Chapter XI: Introduction (11)

"You must wash--you must scrub--you must scrape!" growled Jack, "you must traffic with cans and pails, Nor keep the spoil of the good brown soil in the rim of your finger-nails! The morning path you must tread to your bath--you must wash ere the night descends, And all for the cause of conventional laws and the soap-makers' dividends! But if 'tis sooth that our meal in truth depends on our washing, Jill, By the sacred right of our appetite--haste--haste to the top of the hill!"

They have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay, they have toiled and travelled far, They have climbed to the brow of the hill-top now, where the bubbling fountains are, They have taken the bucket and filled it up--yea, filled it up to the brim; But Jack he sneered at his sister Jill, and Jill she jeered at him: "What, blown already!" Jack cried out (and his was a biting mirth!) "You boast indeed of your wonderful speed--but what is the boasting worth? Now, if you can run as the antelope runs and if you can turn like a hare, Come, race me, Jill, to the foot of the hill--and prove your boasting fair!" "Race? What is a race" (and a mocking face had Jill as she spake the word) "Unless for a prize the runner tries? The truth indeed ye heard, For I can run as the antelope runs, and I can turn like a hare:-- The first one down wins half-a-crown--and I will race you there!" "Yea, if for the lesson that you will learn (the lesson of humbled pride) The price you fix at two-and-six, it shall not be denied; Come, take your stand at my right hand, for here is the mark we toe: Now, are you ready, and are you steady? Gird up your petticoats! Go!" And Jill she ran like a winging bolt, a bolt from the bow released, But Jack like a stream of the lightning gleam, with its pathway duly greased; He ran down hill in front of Jill like a summer-lightning flash-- Till he suddenly tripped on a stone, or slipped, and fell to the earth with a crash. Then straight did rise on his wondering eyes the constellations fair, Arcturus and the Pleiades, the Greater and Lesser Bear, The swirling rain of a comet's train he saw, as he swiftly fell-- And Jill came tumbling after him with a loud triumphant yell: "You have won, you have won, the race is done! And as for the wager laid-- You have fallen down with a broken crown--the half-crown debt is paid!"

They have taken Jack to the room at the back where the family medicines are, And he lies in bed with a broken head in a halo of vinegar; While, in that Jill had laughed her fill as her brother fell to earth, She had felt the sting of a walloping--she hath paid the price of her mirth!

_Here is the tale_--_and now you have the whole of it,_ _Here is the story_--_well and wisely planned,_ _Beauty_--_Duty_--_these make up the soul of it_-- _But, ah, my little readers, will you mark and understand?_

_Anthony C. Deane._

THE WILLOWS

The skies they were ashen and sober,
The streets they were dirty and drear;
It was night in the month of October,
Of my most immemorial year;
Like the skies I was perfectly sober,
As I stopped at the mansion of Shear,--
At the "Nightingale,"--perfectly sober,
And the willowy woodland, down here.

Here once in an alley Titanic
Of Ten-pins,--I roamed with my soul,--
Of Ten-pins,--with Mary, my soul;
They were days when my heart was volcanic,
And impelled me to frequently roll,
And made me resistlessly roll,
Till my ten-strikes created a panic
In the realms of the Boreal pole,
Till my ten-strikes created a panic
With the monkey atop of his pole.

I repeat, I was perfectly sober,
But my thoughts they were palsied and sear,--
My thoughts were decidedly queer;
For I knew not the month was October,
And I marked not the night of the year;
I forgot that sweet _morçeau_ of Auber
That the band oft performèd down here;
And I mixed the sweet music of Auber
With the Nightingale's music by Shear.

And now as the night was senescent,
And star-dials pointed to morn,
And car-drivers hinted of morn,
At the end of the path a liquescent
And bibulous lustre was born:
'Twas made by the bar-keeper present,
Who mixèd a duplicate horn,--
His two hands describing a crescent
Distinct with a duplicate horn.

And I said: "This looks perfectly regal;
For it's warm, and I know I feel dry,--
I am confident that I feel dry.
We have come past the emeu and eagle,
And watched the gay monkey on high;
Let us drink to the emeu and eagle,--
To the swan and the monkey on high--
To the eagle and monkey on high;
For this bar-keeper will not inveigle,--
Bully boy with the vitreous eye;
He surely would never inveigle,--
Sweet youth with the crystalline eye."

But Mary, uplifting her finger,
Said, "Sadly this bar I mistrust,--
I fear that this bar does not trust.
Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger!
Oh, fly!--let us fly--ere we must!"
In terror she cried, letting sink her
Parasol till it trailed in the dust,--
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Parasol till it trailed in the dust,--
Till it sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

Then I pacified Mary, and kissed her,
And tempted her into the room,
And conquer'd her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the warning of doom--
By some words that were warning of doom.
And I said, "What is written, sweet sister,
At the opposite end of the room?"
She sobbed, as she answered, "All liquors
Must be paid for ere leaving the room."

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober,
As the streets were deserted and drear--
For my pockets were empty and drear;
And I cried, "It was surely October,
On this very night of last year,
That I journeyed--I journeyed down here--
That I brought a fair maiden down here,
On this night of all nights in the year.
Ah! to me that inscription is clear:
Well I know now I'm perfectly sober,
Why no longer they credit me here,--
Well I know now that music of Auber,
And this Nightingale, kept by one Shear."

_Bret Harte._

A BALLAD

IN THE MANNER OF R-DY-RD K-PL-NG

As I was walkin' the jungle round, a-killin' of tigers an' time; I seed a kind of an author man a writin' a rousin' rhyme; 'E was writin' a mile a minute an' more, an' I sez to 'im, "'Oo are you?" Sez 'e, "I'm a poet--'er majesty's poet--soldier an' sailor, too!" An 'is poem began in Ispahan an' ended in Kalamazoo, It 'ad army in it, an' navy in it, an' jungle sprinkled through, For 'e was a poet--'er majesty's poet--soldier an' sailor, too!

An' after, I met 'im all over the world, a doin' of things a host; 'E 'ad one foot planted in Burmah, an' one on the Gloucester coast; 'Es 'alf a sailor an' 'alf a whaler, 'e's captain, cook and crew, But most a poet--'er majesty's poet--soldier an' sailor too! 'E's often Scot an' 'e's often not, but 'is work is never through For 'e laughs at blame, an' 'e writes for fame, an' a bit for revenoo,-- Bein' a poet--'er majesty's poet--soldier an' sailor too!

'E'll take you up to the Artic zone, 'e'll take you down to the Nile, 'E'll give you a barrack ballad in the Tommy Atkins style, Or 'e'll sing you a Dipsy Chantey, as the bloomin' bo'suns do, For 'e is a poet--'er majesty's poet--soldier an' sailor too. An' there isn't no room for others, an' there's nothin' left to do; 'E 'as sailed the main from the 'Orn to Spain, 'e 'as tramped the jungle through, An' written up all there is to write--soldier an' sailor, too!

There are manners an' manners of writin', but 'is is the _proper_ way, An' it ain't so hard to be a bard if you'll imitate Rudyard K.; But sea an' shore an' peace an' war, an' everything else in view-- 'E 'as gobbled the lot!--'er majesty's poet--soldier an' sailor, too. 'E's not content with 'is Indian 'ome, 'e's looking for regions new, In another year 'e'll ave swept 'em clear, an' what'll the rest of us do? '_E's crowdin' us out!_--'er majesty's poet--soldier an' sailor too!

_Guy Wetmore Carryl._

THE TRANSLATED WAY

Being a lyric translation of Heine's "Du bist wie eine Blume," as it is usually done.

Thou art like unto a Flower,
So pure and clean thou art;
I view thee and much sadness
Steals to me in the heart.

To me it seems my Hands I
Should now impose on your
Head, praying God to keep you
So fine and clean and pure.

_Franklin P. Adams._

COMMONPLACES

Rain on the face of the sea,
Rain on the sodden land,
And the window-pane is blurred with rain
As I watch it, pen in hand.

Mist on the face of the sea,
Mist on the sodden land,
Filling the vales as daylight fails,
And blotting the desolate sand.

Voices from out of the mist,
Calling to one another:
"Hath love an end, thou more than friend,
Thou dearer than ever brother?"

Voices from out of the mist,
Calling and passing away;
But I cannot speak, for my voice is weak,
And ... this is the end of my lay.

_Rudyard Kipling._

ANGELO ORDERS HIS DINNER

I, Angelo, obese, black-garmented, Respectable, much in demand, well fed With mine own larder's dainties, where, indeed, Such cakes of myrrh or fine alyssum seed, Thin as a mallow-leaf, embrowned o' the top. Which, cracking, lets the ropy, trickling drop Of sweetness touch your tongue, or potted nests Which my recondite recipe invests With cold conglomerate tidbits--ah, the bill! (You say), but given it were mine to fill My chests, the case so put were yours, we'll say (This counter, here, your post, as mine to-day), And you've an eye to luxuries, what harm In smoothing down your palate with the charm Yourself concocted? There we issue take; And see! as thus across the rim I break This puffy paunch of glazed embroidered cake, So breaks, through use, the lust of watering chaps And craveth plainness: do I so? Perhaps; But that's my secret. Find me such a man As Lippo yonder, built upon the plan Of heavy storage, double-navelled, fat From his own giblet's oils, an Ararat Uplift o'er water, sucking rosy draughts From Noah's vineyard,--crisp, enticing wafts Yon kitchen now emits, which to your sense Somewhat abate the fear of old events, Qualms to the stomach,--I, you see, am slow Unnecessary duties to forego,-- You understand? A venison haunch, _haul gout_. Ducks that in Cimbrian olives mildly stew. And sprigs of anise, might one's teeth provoke To taste, and so we wear the complex yoke Just as it suits,--my liking, I confess, More to receive, and to partake no less, Still more obese, while through thick adipose Sensation shoots, from testing tongue to toes Far off, dim-conscious, at the body's verge, Where the froth-whispers of its waves emerge On the untasting sand. Stay, now! a seat Is bare: I, Angelo, will sit and eat.

_Bayard Taylor._

THE PROMISSORY NOTE

In the lonesome latter years
(Fatal years!)
To the dropping of my tears
Danced the mad and mystic spheres
In a rounded, reeling rune,
'Neath the moon,
To the dripping and the dropping of my tears.

Ah, my soul is swathed in gloom,
(Ulalume!)
In a dim Titanic tomb,
For my gaunt and gloomy soul
Ponders o'er the penal scroll,
O'er the parchment (not a rhyme),
Out of place,--out of time,--
I am shredded, shorn, unshifty,
(Oh, the fifty!)
And the days have passed, the three,
Over me!
And the debit and the credit are as one to him and me!

'Twas the random runes I wrote
At the bottom of the note,
(Wrote and freely
Gave to Greeley)
In the middle of the night,
In the mellow, moonless night,
When the stars were out of sight,
When my pulses, like a knell,
(Israfel!)
Danced with dim and dying fays
O'er the ruins of my days,
O'er the dimeless, timeless days,
When the fifty, drawn at thirty,
Seeming thrifty, yet the dirty
Lucre of the market, was the most that I could raise!

Fiends controlled it,
(Let him hold it!)
Devils held for me the inkstand and the pen;
Now the days of grace are o'er,
(Ah, Lenore!)
I am but as other men;
What is time, time, time,
To my rare and runic rhyme,
To my random, reeling rhyme,
By the sands along the shore,
Where the tempest whispers, "Pay him!" and I answer, "Nevermore!"

_Bayard Taylor._

CAMERADOS

Everywhere, everywhere, following me; Taking me by the buttonhole, pulling off my boots, hustling me with the elbows; Sitting down with me to clams and the chowder-kettle; Plunging naked at my side into the sleek, irascible surges; Soothing me with the strain that I neither permit nor prohibit; Flocking this way and that, reverent, eager, orotund, irrepressible; Denser than sycamore leaves when the north-winds are scouring Paumanok; What can I do to restrain them? Nothing, verily nothing, Everywhere, everywhere, crying aloud for me; Crying, I hear; and I satisfy them out of my nature; And he that comes at the end of the feast shall find something over. Whatever they want I give; though it be something else, they shall have it. Drunkard, leper, Tammanyite, small-pox and cholera patient, shoddy and codfish millionnaire, And the beautiful young men, and the beautiful young women, all the same, Crowding, hundreds of thousands, cosmical multitudes, Buss me and hang on my hips and lean up to my shoulders, Everywhere listening to my yawp and glad whenever they hear it; Everywhere saying, say it, Walt, we believe it: Everywhere, everywhere.

_Bayard Taylor._

THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER

FROM HER POINT OF VIEW

When I had firmly answered "No," And he allowed that that was so, I really thought I should be free For good and all from Mr. B., And that he would soberly acquiesce. I said that it would be discreet That for awhile we should not meet; I promised that I would always feel A kindly interest in his weal; I thanked him for his amorous zeal; In short, I said all I could but "yes."

I said what I'm accustomed to; I acted as I always do. I promised he should find in me A friend,--a sister, if that might be; But he was still dissatisfied. He certainly was most polite; He said exactly what was right, He acted very properly, Except indeed for this, that he Insisted on inviting me To come with him for "one more last ride."

A little while in doubt I stood: A ride, no doubt, would do me good; I had a habit and a hat Extremely well worth looking at; The weather was distinctly fine. My horse, too, wanted exercise, And time, when one is riding, flies; Besides, it really seemed, you see, The only way of ridding me Of pertinacious Mr. B.; So my head I graciously incline.

I won't say much of what happened next; I own I was extremely vexed. Indeed I should have been aghast If any one had seen what passed; But nobody need ever know That, as I leaned forward to stir the fire, He advanced before I could well retire; And I suddenly felt, to my great alarm, The grasp of a warm, unlicensed arm, An embrace in which I found no charm; I was awfully glad when he let me go.

Then we began to ride; my steed Was rather fresh, too fresh indeed, And at first I thought of little, save The way to escape an early grave, As the dust rose up on either side. My stern companion jogged along On a brown old cob both broad and strong. He looked as he does when he's writing verse, Or endeavoring not to swear and curse, Or wondering Where he has left his purse; Indeed it was a sombre ride.

I spoke of the weather to Mr. B., But he neither listened nor spoke to me. I praised his horse, and I smiled the smile Which was wont to move him once in a while. I said I was wearing his favorite flowers, But I wasted my words on the desert air, For he rode with a fixed and gloomy stare. I wonder what he was thinking about. As I don't read verse, I shan't find out. It was something subtle and deep, no doubt, A theme to detain a man for hours.

Ah! there was the corner where Mr. S. So nearly induced me to whisper "yes"; And here it was that the next but one Proposed on horseback, or would have done, Had his horse not most opportunely shied; Which perhaps was due to the unseen flick He received from my whip; 'twas a scurvy trick, But I never could do with that young man,-- I hope his present young woman can. Well, I must say, never, since time began, Did I go for a duller or longer ride.

He never smiles and he never speaks; He might go on like this for weeks; He rolls a slightly frenzied eye Towards the blue and burning sky, And the cob bounds on with tireless stride. If we aren't home for lunch at two I don't know what papa will do; But I know full well he will say to me, "I never approved of Mr. B.; It's the very devil that you and he Ride, ride together, forever ride."

_James Kenneth Stephen._

IMITATION OF WALT WHITMAN

Who am I? I have been reading Walt Whitman, and know not whether he be me, or me he;-- Or otherwise! Oh, blue skies! oh, rugged mountains! oh, mighty, rolling Niagara! O, chaos and everlasting bosh! I am a poet; I swear it! If you do not believe it you are a dolt, a fool, an idiot! Milton, Shakespere, Dante, Tommy Moore, Pope, never, but Byron, too, perhaps, and last, not least, Me, and the Poet Close. We send our resonance echoing down the adamantine cañons of the future! We live forever! The worms who criticise us (asses!) laugh, scoff, jeer, and babble--die! Serve them right. What is the difference between Judy, the pride of Fleet Street, the glory of Shoe Lane, and Walt Whitman? Start not! 'Tis no end of a minstrel show who perpends this query; 'Tis no brain-racking puzzle from an inner page of the Family Herald, No charade, acrostic (double or single), conundrum, riddle, rebus, anagram, or other guess-work. I answer thus: We both write truths--great, stern, solemn, unquenchable truths--couched in more or less ridiculous language. I, as a rule use rhyme, he does not; therefore, I am his Superior (which is also a lake in his great and glorious country). I scorn, with the unutterable scorn of the despiser of pettiness, to take a mean advantage of him. He writes, he sells, he is read (more or less); why then should I rack my brains and my rhyming dictionary? I will see the public hanged first! I sing of America, of the United States, of the stars and stripes of Oskhosh, of Kalamazoo, and of Salt Lake City. I sing of the railroad cars, of the hotels, of the breakfasts, the lunches, the dinners, and the suppers; Of the soup, the fish, the entrées, the joints, the game, the puddings and the ice-cream. I sing all--I eat all--I sing in turn of Dr. Bluffem's Anti-bilious Pills. No subject is too small, too insignificant, for Nature's poet. I sing of the cocktail, a new song for every cocktail, hundreds of songs, hundreds of cocktails. It is a great and a glorious land! The Mississippi, the Missouri, and a million other torrents roll their waters to the ocean. It is a great and glorious land! The Alleghanies, the Catskills, the Rockies (see atlas for other mountain ranges too numerous to mention) pierce the clouds! And the greatest and most glorious product of this great and glorious land is Walt Whitman; This must be so, for he says it himself. There is but one greater than he between the rising and the setting sun. There is but one before whom he meekly bows his humbled head. Oh, great and glorious land, teeming producer of all things, creator of Niagara, and inventor of Walt Whitman, Erase your national advertisements of liver pads and cures for rheumatism from your public monuments, and inscribe thereon in letters of gold the name _Judy_.

_Unknown._

SALAD

O cool in the summer is salad,
And warm in the winter is love;
And a poet shall sing you a ballad
Delicious thereon and thereof.
A singer am I, if no sinner,
My muse has a marvellous wing,
And I willingly worship at dinner
The Sirens of Spring.

Take endive--like love it is bitter,
Take beet--for like love it is red;
Crisp leaf of the lettuce shall glitter,
And cress from the rivulet's bed;
Anchovies, foam-born, like the lady
Whose beauty has maddened this bard;
And olives, from groves that are shady;
And eggs--boil 'em hard.

_Mortimer Collins._

IF

If life were never bitter, And love were always sweet, Then who would care to borrow A moral from to-morrow-- If Thames would always glitter, And joy would ne'er retreat, If life were never bitter, And love were always sweet!

If care were not the waiter Behind a fellow's chair, When easy-going sinners Sit down to Richmond dinners, And life's swift stream flows straighter, By Jove, it would be rare, If care were not the waiter Behind a fellow's chair.

If wit were always radiant, And wine were always iced, And bores were kicked out straightway Through a convenient gateway; Then down the year's long gradient 'Twere sad to be enticed, If wit were always radiant, And wine were always iced.

_Mortimer Collins._

THE JABBERWOCKY OF AUTHORS

'Twas gilbert. The kchesterton
Did locke and bennett in the reed.
All meredith was the nicholson,
And harrison outqueed.

Beware the see-enn-william, son,
The londonjack with call that's wild.
Beware the gertroo datherton
And richardwashburnchild.

He took his brady blade in hand;
Long time the partridge foe he sought.
Then stood a time by the oppenheim
In deep mcnaughton thought.

In warwick deeping thought he stood--
He poised on edithwharton brink;
He cried, "Ohbernardshaw! I could
If basilking would kink."

Rexbeach! rexbeach!--and each on each
O. Henry's mantles ferber fell.
It was the same'sif henryjames
Had wally eaton well.

"And hast thou writ the greatest book?
Come to thy birmingham, my boy!
Oh, beresford way! Oh, holman day!"
He kiplinged in his joy.

'Twas gilbert. The kchesterton
Did locke and bennett in the reed.
All meredith was the nicholson,
And harrison outqueed.

_Harry Persons Taber._

THE TOWN OF NICE

MAY, 1874

The town of Nice! the town of Nice!
Where once mosquitoes buzzed and stung,
And never gave me any peace,
The whole year round when I was young!
Eternal winter chills it yet,
It's always cold, and mostly wet.

Lord Brougham sate on the rocky brow,
Which looks on sea-girt Cannes, I wis,
But wouldn't like to sit there now,
Unless 'twere warmer than it is;
I went to Cannes the other day,
But found it much too damp to stay.

The mountains look on Monaco,
And Monaco looks on the sea;
And, playing there some hours ago,
I meant to win enormously;
But, tho' my need of coin was bad
I lost the little that I had.

Ye have the southern charges yet--
Where is the southern climate gone?
Of two such blessings, why forget
The cheaper and the seemlier one?
My weekly bill my wrath inspires;
Think ye I meant to pay for fires?

Why should I stay? No worse art thou,
My country! on thy genial shore
The local east-winds whistle now,
The local fogs spread more and more;
But in the sunny south, the weather
Beats all you know of put together.

I cannot eat--I cannot sleep--
The waves are not so blue as I;
Indeed, the waters of the deep
Are dirty-brown, and so's the sky:
I get dyspepsia when I dine--
Oh, dash that pint of country-wine!

_Herman C. Merivale._

THE WILLOW-TREE

ANOTHER VERSION

Long by the willow-trees
Vainly they sought her,
Wild rang the mother's screams
O'er the gray water:
Where is my lovely one?
Where is my daughter?

"Rouse thee, Sir Constable--
Rouse thee and look;
Fisherman, bring your net,
Boatman, your hook.
Beat in the lily-beds,
Dive in the brook!"

Vainly the constable
Shouted and called her;
Vainly the fisherman
Beat the green alder;
Vainly he flung the net,
Never it hauled her!

Mother beside the fire
Sat, her nightcap in;
Father, in easy chair,
Gloomily napping,
When at the window-sill
Came a light tapping!

And a pale countenance
Looked through the casement,
Loud beat the mother's heart,
Sick with amazement,
And at the vision which
Came to surprise her,
Shrieked in an agony--
"Lor'! it's Elizar!"

Yes, 'twas Elizabeth--
Yes, 'twas their girl;
Pale was her cheek, and her
Hair out of curl.
"Mother," the loving one,
Blushing exclaimed,
"Let not your innocent
Lizzy be blamed.

"Yesterday, going to Aunt
Jones's to tea,
Mother, dear mother, I
Forgot the door-key!
And as the night was cold
And the way steep,
Mrs. Jones kept me to
Breakfast and sleep."

Whether her Pa and Ma
Fully believed her,
That we shall never know,
Stern they received her;
And for the work of that
Cruel, though short, night
Sent her to bed without
Tea for a fortnight.

MORAL

Hey diddle diddlety,
Cat and the fiddlety,
Maidens of England, take caution by she!
Let love and suicide
Never tempt you aside,
And always remember to take the door-key.

_W. M. Thackeray._

A BALLADE OF BALLADE-MONGERS

AFTER THE MANNER OF MASTER FRANÇOIS VILLON OF PARIS

In Ballades things always contrive to get lost,
And Echo is constantly asking where
Are last year's roses and last year's frost?
And where are the fashions we used to wear?
And what is a "gentleman," and what is a "player"?
Irrelevant questions I like to ask:
Can you reap the tret as well as the tare?
And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?

What has become of the ring I tossed
In the lap of my mistress false and fair?
Her grave is green and her tombstone mossed;
But who is to be the next Lord Mayor?
And where is King William, of Leicester Square?
And who has emptied my hunting flask?
And who is possessed of Stella's hair?
And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?

And what became of the knee I crossed,
And the rod and the child they would not spare?
And what will a dozen herring cost
When herring are sold at three halfpence a pair?
And what in the world is the Golden Stair?
Did Diogenes die in a tub or cask,
Like Clarence, for love of liquor there?
And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?

ENVOY

Poets, your readers have much to bear,
For Ballade-making is no great task,
If you do not remember, I don't much care
Who was the man in the Iron Mask.

_Augustus M. Moore._

VIII

BATHOS

THE CONFESSION

There's somewhat on my breast, father,
There's somewhat on my breast!
The livelong day I sigh, father,
And at night I cannot rest.
I cannot take my rest, father,
Though I would fain do so;
A weary weight oppresseth me--
This weary weight of woe!

'Tis not the lack of gold, father,
Nor want of worldly gear;
My lands are broad, and fair to see,
My friends are kind and dear.
My kin are leal and true, father,
They mourn to see my grief;
But, oh! 'tis not a kinsman's hand
Can give my heart relief!

'Tis not that Janet's false, father,
'Tis not that she's unkind;
Though busy flatterers swarm around,
I know her constant mind.
'Tis not _her_ coldness, father,
That chills my laboring breast;
It's that confounded cucumber
I ate, and can't digest.

_Richard Harris Barham._

IF YOU HAVE SEEN

Good reader! if you e'er have seen, When Ph[oe]bus hastens to his pillow, The mermaids, with their tresses green, Dancing upon the western billow: If you have seen, at twilight dim, When the lone spirit's vesper hymn Floats wild along the winding shore: If you have seen, through mist of eve, The fairy train their ringlets weave, Glancing along the spangled green;-- If you have seen all this and more, God bless me! what a deal you've seen!

_Thomas Moore._

CIRCUMSTANCE

THE ORANGE

It ripen'd by the river banks,
Where, mask and moonlight aiding,
Dons Blas and Juan play their pranks,
Dark Donnas serenading.

By Moorish damsel it was pluck'd,
Beneath the golden day there;
By swain 'twas then in London suck'd--
Who flung the peel away there.

He could not know in Pimlico,
As little she in Seville,
That _I_ should reel upon that peel,
And--wish them at the devil!

_Frederick Locker-Lampson._

ELEGY

The jackals prowl, the serpents hiss In what was once Persepolis. Proud Babylon is but a trace Upon the desert's dusty face. The topless towers of Ilium Are ashes. Judah's harp is dumb. The fleets of Nineveh and Tyre Are down with Davy Jones, Esquire And all the oligarchies, kings, And potentates that ruled these things Are gone! But cheer up; don't be sad; Think what a lovely time they had!

_Arthur Guiterman._

OUR TRAVELLER

If thou would'st stand on Etna's burning brow, With smoke above, and roaring flame below; And gaze adown that molten gulf reveal'd, Till thy soul shudder'd and thy senses reel'd: If thou wouldst beard Niag'ra in his pride, Or stem the billows of Propontic tide; Scale all alone some dizzy Alpine _haut_, And shriek "Excelsior!" among the snow: Would'st tempt all deaths, all dangers that may be-- Perils by land, and perils on the sea; This vast round world, I say, if thou wouldst view it-- Then, why the dickens don't you go and do it?

_Henry Cholmondeley-Pennell._

OPTIMISM

Be brave, faint heart,
The dough shall yet be cake;
Be strong, weak heart,
The butter is to come.
Some cheerful chance will right the apple-cart,
The devious pig will gain the lucky mart,
Loquacity be dumb,--
Collapsed the fake.
Be brave, faint heart!

Be strong, weak heart,
The path will be made plain;
Be brave, faint heart,
The bore will crawl away.
The upside down will turn to right side up,
The stiffened lip compel that slipping cup,
The doldrums of the day
Be not in vain.
Be strong, weak heart!

Be brave, faint heart,
The jelly means to jell;
Be strong, weak heart,
The hopes are in the malt.
The wrong side in will yet turn right side out,
The long-time lost come down yon cormorant spout.
Life still is worth her salt:
What ends well's well.
Be brave, faint heart!

_Newton Mackintosh._

THE DECLARATION

Twas late, and the gay company was gone, And light lay soft on the deserted room From alabaster vases, and a scent Of orange-leaves, and sweet verbena came Through the unshutter'd window on the air. And the rich pictures with their dark old tints Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things Seem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel, The dark-eyed, spiritual Isabel Was leaning on her harp, and I had stay'd To whisper what I could not when the crowd Hung on her look like worshipers. I knelt, And with the fervor of a lip unused To the cool breath of reason, told my love. There was no answer, and I took the hand That rested on the strings, and press'd a kiss Upon it unforbidden--and again Besought her, that this silent evidence That I was not indifferent to her heart, Might have the seal of one sweet syllable. I kiss'd the small white fingers as I spoke, And she withdrew them gently, and upraised Her forehead from its resting-place, and look'd Earnestly on me--_She had been asleep!_

_N. P. Willis._

HE CAME TO PAY

The editor sat with his head in his hands
And his elbows at rest on his knees;
He was tired of the ever-increasing demands
On his time, and he panted for ease.
The clamor for copy was scorned with a sneer,
And he sighed in the lowest of tones:
"Won't somebody come with a dollar to cheer
The heart of Emanuel Jones?"

Just then on the stairway a footstep was heard
And a rap-a-tap loud at the door,
And the flickering hope that had been long deferred
Blazed up like a beacon once more;
And there entered a man with a cynical smile
That was fringed with a stubble of red,
Who remarked, as he tilted a sorry old tile
To the back of an average head:

"I have come here to pay"--Here the editor cried:
"You're as welcome as flowers in spring!
Sit down in this easy armchair by my side,
And excuse me awhile till I bring
A lemonade dashed with a little old wine
And a dozen cigars of the best....
Ah! Here we are! This, I assure you, is fine;
Help yourself, most desirable guest."

The visitor drank with a relish, and smoked
Till his face wore a satisfied glow,
And the editor, beaming with merriment, joked
In a joyous, spontaneous flow;
And then, when the stock of refreshments was gone,
His guest took occasion to say,
In accents distorted somewhat by a yawn,
"My errand up here is to pay--"

But the generous scribe, with a wave of his hand,
Put a stop to the speech of his guest,
And brought in a melon, the finest the land
Ever bore on its generous breast;
And the visitor, wearing a singular grin,
Seized the heaviest half of the fruit,
And the juice, as it ran in a stream from his chin,
Washed the mud of the pike from his boot.

Then, mopping his face on a favorite sheet
Which the scribe had laid carefully by,
The visitor lazily rose to his feet
With the dreariest kind of a sigh,
And he said, as the editor sought his address,
In his books to discover his due:
"I came here to pay--my respects to the press,
And to borrow a dollar of you!"

_Parmenas Mix._

THE FORLORN ONE

Ah! why those piteous sounds of woe,
Lone wanderer of the dreary night?
Thy gushing tears in torrents flow,
Thy bosom pants in wild affright!

And thou, within whose iron breast
Those frowns austere too truly tell,
Mild pity, heaven-descended guest,
Hath never, never deign'd to dwell.

"That rude, uncivil touch forego,"
Stern despot of a fleeting hour!
Nor "make the angels weep" to know
The fond "fantastic tricks" of power!

Know'st thou not "mercy is not strain'd,
But droppeth as the gentle dew,"
And while it blesseth him who gain'd,
It blesseth him who gave it, too?

Say, what art thou? and what is he,
Pale victim of despair and pain,
Whose streaming eyes and bended knee
Sue to thee thus--and sue in vain?

Cold callous man!--he scorns to yield,
Or aught relax his felon gripe,
But answers, "I'm Inspector Field
And this here warment's prigg'd your wipe."

_Richard Harris Barham._

RURAL RAPTURES

'Tis sweet at dewy eve to rove
When softly sighs the western breeze,
And wandering 'mid the starlit grove
To take a pinch of snuff and sneeze.

'Tis sweet to see in daisied field
The flocks and herds their pleasure take;
But sweeter are the joys they yield
In tender chop and juicy steak.

'Tis sweet to hear the murmurous sound
That from the vocal woods doth rise,
To mark the pigeons wheeling round,
And think how nice they'd be in pies.

When nightingales pour from their throats
Their gushing melody, 'tis sweet;
Yet sweeter 'tis to catch the notes
That issue from Threadneedle Street.

_Unknown._

A FRAGMENT

His eye was stern and wild--his cheek was pale and cold as clay; Upon his tightened lip a smile of fearful meaning lay. He mused awhile--but not in doubt--no trace of doubt was there; It was the steady solemn pause of resolute despair. Once more he looked upon the scroll--once more its words he read-- Then calmly, with unflinching hand, its folds before him spread. I saw him bare his throat, and seize the blue-cold gleaming steel, And grimly try the tempered edge he was so soon to feel! A sickness crept upon my heart, and dizzy swam my headI could not stir--I could not cry--I felt benumbed and dead; Black icy horrors struck me dumb, and froze my senses o'er; I closed my eyes in utter fear, and strove to think no more.

Again I looked: a fearful change across his face had passed-- He seemed to rave--on cheek and lip a flaky foam was cast; He raised on high the glittering blade--then first I found a tongue-- "Hold, madman! stay thy frantic deed!" I cried, and forth I sprung; He heard me, but he heeded not; one glance around he gave, And ere I could arrest his hands, he had--begun to _shave_!

_Unknown._

THE BITER BIT

The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair, And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air; The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea, And happiness is everywhere, oh, mother, but with me!

They are going to the church, mother--I hear the marriage bell It booms along the upland--oh! it haunts me like a knell; He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step, And closely to his side she clings--she does, the demirep!

They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood, The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood; And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear, Wave their silver branches o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere.

He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed, By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed; And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again; But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane!

He said that I was proud, mother, that I looked for rank and gold, He said I did not love him--he said my words were cold; He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game-- And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done the same.

I did not know my heart, mother--I know it now too late; I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate; But no nobler suitor sought me--and he has taken wing, And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing.

You may lay me in my bed, mother--my head is throbbing sore; And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before; And, if you'd please, my mother dear, your poor desponding child, Draw me a pot of beer, mother, and, mother, draw it mild!

_William E. Aytoun._

COMFORT IN AFFLICTION

"Wherefore starts my bosom's lord?
Why this anguish in thine eye?
Oh, it seems as thy heart's chord
Had broken with that sigh!

"Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray,
Rest thee on my bosom now!
And let me wipe the dews away,
Are gathering on thy brow.

"There, again! that fevered start!
What, love! husband! is thy pain?
There is a sorrow in thy heart,
A weight upon thy brain!

"Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne'er
Deceive affection's searching eye;
'Tis a wife's duty, love, to share
Her husband's agony.

"Since the dawn began to peep,
Have I lain with stifled breath;
Heard thee moaning in thy sleep,
As thou wert at grips with death.

"Oh, what joy it was to see
My gentle lord once more awake!
Tell me, what is amiss with thee?
Speak, or my heart will break!"

"Mary, thou angel of my life,
Thou ever good and kind;
'Tis not, believe me, my dear wife,
The anguish of the mind!

"It is not in my bosom, dear,
No, nor in my brain, in sooth;
But, Mary, oh, I feel it here,
Here in my wisdom tooth!

"Then give,--oh, first, best antidote,--
Sweet partner of my bed!
Give me thy flannel petticoat
To wrap around my head!"

_William E. Aytoun._

THE HUSBAND'S PETITION

Come hither, my heart's darling,
Come, sit upon my knee,
And listen, while I whisper,
A boon I ask of thee.
You need not pull my whiskers
So amorously, my dove;
'Tis something quite apart from
The gentle cares of love.

I feel a bitter craving--
A dark and deep desire,
That glows beneath my bosom
Like coals of kindled fire.
The passion of the nightingale,
When singing to the rose,
Is feebler than the agony
That murders my repose!

Nay, dearest! do not doubt me,
Though madly thus I speak--
I feel thy arms about me,
Thy tresses on my cheek:
I know the sweet devotion
That links thy heart with mine--
I know my soul's emotion
Is doubly felt by thine:

And deem not that a shadow
Hath fallen across my love:
No, sweet, my love is shadowless,
As yonder heaven above.
These little taper fingers--
Ah! Jane, how white they be!--
Can well supply the cruel want
That almost maddens me.

Thou wilt not sure deny me
My first and fond request;
I pray thee, by the memory
Of all we cherish best--
By all the dear remembrance
Of those delicious days,
When, hand in hand, we wandered
Along the summer braes:

By all we felt, unspoken,
When 'neath the early moon,
We sat beside the rivulet,
In the leafy month of June;
And by the broken whisper,
That fell upon my ear,
More sweet than angel-music,
When first I woo'd thee, dear!

By that great vow which bound thee
Forever to my side,
And by the ring that made thee
My darling and my bride!
Thou wilt not fail nor falter,
But bend thee to the task--
|A boiled sheep's head on Sunday|
Is all the boon I ask.

_William E. Aytoun._

LINES WRITTEN AFTER A BATTLE

BY AN ASSISTANT SURGEON OF THE NINETEENTH NANKEENS

Stiff are the warrior's muscles,
Congeal'd, alas! his chyle;
No more in hostile tussles
Will he excite his bile.
Dry is the epidermis,
A vein no longer bleeds--
And the communis vermis
Upon the warrior feeds.

Compress'd, alas! the thorax,
That throbbed with joy or pain;
Not e'en a dose of borax
Could make it throb again.
Dried up the warrior's throat is,
All shatter'd too, his head:
Still is the epiglottis--
The warrior is dead.

_Unknown._

LINES

ADDRESSED TO ** **** ***** ON THE 29TH OF SEPTEMBER, WHEN WE PARTED FOR
THE LAST TIME

I have watch'd thee with rapture, and dwelt on thy charms,
As link'd in Love's fetters we wander'd each day;
And each night I have sought a new life in thy arms,
And sigh'd that our union could last not for aye.

But thy life now depends on a frail silken thread,
Which I even by kindness may cruelly sever,
And I look to the moment of parting with dread,
For I feel that in parting I lose thee forever.
Sole being that cherish'd my poor troubled heart!
Thou know'st all its secrets--each joy and each grief;
And in sharing them all thou did'st ever impart
To its sorrows a gentle and soothing relief.

The last of a long and affectionate race,
As thy days are declining I love thee the more,
For I feel that thy loss I can never replace--
That thy death will but leave me to weep and deplore.

Unchanged, thou shalt live in the mem'ry of years,
I cannot--I will not--forget what thou wert!
While the thoughts of thy love as they call forth my tears,
In fancy will wash thee once more--|My Last Shirt|.

_Unknown._

THE IMAGINATIVE CRISIS

Oh, solitude! thou wonder-working fay, Come nurse my feeble fancy in your arms, Though I, and thee, and fancy town-pent lay, Come, call around, a world of country charms. Let all this room, these walls dissolve away, And bring me Surrey's fields to take their place: This floor be grass, and draughts as breezes play; Yon curtains trees, to wave in summer's face; My ceiling, sky; my water-jug a stream; My bed, a bank, on which to muse and dream. The spell is wrought: imagination swells My sleeping-room to hills, and woods, and dells! I walk abroad, for naught my footsteps hinder, And fling my arms. Oh! mi! I've broke the _winder_!

_Unknown._

IX

PARODY

THE HIGHER PANTHEISM IN A NUTSHELL

One, who is not, we see; but one, whom we see not, is; Surely, this is not that; but that is assuredly this.

What, and wherefore, and whence: for under is over and under; If thunder could be without lightning, lightning could be without thunder.

Doubt is faith in the main; but faith, on the whole, is doubt; We cannot believe by proof; but could we believe without?

Why, and whither, and how? for barley and rye are not clover; Neither are straight lines curves; yet over is under and over.

One and two are not one; but one and nothing is two; Truth can hardly be false, if falsehood cannot be true.

Parallels all things are; yet many of these are askew; You are certainly I; but certainly I am not you.

One, whom we see not, is; and one, who is not, we see; Fiddle, we know, is diddle; and diddle, we take it, is dee.

_Algernon Charles Swinburne._

NEPHELIDIA

From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable
nimbus of nebulous moonshine,
Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear
of the flies as they float,
Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of
mystic miraculous moonshine,
These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and
threaten with throbs through the throat?
Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor's
appalled agitation,
Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the
promise of pride in the past;
Flushed with the famishing fulness of fever that reddens with radiance
of rathe recreation,
Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of
the gloaming when ghosts go aghast?
Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the
temples of terror,
Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is
dumb as the dust-heaps of death;
Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite
error,
Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by beatitude's
breath.
Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul
of our senses
Sweetens the stress of surprising suspicion that sobs in the semblance
and sound of a sigh;
Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and triangular
tenses,--
"Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn
of the day when we die."
Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it
may be,
While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of
men's rapiers, resigned to the rod;
Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats bound with the bliss-bringing
bulk of a balm-breathing baby,
As they grope through the grave-yard of creeds, under skies growing
green at a groan for the grimness of God.
Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, and its binding is
blacker than bluer:
Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dews are
the wine of the bloodshed of things:
Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is
freed from the fangs that pursue her,
Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from the hunt
that has harried the kennel of kings.

_Algernon Charles Swinburne._

UP THE SPOUT

I

Hi! Just you drop that! Stop, I say! Shirk work, think slink off, twist friend's wrist? Where that spined sand's lined band's the bay-- Lined blind with true sea's blue, as due-- Promising--not to pay?

II

For the sea's debt leaves wet the sand; Burst worst fate's weight's in one burst gun? A man's own yacht, blown--What? off land? Tack back, or veer round here, then--queer! Reef points, though--understand?

III

I'm blest if I do. Sigh? be blowed! Love's doves make break life's ropes, eh? Tropes! Faith's brig, baulked, sides caulked, rides at road; Hope's gropes befogged, storm-dogged and bogged-- Clogged, water-logged, her load!

Stowed, by Jove, right and tight, away. No show now how best plough sea's brow, Wrinkling--breeze quick, tease thick, ere day, Clear sheer wave's sheen of green, I mean, With twinkling wrinkles--eh?

V

Sea sprinkles wrinkles, tinkles light Shells' bells--boy's joys that hap to snap! It's just sea's fun, breeze done, to spite God's rods that scourge her surge, I'd urge-- Not proper, is it--quite?

VI

See, fore and aft, life's craft undone! Crank plank, split spritsail--mark, sea's lark! That gray cold sea's old sprees, begun When men lay dark i' the ark, no spark, All water--just God's fun!

VII

Not bright, at best, his jest to these Seemed--screamed, shrieked, wreaked on kin for sin! When for mirth's yell earth's knell seemed please Some dumb new grim great whim in him Made Jews take chalk for cheese.

VIII

Could God's rods bruise God's Jews? Their jowls Bobbed, sobbed, gaped, aped, the plaice in face! None heard, 'tis odds, his--God's--folk's howls. Now, how must I apply, to try This hookiest-beaked of owls?

Well, I suppose God knows--I don't. Time's crimes mark dark men's types, in stripes Broad as fen's lands men's hands were wont Leave grieve unploughed, though proud and loud With birds' words--No! he won't!

X

One never should think good impossible. Eh? say I'd hide this Jew's oil's cruse-- His shop might hold bright gold, engrossible By spy--spring's air takes there no care To wave the heath-flower's glossy bell!

XI

But gold bells chime in time there, coined-- Gold! Old Sphinx winks there--"Read my screed!" Doctrine Jews learn, use, burn for, joined (Through new craft's stealth) with health and wealth-- At once all three purloined!

XII

I rose with dawn, to pawn, no doubt, (Miss this chance, glance untried aside?) John's shirt, my--no! Ay, so--the lout! Let yet the door gape, store on floor And not a soul about?

XIII

Such men lay traps, perhaps--and I'm Weak--meek--mild--child of woe, you know! But theft, I doubt, my lout calls crime. Shrink? Think! Love's dawn in pawn--you spawn Of Jewry! Just in time!

_Algernon Charles Swinburne._

IN IMMEMORIAM

We seek to know, and knowing seek; We seek, we know, and every sense Is trembling with the great Intense And vibrating to what we speak.

We ask too much, we seek too oft, We know enough, and should no more; And yet we skim through Fancy's lore And look to earth and not aloft.

A something comes from out the gloom; I know it not, nor seek to know; I only see it swell and grow, And more than this world would presume.

Meseems, a circling void I fill, And I, unchanged where all is changed; It seems unreal; I own it strange, Yet nurse the thoughts I cannot kill.

I hear the ocean's surging tide, Raise quiring on its carol-tune; I watch the golden-sickled moon, And clearer voices call beside.

O Sea! whose ancient ripples lie On red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone; O Moon! whose golden sickle's gone; O Voices all! like ye I die!

_Cuthbert Bede._

LUCY LAKE

Poor Lucy Lake was overgrown,
But somewhat underbrained.
She did not know enough, I own,
To go in when it rained.
Yet Lucy was constrained to go;
Green bedding,--you infer.
Few people knew she died, but oh,
The difference to her!

_Newton Mackintosh._

THE COCK AND THE BULL

You see this pebble-stone? It's a thing I bought Of a bit of a chit of a boy i' the mid o' the day-- I like to dock the smaller parts-o'-speech, As we curtail the already cur-tailed cur (You catch the paronomasia, play 'po' words?) Did, rather, i' the pre-Landseerian days. Well, to my muttons. I purchased the concern, And clapt it i' my poke, having given for same By way o' chop, swop, barter or exchange-- "Chop" was my snickering dandiprat's own term-- One shilling and fourpence, current coin o' the realm. O-n-e one and f-o-u-r four Pence, one and fourpence--you are with me, sir?-- What hour it skills not: ten or eleven o' the clock, One day (and what a roaring day it was Go shop or sight-see--bar a spit o' rain!) In February, eighteen sixty nine, Alexandrina Victoria, Fidei, Hm--hm--how runs the jargon? being on the throne.

Such, sir, are all the facts, succinctly put, The basis or substratum--what you will-- Of the impending eighty thousand lines. "Not much in 'em either," quoth perhaps simple Hodge. But there's a superstructure. Wait a bit.