have heard a drastic word
That scarce is fit for dainty ears;
But then their taste is not the kind
Of taste to flatter Beer de Beers.

Bless me, Aubrey Beer de Beers,
On fair Elysian lawns apart
Burd Helen of the Trojan time
Smiles at the latest mode of Art;
Howe'er it be, it seems to me,
It's not important to be New;
New Art would better Nature's best,
But Nature knows a thing or two.

Aubrey, Aubrey Beer de Beers,
Are there no models at your gate,
Live, shapely, possible and clean?
Or won't they do to 'decorate'?
Then by all means bestrew your scenes
With half the lotuses that blow,
Pothooks and fishing-lines and things,
But let the human woman go!

VI. A NEW BLUE BOOK.

[It was hardly to be supposed that the young decadents who once rioted ... in the _Yellow Book_ would be content to remain in obscurity after the metamorphosis of that periodical and the consequent exclusion of themselves. The _Savoy_, we learn, to be edited by Mr. Arthur Symons and Mr. Aubrey Beardsley, will appear early in December.--_Globe_.]

'The world's great age begins anew,'
Cold virtue's weeds are cast;
Our heads are light, our tales are blue,
And things are moving fast;
And no one any longer quarrels
With anybody else's morals.

A racier journal stamps its pages
With Beardsleys braver far;
A bolder Editor engages
To shame the morning star,
On _London Nights_, not near so chilly,
Sampling a shadier Piccadilly.

Satyr and Faun their late repose
Now burst like anything;
New Mænads, turning sprightlier toes,
Enjoy a jauntier fling;
With lustier lips old Pan shall play
Drain-pipes along the sewer's way.

Priapus, wrongly left for dead,
Is dead no more than Pan;
Silenus rises from his bed
And hiccups like a man;
There's something rather chaste (between us)
About Priapus and Silenus.

O cease to brew your Bodley pap
Whence all the spice is spent!
The splendour of its primal tap
Was gone when Aubrey went;
Behold that subtle Sphinx prepare
Fresh liquors fit to lift your hair.

Another Magazine shall rise
And paint the palsied town,
Of humbler hue, of simpler size,
And sold at half a crown;
Please note the pregnant brand--_Savoy_,
And don't confuse with _saveloy_.[*]

FOOTNOTES:

[*] Saveloy, a kind of sausage; French _cervelas_, from its containing
brains.--SKEAT.

VII. TO A BOY-POET OF THE DECADENCE.

[Showing curious reversal of epigram--'La nature l'a fait sanglier; la civilisation l'a réduit à l'état de cochon.']

But my good little man, you have made a mistake
If you really are pleased to suppose
That the Thames is alight with the lyrics you make;
We could all do the same if we chose.

From Solomon down, we may read, as we run,
Of the ways of a man and a maid;
There is nothing that's new to us under the sun,
And certainly not in the shade.

The erotic affairs that you fiddle aloud
Are as vulgar as coin of the mint;
And you merely distinguish yourself from the crowd
By the fact that you put 'em in print.

You're a 'prentice, my boy, in the primitive stage,
And you itch, like a boy, to confess:
When you know a bit more of the arts of the age
You will probably talk a bit less.

For your dull little vices we don't care a fig,
It is _this_ that we deeply deplore;
You were cast for a common or usual pig,
But you play the invincible bore.

VIII. TO JULIA IN SHOOTING TOGS

and a Herrickose vein.

Whenas to shoot my Julia goes,
Then, then, (methinks) how bravely shows
That rare arrangement of her clothes!

So shod as when the Huntress Maid
With thumping buskin bruised the glade,
She moveth, making earth afraid.

Against the sting of random chaff
Her leathern gaiters circle half
The arduous crescent of her calf.

Unto th' occasion timely fit,
My love's attire doth show her wit,
And of her legs a little bit.

Sorely it sticketh in my throat,
She having nowhere to bestow't,
To name the absent petticoat.

In lieu whereof a wanton pair
Of knickerbockers she doth wear,
Full windy and with space to spare.

Enlargéd by the bellying breeze,
Lord! how they playfully do ease
The urgent knocking of her knees!

Lengthways curtailéd to her taste
A tunic circumvents her waist,
And soothly it is passing chaste.

Upon her head she hath a gear
Even such as wights of ruddy cheer
Do use in stalking of the deer.

Haply her truant tresses mock
Some coronal of shapelier block,
To wit, the bounding billy-cock.

Withal she hath a loaded gun,
Whereat the pheasants, as they run,
Do make a fair diversión.

For very awe, if so she shoots,
My hair upriseth from the roots,
And lo! I tremble in my boots!

IX. THE LINKS OF LOVE.

My heart is like a driver-club,
That heaves the pellet hard and straight,
That carries every let and rub,
The whole performance really great;
My heart is like a bulger-head,
That whiffles on the wily tee,
Because my love has kindly said
She'll halve the round of life with me.

My heart is also like a cleek,
Resembling most the mashie sort,
That spanks the object, so to speak,
Across the sandy bar to port;
And hers is like a putting-green,
The haven where I boast to be,
For she assures me she is keen
To halve the round of life with me.

Raise me a bunker, if you can,
That beetles o'er a deadly ditch,
Where any but the bogey-man
Is practically bound to pitch;
Plant me beneath a hedge of thorn,
Or up a figurative tree,
What matter, when my love has sworn
To halve the round of life with me?

X. SWORDS AND PLOUGHSHARES.