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Of Three Children Choosing - A Chaplet Of Verse

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

You and I and Burd so blithe-- Burd so blithe, and you, and I-- The Mower he would whet his scythe Before the dew was dry. And he woke soon, but we woke soon And drew the nursery blind, All wondering at the waning moon With the small June roses twined: Low in her cradle swung the moon With an elfin dawn behind. In whispers, while our elders slept, We knelt and said our prayers, And dress'd us and on tiptoe crept Adown the creaking stairs. The world's possessors lay abed, And all the world was ours-- "Nay, nay, but hark! the Mower's tread! And we must save the flowers!" The Mower knew not rest nor haste-- That old unweary man: But we were young. We paused and raced And gather'd while we ran. O youth is careless, youth is fleet, With heart and wing of bird! The lark flew up beneath our feet, To his copse the pheasant whirr'd; The cattle from their darkling lairs Heaved up and stretch'd themselves; Almost they trod at unawares Upon the busy elves That dropp'd their spools of gossamer, To dangle and to dry, And scurried home to the hollow fir Where the white owl winks an eye. Nor you, nor I, nor Burd so blithe Had driven them in this haste; But the old, old man, so lean and lithe, That afar behind us paced; So lean and lithe, with shoulder'd scythe, And a whetstone at his waist. Within the gate, in a grassy round Whence they had earliest flown, He upside-down'd his scythe, and ground Its edge with careful hone. But we heeded not, if we heard, the sound, For the world was ours alone; The world was ours!--and with a bound The conquering Sun upshone! And while as from his level ray We stood our eyes to screen. The world was not as yesterday Our homelier world had been-- So grey and golden-green it lay All in his quiet sheen, That wove the gold into the grey, The grey into the green. Sure never hand of Puck, nor wand Of Mab the fairies' queen, Nor prince nor peer of fairyland Had power to weave that wide riband Of the grey, the gold, the green. But the Gods of Greece had been before And walked our meads along, The great authentic Gods of yore That haunt the earth from shore to shore Trailing their robes of song. And where a sandall'd foot had brush'd, And where a scarfed hem, The flowers awoke from sleep and rush'd Like children after them. Pell-mell they poured by vale and stream, By lawn and steepy brae-- "O children, children! while you dream, Your flowers run all away!" But afar and abed and sleepily The children heard us call; And Burd so blithe and you and I Must be gatherers for all. The meadow-sweet beside the hedge, The dog-rose and the vetch, The sworded iris 'mid the sedge, The mallow by the ditch-- With these, and by the wimpling burn, Where the midges danced in reels, With the watermint and the lady fern We brimm'd out wicker creels: Till, all so heavily they weigh'd, On a bank we flung us down, Shook out our treasures 'neath the shade And wove this Triple Crown. Flower after flower--for some there were The noonday heats had dried, And some were dear yet could not bear A lovelier cheek beside, And some were perfect past compare-- Ah, darlings! what a world of care It cost us to decide! Natheless we sang in sweet accord, Each bending o'er her brede-- "O there be flowers in Oxenford, And flowers be north of Tweed, And flowers there be on earthly sward That owe no mortal seed!" And these, the brightest that we wove, Were Innocence and Truth, And holy Peace and angel Love, Glad Hope and gentle Ruth. Ah, bind them fast with triple twine Of Memory, the wild woodbine That still, being human, stays divine, And alone is age's youth!... But hark! but look! the warning rook Wings home in level flight; The children tired with play and book Have kiss'd and call'd Good-night! Ah, sisters, look! What fields be these That lie so sad and shorn? What hand has cut our coppices, And thro' the trimm'd, the ruin'd, trees Lets wail a wind forlorn? 'Tis Time, 'tis Time has done this crime And laid our meadows waste-- The bent unwearied tyrant Time, That knows nor rest nor haste. Yet courage, children; homeward bring Your hearts, your garlands high; For we have dared to do a thing That shall his worst defy. We cannot nail the dial's hand; We cannot bind the sun By Gibeon to stay and stand, Or the moon o'er Ajalon; We cannot blunt th' abhorred shears, Nor shift the skeins of Fate, Nor say unto the posting years "Ye shall not desolate." We cannot cage the lion's rage, Nor teach the turtle-dove Beside what well his moan to tell Or to haunt one only grove; But the lion's brood will range for food As the fledged bird will rove. And east and west we three may wend-- Yet we a wreath have wound For us shall wind withouten end The wide, wide world around: Be it east or west, and ne'er so far, In east or west shall peep no star, No blossom break from ground, But minds us of the wreath we wove Of innocence and holy love That in the meads we found, And handsell'd from the Mower's scythe, And bound with memory's living withe-- You and I and Burd so blithe-- Three maidens on a mound: And all of happiness was ours Shall find remembrance 'mid the flowers, Shall take revival from the flowers And by the flowers be crown'd.

Extract. From A Prologue Written And Spoken By The Author, At The Opening Of The Kilkenny Theatre, October, 1809.

Thomas Moore

Yet, even here, tho' Fiction rules the hour, There shine some genuine smiles, beyond her power; And there are tears, too--tears that Memory sheds Even o'er the feast that mimic fancy spreads, When her heart misses one lamented guest,[1] Whose eye so long threw light o'er all the rest! There, there, indeed, the Muse forgets her task, And drooping weeps behind Thalia's mask. Forgive this gloom--forgive this joyless strain, Too sad to welcome pleasure's smiling train. But, meeting thus, our hearts will part the lighter, As mist at dawn but makes the setting brighter; Gay Epilogue will shine where Prologue fails-- As glow-worms keep their splendor for their tails. I know not why--but time, methinks, hath past More fleet than usual since we parted last. It seems but like a dream of yesternight. Whose charm still hangs, with fond, delaying light; And, ere the memory lose one glowing hue Of former joy, we come to kindle new. Thus ever may the flying moments haste With trackless foot along life's vulgar waste, But deeply print and lingeringly move, When thus they reach the sunny spots we love. Oh yes, whatever be our gay career, Let this be still the solstice of the year, Where Pleasure's sun shall at its height remain, And slowly sink to level life again.

To Laura In Death. Sonnet XLIII.

Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Quel rosignuol che s' soave piagne. THE SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE REMINDS HIM OF HIS UNHAPPY LOT. Yon nightingale, whose bursts of thrilling tone, Pour'd in soft sorrow from her tuneful throat, Haply her mate or infant brood bemoan, Filling the fields and skies with pity's note; Here lingering till the long long night is gone, Awakes the memory of my cruel lot-- But I my wretched self must wail alone: Fool, who secure from death an angel thought! O easy duped, who thus on hope relies! Who would have deem'd the darkness, which appears, From orbs more brilliant than the sun should rise? Now know I, made by sad experience wise, That Fate would teach me by a life of tears, On wings how fleeting fast all earthly rapture flies! WRANGHAM. Yon nightingale, whose strain so sweetly flows, Mourning her ravish'd young or much-loved mate, A soothing charm o'er all the valleys throws And skies, with notes well tuned to her sad state: And all the night she seems my kindred woes With me to weep and on my sorrows wait; Sorrows that from my own fond fancy rose, Who deem'd a goddess could not yield to fate. How easy to deceive who sleeps secure! Who could have thought that to dull earth would turn Those eyes that as the sun shone bright and pure? Ah! now what Fortune wills I see full sure: That loathing life, yet living I should see How few its joys, how little they endure! ANON., OX., 1795. That nightingale, who now melodious mourns Perhaps his children or his consort dear, The heavens with sweetness fills; the distant bourns Resound his notes, so piteous and so clear; With me all night he weeps, and seems by turns To upbraid me with my fault and fortune drear, Whose fond and foolish heart, where grief sojourns, A goddess deem'd exempt from mortal fear. Security, how easy to betray! The radiance of those eyes who could have thought Should e'er become a senseless clod of clay? Living, and weeping, late I've learn'd to say That here below--Oh, knowledge dearly bought!-- Whate'er delights will scarcely last a day! CHARLEMONT.

The Baffled Knight

Frank Sidgwick

The Text is from Ravenscroft's Deuteromelia (1609), reprinted almost verbatim in Tom Durfey's Pills to Purge Melancholy. The Story was sufficiently popular not only to have been revived, at the end of the seventeenth century, but to have had three other 'Parts' added to it, the whole four afterwards being combined into one broadside. In similar Spanish, Portuguese, and French ballads, the damsel escapes by saying she is a leper, or the daughter of a leper, or otherwise diseased. Much the same story is told in Danish and German ballads. THE BAFFLED KNIGHT 1. Yonder comes a courteous knight, Lustely raking over the lay; He was well ware of a bonny lasse, As she came wand'ring over the way. Then she sang downe a downe, hey downe derry    (bis) 2. 'Jove you speed, fayre ladye,' he said, 'Among the leaves that be so greene; If I were a king, and wore a crowne, Full soone, fair lady, shouldst thou be a queen. 3. 'Also Jove save you, faire lady, Among the roses that be so red; If I have not my will of you, Full soone, faire lady, shall I be dead.' 4. Then he lookt east, then hee lookt west, Hee lookt north, so did he south; He could not finde a privy place, For all lay in the divel's mouth. 5. 'If you will carry me, gentle sir, A mayde unto my father's hall, Then you shall have your will of me, Under purple and under paule.' 6. He set her up upon a steed, And him selfe upon another, And all the day he rode her by, As though they had been sister and brother. 7. When she came to her father's hall, It was well walled round about; She yode in at the wicket-gate, And shut the foure-ear'd foole without. 8. 'You had me,' quoth she, 'abroad in the field, Among the corne, amidst the hay, Where you might had your will of mee, For, in good faith, sir, I never said nay. 9. 'Ye had me also amid the field, Among the rushes that were so browne, Where you might had your will of me, But you had not the face to lay me downe.' 10. He pulled out his nut-browne sword, And wipt the rust off with his sleeve, And said, 'Jove's curse come to his heart, That any woman would beleeve!' 11. When you have your own true-love A mile or twaine out of the towne, Spare not for her gay clothing, But lay her body flat on the ground.

In Hospital - V - Operation

William Ernest Henley

You are carried in a basket, Like a carcase from the shambles, To the theatre, a cockpit Where they stretch you on a table. Then they bid you close your eyelids, And they mask you with a napkin, And the anaesthetic reaches Hot and subtle through your being. And you gasp and reel and shudder In a rushing, swaying rapture, While the voices at your elbow Fade - receding - fainter - farther. Lights about you shower and tumble, And your blood seems crystallising - Edged and vibrant, yet within you Racked and hurried back and forward. Then the lights grow fast and furious, And you hear a noise of waters, And you wrestle, blind and dizzy, In an agony of effort, Till a sudden lull accepts you, And you sound an utter darkness . . . And awaken . . . with a struggle . . . On a hushed, attentive audience.

To The Right Honourable Mildmay, Earl Of Westmoreland.

Robert Herrick

You are a lord, an earl, nay more, a man Who writes sweet numbers well as any can; If so, why then are not these verses hurled, Like Sybil's leaves, throughout the ample world? What is a jewel if it be not set Forth by a ring or some rich carcanet? But being so, then the beholders cry: See, see a gem as rare as Belus' eye. Then public praise does run upon the stone, For a most rich, a rare, a precious one. Expose your jewels then unto the view, That we may praise them, or themselves prize you. Virtue concealed, with Horace you'll confess, Differs not much from drowsy slothfulness.

Yonder see the morning blink:

Alfred Edward Housman

Yonder see the morning blink: The sun is up, and up must I, To wash and dress and eat and drink And look at things and talk and think And work, and God knows why. Oh often have I washed and dressed And what's to show for all my pain? Let me lie abed and rest: Ten thousand times I've done my best And all's to do again.

The Dunciad: Book The Fourth.

Alexander Pope

ARGUMENT. The poet being, in this book, to declare the completion of the prophecies mentioned at the end of the former, makes a new invocation; as the greater poets are wont, when some high and worthy matter is to be sung. He shows the goddess coming in her majesty to destroy order and science, and to substitute the kingdom of the Dull upon earth; how she leads captive the Sciences, and silenceth the Muses; and what they be who succeed in their stead. All her children, by a wonderful attraction, are drawn about her; and bear along with them divers others, who promote her empire by connivance, weak resistance, or discouragement of Arts; such as half-wits, tasteless admirers, vain pretenders, the flatterers of Dunces, or the patrons of them. All these crowd round her; one of them offering to approach her, is driven back by a rival, but she commends and encourages both. The first who speak in form are the geniuses of the schools, who assure her of their care to advance her cause, by confining youth to words, and keeping them out of the way of real knowledge. Their address, and her gracious answer; with her charge to them and the Universities. The Universities appear by their proper deputies, and assure her that the same method is observed in the progress of education. The speech of Aristarchus on this subject. They are driven off by a band of young gentlemen returned from travel with their tutors; one of whom delivers to the goddess, in a polite oration, an account of the whole conduct and fruits of their travels; presenting to her at the same time a young nobleman perfectly accomplished. She receives him graciously, and indues him with the happy quality of want of shame. She sees loitering about her a number of indolent persons abandoning all business and duty, and dying with laziness: to these approaches the antiquary Annius, entreating her to make them virtuosos, and assign them over to him; but Mummius, another antiquary, complaining of his fraudulent proceeding, she finds a method to reconcile their difference. Then enter a troop of people fantastically adorned, offering her strange and exotic presents: amongst them, one stands forth and demands justice on another, who had deprived him of one of the greatest curiosities in nature; but he justifies himself so well, that the goddess gives them both her approbation. She recommends to them to find proper employment for the indolents before-mentioned, in the study of butterflies, shells, birds' nests, moss, &c., but with particular caution not to proceed beyond trifles, to any useful or extensive views of nature, or of the Author of nature. Against the last of these apprehensions, she is secured by a hearty address from the minute philosophers and freethinkers, one of whom speaks in the name of the rest. The youth thus instructed and principled, are delivered to her in a body, by the hands of Silenus; and then admitted to taste the cup of the Magus her high-priest, which causes a total oblivion of all obligations, divine, civil, moral, or rational. To these her adepts she sends priests, attendants, and comforters, of various kinds; confers on them orders and degrees; and then dismissing them with a speech, confirming to each his privileges, and telling what she expects from each, concludes with a yawn of extraordinary virtue: the progress and effects whereof on all orders of men, and the consummation of all, in the restoration of Night and Chaos, conclude the poem. Yet, yet a moment, one dim ray of light Indulge, dread Chaos, and eternal Night! Of darkness visible so much be lent, As half to show, half veil the deep intent. Ye Powers! whose mysteries restored I sing, To whom Time bears me on his rapid wing, Suspend a while your force inertly strong, Then take at once the poet and the song. Now flamed the dog-star's unpropitious ray, Smote every brain, and wither'd every bay; Sick was the sun, the owl forsook his bower, The moon-struck prophet felt the madding hour: Then rose the seed of Chaos, and of Night, To blot out order, and extinguish light, Of dull and venal a new world to mould, And bring Saturnian days of lead and gold. She mounts the throne: her head a cloud conceal'd, In broad effulgence all below reveal'd, ('Tis thus aspiring Dulness ever shines), Soft on her lap her laureate son reclines. Beneath her foot-stool, Science groans in chains, And Wit dreads exile, penalties and pains. There foam'd rebellious Logic, gagg'd and bound, There, stripp'd, fair Rhetoric languish'd on the ground; His blunted arms by Sophistry are borne, And shameless Billingsgate her robes adorn. Morality, by her false guardians drawn. Chicane in furs, and Casuistry in lawn, Gasps, as they straiten at each end the cord, And dies, when Dulness gives her page the word. Mad M'thesis[380] alone was unconfined, Too mad for mere material chains to bind, Now to pure space[381] lifts her ecstatic stare, Now running round the circle, finds it square.[382] But held in tenfold bonds the Muses lie, Watch'd both by Envy's and by Flattery's eye: There to her heart sad Tragedy address'd The dagger wont to pierce the tyrant's breast; But sober History restrain'd her rage, And promised vengeance on a barbarous age. There sunk Thalia, nerveless, cold, and dead, Had not her sister Satire held her head: Nor could'st thou, Chesterfield![383] a tear refuse, Thou wept'st, and with thee wept each gentle Muse. When, lo! a harlot form[384] soft sliding by, With mincing step, small voice, and languid eye: Foreign her air, her robe's discordant pride In patchwork fluttering, and her head aside: By singing peers upheld on either hand, She tripp'd and laugh'd, too pretty much to stand; Cast on the prostrate Nine a scornful look, Then thus in quaint recitative spoke: 'O Cara! Cara! silence all that train: Joy to great Chaos! let division reign:[385] Chromatic[386] tortures soon shall drive them hence, Break all their nerves, and fritter all their sense: One trill shall harmonise joy, grief, and rage, Wake the dull church, and lull the ranting stage;[387] To the same notes thy sons shall hum, or snore, And all thy yawning daughters cry, Encore! Another Phoebus, thy own Phoebus, reigns, Joys in my jigs, and dances in my chains. But soon, ah soon, rebellion will commence, If music meanly borrows aid from sense: Strong in new arms, lo! giant Handel stands, Like bold Briareus, with a hundred hands; To stir, to rouse, to shake the soul he comes, And Jove's own thunders follow Mars's drums. Arrest him, empress; or you sleep no more'-- She heard, and drove him to the Hibernian shore. And now had Fame's posterior trumpet blown, And all the nations summon'd to the throne. The young, the old, who feel her inward sway, One instinct seizes, and transports away. None need a guide, by sure attraction led, And strong impulsive gravity of head; None want a place, for all their centre found, Hung to the goddess, and cohered around. Not closer, orb in orb, conglobed are seen The buzzing bees about their dusky queen. The gathering number, as it moves along, Involves a vast involuntary throng, Who, gently drawn, and struggling less and less, Roll in her vortex, and her power confess. Not those alone who passive own her laws, But who, weak rebels, more advance her cause. Whate'er of dunce in college or in town Sneers at another, in toup'e or gown; Whate'er of mongrel no one class admits, A wit with dunces, and a dunce with wits. Nor absent they, no members of her state, Who pay her homage in her sons, the great; Who, false to Phoebus, bow the knee to Baal; Or, impious, preach his word without a call. Patrons, who sneak from living worth to dead, Withhold the pension, and set up the head; Or vest dull flattery in the sacred gown; Or give from fool to fool the laurel crown. And (last and worst) with all the cant of wit, Without the soul, the Muse's hypocrite. There march'd the bard and blockhead, side by side, Who rhymed for hire, and patronised for pride. Narcissus,[388] praised with all a parson's power, Look'd a white lily sunk beneath a shower. There moved Montalto with superior air; His stretch'd-out arm display'd a volume fair; Courtiers and patriots in two ranks divide, Through both he pass'd, and bow'd from side to side; But as in graceful act, with awful eye Composed he stood, bold Benson[389] thrust him by: On two unequal crutches propp'd he came, Milton's on this, on that one Johnston's name. The decent knight[390] retired with sober rage, Withdrew his hand, and closed the pompous page. But (happy for him as the times went then) Appear'd Apollo's mayor and aldermen, On whom three hundred gold-capp'd youths await, To lug the ponderous volume off in state. When Dulness, smiling--'Thus revive the wits! But murder first, and mince them all to bits; As erst Medea (cruel, so to save!) A new edition of old Aeson gave; Let standard authors, thus, like trophies borne, Appear more glorious as more hack'd and torn. And you, my critics! in the chequer'd shade, Admire new light through holes yourselves have made. Leave not a foot of verse, a foot of stone, A page, a grave, that they can call their own; But spread, my sons, your glory thin or thick, On passive paper, or on solid brick. So by each bard an alderman[391] shall sit, A heavy lord shall hang at every wit, And while on Fame's triumphal car they ride, Some slave of mine be pinion'd to their side.' Now crowds on crowds around the goddess press, Each eager to present the first address. Dunce scorning dunce beholds the next advance, But fop shows fop superior complaisance. When, lo! a spectre rose, whose index-hand Held forth the virtue of the dreadful wand; His beaver'd brow a birchen garland wears, Dropping with infants' blood and mothers' tears. O'er every rein a shuddering horror runs; Eton and Winton shake through all their sons. All flesh is humbled, Westminster's bold race Shrink, and confess the genius of the place: The pale boy-senator yet tingling stands, And holds his breeches close with both his hands. Then thus: 'Since man from beast by words is known, Words are man's province, words we teach alone, When reason doubtful, like the Samian letter,[392] Points him two ways, the narrower is the better. Placed at the door of Learning, youth to guide, We never suffer it to stand too wide. To ask, to guess, to know, as they commence, As fancy opens the quick springs of sense, We ply the memory, we load the brain, Bind rebel wit, and double chain on chain, Confine the thought, to exercise the breath, And keep them in the pale of words till death. Whate'er the talents, or howe'er design'd, We hang one jingling padlock on the mind: A poet the first day he dips his quill; And what the last? a very poet still. Pity! the charm works only in our wall, Lost, lost too soon in yonder House or Hall.[393] There truant Wyndham every Muse gave o'er, There Talbot sunk, and was a wit no more! How sweet an Ovid, Murray was our boast! How many Martials were in Pulteney lost! Else sure some bard, to our eternal praise, In twice ten thousand rhyming nights and days, Had reach'd the work, the all that mortal can, And South beheld that master-piece of man.'[394] 'Oh (cried the goddess) for some pedant reign! Some gentle James,[395] to bless the land again; To stick the doctor's chair into the throne, Give law to words, or war with words alone, Senates and courts with Greek and Latin rule, And turn the council to a grammar school! For sure, if Dulness sees a grateful day, 'Tis in the shade of arbitrary sway. Oh! if my sons may learn one earthly thing, Teach but that one, sufficient for a king; That which my priests, and mine alone, maintain, Which as it dies or lives, we fall or reign: May you, may Cam and Isis, preach it long! "The right divine of kings to govern wrong."' Prompt at the call, around the goddess roll Broad hats, and hoods, and caps, a sable shoal: Thick and more thick the black blockade extends, A hundred head of Aristotle's friends. Nor wert thou, Isis! wanting to the day, Though Christ-church long kept prudishly away. Each stanch polemic, stubborn as a rock, Each fierce logician, still expelling Locke,[396] Came whip and spur, and dash'd through thin and thick On German Crousaz,[397] and Dutch Burgersdyck. As many quit the streams[398] that murmuring fall To lull the sons of Margaret and Clare-hall, Where Bentley late tempestuous wont to sport In troubled waters, but now sleeps in port.[399] Before them march'd that awful Aristarch! Plough'd was his front with many a deep remark: His hat, which never vail'd to human pride, Walker with reverence took, and laid aside. Low bow'd the rest: he, kingly, did but nod; So upright Quakers please both man and God. 'Mistress! dismiss that rabble from your throne: Avaunt! is Aristarchus yet unknown? Thy mighty scholiast, whose unwearied pains Made Horace dull, and humbled Milton's strains. Turn what they will to verse, their toil is vain, Critics like me shall make it prose again. Roman and Greek grammarians! know your better, Author of something yet more great than letter;[400] While towering o'er your alphabet, like Saul, Stands our digamma,[401] and o'ertops them all. ''Tis true, on words is still our whole debate, Disputes of me or te, of aut or at, To sound or sink in cano, O or A, Or give up Cicero[402] to C or K. Let Freind[403] affect to speak as Terence spoke, And Alsop never but like Horace joke: For me, what Virgil, Pliny, may deny, Manilius or Solinus[404] shall supply: For Attic phrase in Plato let them seek, I poach in Suidas[405] for unlicensed Greek. In ancient sense if any needs will deal, Be sure I give them fragments, not a meal; What Gellius or Stobaeus hash'd before, Or chew'd by blind old scholiasts o'er and o'er, The critic eye, that microscope of wit, Sees hairs and pores, examines bit by bit: How parts relate to parts, or they to whole, The body's harmony, the beaming soul, Are things which Kuster, Burman, Wasse shall see, When Man's whole frame is obvious to a flea. 'Ah, think not, mistress! more true Dulness lies In Folly's cap, than Wisdom's grave disguise; Like buoys, that never sink into the flood, On Learning's surface we but lie and nod. Thine is the genuine head of many a house, And much divinity[406] without a [Greek: Nous]. Nor could a Barrow work on every block, Nor has one Atterbury spoil'd the flock. See! still thy own, the heavy cannon roll, And metaphysic smokes involve the pole. For thee we dim the eyes, and stuff the head With all such reading as was never read: For thee explain a thing till all men doubt it, And write about it, goddess, and about it: So spins the silk-worm small its slender store, And labours till it clouds itself all o'er. 'What though we let some better sort of fool Thrid every science, run through every school? Never by tumbler through the hoops was shown Such skill in passing all, and touching none. He may indeed (if sober all this time) Plague with dispute, or persecute with rhyme. We only furnish what he cannot use, Or wed to what he must divorce, a Muse: Full in the midst of Euclid dip at once, And petrify a genius to a dunce;[407] Or, set on metaphysic ground to prance, Show all his paces, not a step advance. With the same cement, ever sure to bind, We bring to one dead level every mind. Then take him to develop, if you can, And hew the block off,[408] and get out the man. But wherefore waste I words? I see advance Whore, pupil, and laced governor from France. Walker! our hat,'--nor more he deign'd to say, But, stern as Ajax' spectre,[409] strode away. In flow'd at once a gay embroider'd race, And tittering push'd the pedants off the place: Some would have spoken, but the voice was drown'd By the French horn, or by the opening hound. The first came forwards,[410] with an easy mien, As if he saw St James's[411] and the queen; When thus the attendant orator begun: 'Receive, great empress! thy accomplish'd son: Thine from the birth, and sacred from the rod, A dauntless infant! never scared with God. The sire saw, one by one, his virtues wake: The mother begg'd the blessing of a rake. Thou gav'st that ripeness which so soon began, And ceased so soon--he ne'er was boy nor man; Through school and college, thy kind cloud o'ercast, Safe and unseen the young 'neas pass'd: Thence bursting glorious, all at once let down, Stunn'd with his giddy 'larum half the town. Intrepid then, o'er seas and lands he flew: Europe he saw, and Europe saw him too. There all thy gifts and graces we display, Thou, only thou, directing all our way, To where the Seine, obsequious as she runs, Pours at great Bourbon's feet her silken sons; Or Tiber, now no longer Roman, rolls, Vain of Italian arts, Italian souls: To happy convents, bosom'd deep in vines, Where slumber abbots, purple as their wines: To isles of fragrance, lily-silver'd vales,[412] Diffusing languor in the panting gales: To lands of singing or of dancing slaves, Love-whispering woods, and lute-resounding waves. But chief her shrine where naked Venus keeps, And Cupids ride the lion of the deeps;[413] Where, eased of fleets, the Adriatic main Wafts the smooth eunuch and enamour'd swain, Led by my hand, he saunter'd Europe round, And gather'd every vice on Christian ground; Saw every court, heard every king declare His royal sense of operas or the fair; The stews and palace equally explored, Intrigued with glory, and with spirit whored; Tried all hors-d'oeuvres, all liqueurs defined, Judicious drank, and greatly-daring dined;[414] Dropp'd the dull lumber of the Latin store, Spoil'd his own language, and acquired no more; All classic learning lost on classic ground; And last turned air, the echo of a sound! See now, half-cured, and perfectly well-bred, With nothing but a solo in his head; As much estate, and principle, and wit, As Jansen, Fleetwood, Cibber[415] shall think fit; Stolen from a duel, follow'd by a nun, And, if a borough choose him, not undone; See, to my country happy I restore This glorious youth, and add one Venus more. Her too receive (for her my soul adores), So may the sons of sons of sons of whores Prop thine, O empress! like each neighbour throne, And make a long posterity thy own.' Pleased, she accepts the hero, and the dame Wraps in her veil, and frees from sense of shame. Then look'd, and saw a lazy, lolling sort, Unseen at church, at senate, or at court, Of ever-listless loiterers that attend No cause, no trust, no duty, and no friend. Thee, too, my Paridel![416] she marked thee there, Stretch'd on the rack of a too easy chair, And heard thy everlasting yawn confess The pains and penalties of idleness. She pitied! but her pity only shed Benigner influence on thy nodding head. But Annius,[417] crafty seer, with ebon wand, And well-dissembled emerald on his hand, False as his gems, and canker'd as his coins, Came, cramm'd with capon, from where Pollio dines. Soft, as the wily fox is seen to creep, Where bask on sunny banks the simple sheep, Walk round and round, now prying here, now there, So he; but pious, whisper'd first his prayer. 'Grant, gracious goddess! grant me still to cheat,[418] Oh may thy cloud still cover the deceit! Thy choicer mists on this assembly shed, But pour them thickest on the noble head. So shall each youth, assisted by our eyes, See other Caesars, other Homers rise; Through twilight ages hunt the Athenian fowl,[419] Which Chalcis gods, and mortals call an owl, Now see an Attys, now a Cecrops[420] clear, Nay, Mahomet! the pigeon at thine ear; Be rich in ancient brass, though not in gold, And keep his Lares, though his house be sold; To headless Phoebe his fair bride postpone, Honour a Syrian prince above his own; Lord of an Otho, if I vouch it true; Bless'd in one Niger, till he knows of two.' Mummius[421] o'erheard him; Mummius, fool-renown'd, Who like his Cheops[422] stinks above the ground, Fierce as a startled adder, swell'd, and said, Rattling an ancient sistrum at his head; 'Speak'st thou of Syrian prince?[423] Traitor base! Mine, goddess! mine is all the horn'd race. True, he had wit to make their value rise; From foolish Greeks to steal them was as wise; More glorious yet, from barbarous hands to keep, When Sallee rovers chased him on the deep. Then, taught by Hermes, and divinely bold, Down his own throat he risk'd the Grecian gold, Received each demi-god, with pious care, Deep in his entrails--I revered them there, I bought them, shrouded in that Irving shrine, And, at their second birth, they issue mine.' 'Witness, great Ammon![424] by whose horns I swore, (Replied soft Annius) this our paunch before Still bears them, faithful; and that thus I eat, Is to refund the medals with the meat. To prove me, goddess! clear of all design, Bid me with Pollio sup, as well as dine: There all the learn'd shall at the labour stand, And Douglas[425] lend his soft, obstetric hand.' The goddess smiling seem'd to give consent; So back to Pollio, hand in hand, they went. Then thick as locusts blackening all the ground, A tribe, with weeds and shells fantastic crown'd, Each with some wondrous gift approach'd the power, A nest, a toad, a fungus, or a flower. But far the foremost, two, with earnest zeal, And aspect ardent, to the throne appeal. The first thus open'd: 'Hear thy suppliant's call, Great queen, and common mother of us all! Fair from its humble bed I rear'd this flower, Suckled, and cheer'd, with air, and sun, and shower; Soft on the paper ruff its leaves I spread, Bright with the gilded button tipp'd its head; Then throned in glass, and named it Caroline:[426] Each maid cried, charming! and each youth, divine! Did Nature's pencil ever blend such rays, Such varied light in one promiscuous blaze? Now prostrate! dead! behold that Caroline: No maid cries, charming! and no youth, divine! And lo, the wretch! whose vile, whose insect lust Laid this gay daughter of the spring in dust. Oh, punish him, or to th' Elysian shades Dismiss my soul, where no carnation fades.' He ceased, and wept. With innocence of mien, Th' accused stood forth, and thus address'd the queen: 'Of all th' enamell'd race, whose silvery wing Waves to the tepid zephyrs of the spring, Or swims along the fluid atmosphere, Once brightest shined this child of heat and air. I saw, and started, from its vernal bower, The rising game, and chased from flower to flower; It fled, I follow'd; now in hope, now pain; It stopp'd, I stopp'd; it moved, I moved again. At last it fix'd; 'twas on what plant it pleased, And where it fix'd, the beauteous bird I seized: Rose or carnation was below my care; I meddle, goddess! only in my sphere. I tell the naked fact without disguise, And, to excuse it, need but show the prize; Whose spoils this paper offers to your eye, Fair ev'n in death! this peerless butterfly.' 'My sons! (she answer'd) both have done your parts: Live happy both, and long promote our arts. But hear a mother, when she recommends To your fraternal care our sleeping friends. The common soul, of Heaven's more frugal make, Serves but to keep fools pert and knaves awake: A drowsy watchman, that just gives a knock, And breaks our rest, to tell us what's a clock. Yet by some object every brain is stirr'd; The dull may waken to a humming-bird; The most recluse, discreetly open'd, find Congenial matter in the cockle-kind; The mind in metaphysics at a loss, May wander in a wilderness of moss;[427] The head that turns at super-lunar things, Poised with a tail, may steer on Wilkins' wings.[428] 'Oh! would the sons of men once think their eyes And reason given them but to study flies! See nature in some partial narrow shape, And let the Author of the whole escape: Learn but to trifle; or, who most observe, To wonder at their Maker, not to serve.' 'Be that my task' (replies a gloomy clerk, Sworn foe to mystery, yet divinely dark; Whose pious hope aspires to see the day When moral evidence[429] shall quite decay, And damns implicit faith, and holy lies, Prompt to impose, and fond to dogmatise:) 'Let others creep by timid steps and slow, On plain experience lay foundations low, By common sense to common knowledge bred, And last, to Nature's cause through Nature led: All-seeing in thy mists, we want no guide, Mother of arrogance, and source of pride! We nobly take the high priori road,[430] And reason downward, till we doubt of God: Make Nature still[431] encroach upon his plan; And shove him off as far as e'er we can: Thrust some mechanic cause into his place; Or bind in matter, or diffuse in space.[432] Or, at one bound o'erleaping all his laws, Make God man's image, man the final cause, Find virtue local, all relation scorn, See all in self, and but for self be born: Of nought so certain as our reason still, Of nought so doubtful as of soul and will. O! hide the God still more! and make us see, Such as Lucretius drew, a God like thee: Wrapt up in self, a God without a thought, Regardless of our merit or default. Or that bright image[433] to our fancy draw, Which Theocles[434] in raptured vision saw, While through poetic scenes the genius roves, Or wanders wild in academic groves; That Nature our society adores,[435] Where Tindal dictates, and Silenus[436] snores.' Roused at his name, up rose the bousy sire, And shook from out his pipe the seeds of fire; Then snapt his box, and stroked his belly down: Rosy and reverend, though without a gown. Bland and familiar to the throne he came, Led up the youth, and call'd the goddess dame. Then thus: 'From priestcraft happily set free, Lo! every finish'd son returns to thee: First, slave to words,[437] then vassal to a name, Then dupe to party; child and man the same; Bounded by nature, narrow'd still by art, A trifling head, and a contracted heart; Thus bred, thus taught, how many have I seen, Smiling on all, and smiled on by a queen?[438] Mark'd out for honours, honour'd for their birth, To thee the most rebellious things on earth: Now to thy gentle shadow all are shrunk, All melted down in pension or in punk! So K----, so B---- sneak'd into the grave, A monarch's half, and half a harlot's slave. Poor W----,[439] nipp'd in folly's broadest bloom, Who praises now? his chaplain on his tomb. Then take them all, oh, take them to thy breast! Thy Magus, goddess! shall perform the rest.' With that, a wizard old his cup extends, Which whoso tastes forgets his former friends, Sire, ancestors, himself. One casts his eyes Up to a star, and like Endymion dies: A feather, shooting from another's head, Extracts his brain, and principle is fled; Lost is his God, his country, everything; And nothing left but homage to a king![440] The vulgar herd turn off to roll with hogs, To run with horses, or to hunt with dogs; But, sad example! never to escape Their infamy, still keep the human shape. But she, good goddess, sent to every child Firm Impudence, or Stupefaction mild; And strait succeeded, leaving shame no room, Cibberian forehead, or Cimmerian gloom. Kind Self-conceit to some her glass applies, Which no one looks in with another's eyes: But as the flatterer or dependant paint, Beholds himself a patriot, chief, or saint. On others Interest her gay livery flings, Interest, that waves on party-colour'd wings: Turn'd to the sun, she casts a thousand dyes, And, as she turns, the colours fall or rise. Others the Syren sisters warble round, And empty heads console with empty sound. No more, alas! the voice of fame they hear, The balm of Dulness[441] trickling in their ear. Great C----, H----, P----, R----, K----, Why all your toils? your sons have learn'd to sing. How quick ambition hastes to ridicule! The sire is made a peer, the son a fool. On some, a priest succinct in amice white Attends; all flesh is nothing in his sight! Beeves, at his touch, at once to jelly turn, And the huge boar is shrunk into an urn: The board with specious miracles he loads,[442] Turns hares to larks, and pigeons into toads. Another (for in all what one can shine?) Explains the s've and verdeur of the vine.[443] What cannot copious sacrifice atone? Thy truffles, Perigord! thy hams, Bayonne! With French libation, and Italian strain, Wash Bladen white, and expiate Hays's stain.[444] Knight lifts the head; for what are crowds undone To three essential partridges in one? Gone every blush, and silent all reproach, Contending princes mount them in their coach. Next bidding all draw near on bended knees, The queen confers her titles and degrees. Her children first of more distinguish'd sort, Who study Shakspeare at the Inns of Court, Impale a glow-worm, or vert' profess, Shine in the dignity of F.R.S. Some, deep freemasons, join the silent race, Worthy to fill Pythagoras's place: Some botanists, or florists at the least, Or issue members of an annual feast. Nor pass'd the meanest unregarded; one Rose a Gregorian, one a Gormogon.[445] The last, not least in honour or applause, Isis and Cam made Doctors of her Laws. Then, blessing all, 'Go, children of my care! To practice now from theory repair. All my commands are easy, short, and full: My sons! be proud, be selfish, and be dull. Guard my prerogative, assert my throne: This nod confirms each privilege your own. The cap and switch be sacred to his grace; With staff and pumps the marquis lead the race; From stage to stage the licensed earl may run, Pair'd with his fellow-charioteer the sun; The learned baron butterflies design, Or draw to silk Arachne's subtile line;[446] The judge to dance his brother sergeant call;[447] The senator at cricket urge the ball; The bishop stow (pontific luxury!) An hundred souls of turkeys in a pie; The sturdy squire to Gallic masters stoop, And drown his lands and manors in a soup. Others import yet nobler arts from France, Teach kings to fiddle, and make senates dance.[448] Perhaps more high some daring son may soar, Proud to my list to add one monarch more; And nobly conscious, princes are but things Born for first ministers, as slaves for kings, Tyrant supreme! shall three estates command, And MAKE ONE MIGHTY DUNCIAD OF THE LAND!' More she had spoke, but yawn'd--All Nature nods: What mortal can resist the yawn of gods? Churches and chapels instantly it reach'd; (St James's first, for leaden Gilbert[449] preach'd;) Then catch'd the schools; the Hall scarce kept awake; The Convocation gaped, but could not speak; Lost was the nation's sense, nor could be found, While the long solemn unison went round: Wide, and more wide, it spread o'er all the realm; Even Palinurus nodded at the helm: The vapour mild o'er each committee crept; Unfinish'd treaties in each office slept; And chiefless armies dozed out the campaign; And navies yawn'd for orders on the main.[450] O Muse! relate (for you can tell alone, Wits have short memories, and dunces none,) Relate, who first, who last resign'd to rest; Whose heads she partly, whose completely bless'd; What charms could faction, what ambition, lull, The venal quiet, and entrance the dull; 'Till drown'd was sense, and shame, and right, and wrong-- O sing, and hush the nations with thy song! In vain, in vain,--the all-composing hour Resistless falls: the Muse obeys the power. She comes! she comes! the sable throne behold Of Night primeval, and of Chaos old! Before her, Fancy's gilded clouds decay, And all its varying rainbows die away. Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires, The meteor drops, and in a flash expires. As one by one, at dread Medea's strain, The sick'ning stars fade off the ethereal plain; As Argus' eyes, by Hermes' wand oppress'd, Closed one by one to everlasting rest; Thus at her felt approach, and secret might, Art after art goes out, and all is night. See skulking Truth to her old cavern fled,[451] Mountains of casuistry heap'd o'er her head! Philosophy, that lean'd on heaven before, Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more. Physic of Metaphysic begs defence, And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense! See Mystery to Mathematics fly! In vain! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die. Religion, blushing, veils her sacred fires, And unawares Morality expires. Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine; Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine! Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos! is restored; Light dies before thy uncreating word: Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall; And universal darkness buries all. VARIATIONS. VER. 114-- 'What! no respect, he cried, for Shakspeare's page?' VER. 441. The common soul, &c. In the first edition, thus-- Of souls the greater part, Heaven's common make, Serve but to keep fools pert, and knaves awake; And most but find that sentinel of God, A drowsy watchman in the land of Nod. VER. 643. In the former edition, it stood thus-- Philosophy, that reach'd the heavens before, Shrinks to her hidden cause, and is no more. BY THE AUTHOR. A DECLARATION. Whereas certain haberdashers of points and particles, being instigated by the spirit of pride, and assuming to themselves the name of critics and restorers, have taken upon them to adulterate the common and current sense of our glorious ancestors, poets of this realm, by clipping, coining, defacing the images, mixing their own base alloy, or otherwise falsifying the same; which they publish, utter, and vend as genuine: The said haberdashers having no right thereto, as neither heirs, executors, administrators, assigns, or in any sort related to such poets, to all or any of them: Now we, having carefully revised this our Dunciad,[452] beginning with the words 'The Mighty Mother,' and ending with the words 'buries all,' containing the entire sum of one thousand seven hundred and fifty-four verses, declare every word, figure, point, and comma of this impression to be authentic: And do therefore strictly enjoin and forbid any person or persons whatsoever, to erase, reverse, put between hooks, or by any other means, directly or indirectly, change or mangle any of them. And we do hereby earnestly exhort all our brethren to follow this our example, which we heartily wish our great predecessors had heretofore set, as a remedy and prevention of all such abuses. Provided always, that nothing in this Declaration shall be construed to limit the lawful and undoubted right of every subject of this realm, to judge, censure, or condemn, in the whole or in part, any poem or poet whatsoever. Given under our hand at London, this third day of January, in the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred thirty and two. Declarat' cor' me, JOHN BARBER, Mayor.

A Safe Investment.

John Hartley

Yo fowk 'at's some brass to invest, Luk sharp an mak th' best ov yor chonce! Aw'll gie yo a tip, - one o'th' best, Whear ther's profit an safety for once. Yo needn't be feeard th' bank 'll brust, Or at onny false 'Jabez' will chait, - Depend on't its one yo can trust, For th' balance sheet's sewer to be reight. Yo've heeard on it oftimes befooar, - But mooast fowk are apt to forget; - Yet yo know if yo give to the poor, At yo're gettin the Lord i' yor debt. Its as plain as is th' nooas o' yor face, An its true too, - believe it or net, - It's a bargain God made i' this case, An He'll nivver back aght on't, - yo bet. All th' wealth yo may have can't prevent Grim Deeath commin to yo some day; An yo'll have to give up ivvery cent, When yor time comes for gooin away. But yo'll dee wi' a leetsomer heart, An for what yo leeav care net a straw, Earth's losses will cause yo noa smart, If i' Heaven yo've summat to draw. Its useless to pray an to praich, - Yo can't fill fowk's bellies wi' wynd; Put summat to ait i' ther raich, An then lectur em all yo've a mind; Ther's poor folk on ivvery hand, Yo can't shut yor ears to ther cry; - A wail ov woe's sweepin throo th' land, Which may turn to a rooar by-an-bye. Yo can't expect chaps who have wives, An childer at's clammin i'th' cold, To be patient an quiet all ther lives, When they see others rollin i' gold. When th' workers are beggin for jobs, An th' helpless are starvin to deeath, It's just abaat time some o'th' nobs Wor reminded they dooant own all th' eearth. If ther duties they still will neglect, An ther pomps an ther pleasurs pursue, They may find when they little expect, 'At they've getten thersen in a stew. Yo may trample a worm wol it turns, - An ther's danger i' starvin a rat; - A man's passion inflamed wol it burns, Is a danger mooar fearful nor that. But why should ther be sich distress, When ther's plenty for all an to spare? Sewerly them at luck's blest can't do less Nor to help starvin fowk wi' a share. Rich harvests yo'll win from the seed When theas welcome words fall on yor ear, - "What yo did to th' leeast brother i' need, Yo did unto Me; - Come in here."

That Night

James Whitcomb Riley

You and I, and that night, with its perfume and glory! - The scent of the locusts - the light of the moon; And the violin weaving the waltzers a story, Enmeshing their feet in the weft of the tune, Till their shadows uncertain Reeled round on the curtain, While under the trellis we drank in the June. Soaked through with the midnight the cedars were sleeping, Their shadowy tresses outlined in the bright Crystal, moon-smitten mists, where the fountain's heart, leaping Forever, forever burst, full with delight; And its lisp on my spirit Fell faint as that near it Whose love like a lily bloomed out in the night. O your glove was an odorous sachet of blisses! The breath of your fan was a breeze from Cathay! And the rose at your throat was a nest of spilled kisses! - And the music! - in fancy I hear it to-day, As I sit here, confessing Our secret, and blessing My rival who found us, and waltzed you away.

Sonnet LXXXIX. Subject Continued.

Anna Seward

Yon late but gleaming Moon, in hoary light Shines out unveil'd, and on the cloud's dark fleece Rests; - but her strengthen'd beams appear to increase The wild disorder of this troubled Night. Redoubling Echos seem yet more to excite The roaring Winds and Waters! - Ah! why cease Resolves, that promis'd everlasting peace, And drew my steps to this incumbent height? I wish! - I shudder! - stretch my longing arms O'er the steep cliff! - My swelling spirits brave The leap, that quiets all these dire alarms, And floats me tossing on the stormy wave! But Oh! what roots my feet? - what spells, what charms The daring purpose of my Soul enslave?

A Meditation For His Mistress

Robert Herrick

You are a tulip seen today, But (Dearest) of so short a stay; That where you grew, scarce man can say. You are a lovely July-flower, Yet one rude wind, or ruffling shower, Will force you hence, (and in an hour.) You are a sparkling Rose i'th'bud, Yet lost, ere that chaste flesh and blood Can show where you or grew, or stood. You are a full-spread fair-set Vine, And can with Tendrils love entwine, Yet dried, ere you distill your Wine. You are like Balm enclosed (well) In Amber, or some Crystal shell, Yet lost, ere you transfuse your smell. You are a dainty Violet, Yet withered, ere you can be set Within the Virgin's Coronet. You are the Queen all flowers among, But die you must (fair Maid) ere long, As He, the maker of this song.

Sonnet LXI.

Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Io non fu' d' amar voi lassato unquanco. UNLESS LAURA RELENT, HE IS RESOLVED TO ABANDON HER. Yet was I never of your love aggrieved, Nor never shall while that my life doth last: But of hating myself, that date is past; And tears continual sore have me wearied: I will not yet in my grave be buried; Nor on my tomb your name have fix'd fast, As cruel cause, that did the spirit soon haste From the unhappy bones, by great sighs stirr'd. Then if a heart of amorous faith and will Content your mind withouten doing grief; Please it you so to this to do relief: If otherwise you seek for to fulfil Your wrath, you err, and shall not as you ween; And you yourself the cause thereof have been. WYATT. Weary I never was, nor can be e'er, Lady, while life shall last, of loving you, But brought, alas! myself in hate to view, Perpetual tears have bred a blank despair: I wish a tomb, whose marble fine and fair, When this tired spirit and frail flesh are two, May show your name, to which my death is due, If e'en our names at last one stone may share; Wherefore, if full of faith and love, a heart Can, of worst torture short, suffice your hate, Mercy at length may visit e'en my smart. If otherwise your wrath itself would sate, It is deceived: and none will credit show; To Love and to myself my thanks for this I owe. MACGREGOR.

Sonnets From The Portuguese X

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed And worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright, Let temple burn, or flax; an equal light Leaps in the flame from cedar-plank or weed: And love is fire. And when I say at need I love thee . . . mark! . . . I love thee, in thy sight I stand transfigured, glorified aright, With conscience of the new rays that proceed Out of my face toward thine. There's nothing low In love, when love the lowest: meanest creatures Who love God, God accepts while loving so. And what I feel, across the inferior features Of what I am, doth flash itself, and show How that great work of Love enhances Nature's.

To Mrs. Houghton Of Bourmont, On Praising Her Husband To Dr. Swift

Jonathan Swift

You always are making a god of your spouse; But this neither Reason nor Conscience allows; Perhaps you will say, 'tis in gratitude due, And you adore him, because he adores you. Your argument's weak, and so you will find; For you, by this rule, must adore all mankind.

The Dunciad: Book IV

Alexander Pope

Yet, yet a moment, one dim ray of light Indulge, dread Chaos, and eternal Night! Of darkness visible so much be lent, As half to show, half veil, the deep intent. Ye pow'rs! whose mysteries restor'd I sing, To whom time bears me on his rapid wing, Suspend a while your force inertly strong, Then take at once the poet and the song. Now flam'd the Dog Star's unpropitious ray, Smote ev'ry brain, and wither'd every bay; Sick was the sun, the owl forsook his bow'r. The moon-struck prophet felt the madding hour: Then rose the seed of Chaos, and of Night, To blot out order, and extinguish light, Of dull and venal a new world to mould, And bring Saturnian days of lead and gold. She mounts the throne: her head a cloud conceal'd, In broad effulgence all below reveal'd; ('Tis thus aspiring Dulness ever shines) Soft on her lap her laureate son reclines. Beneath her footstool, Science groans in chains, And Wit dreads exile, penalties, and pains. There foam'd rebellious Logic , gagg'd and bound, There, stripp'd, fair Rhet'ric languish'd on the ground; His blunted arms by Sophistry are borne, And shameless Billingsgate her robes adorn. Morality , by her false guardians drawn, Chicane in furs, and Casuistry in lawn, Gasps, as they straighten at each end the cord, And dies, when Dulness gives her page the word. Mad Mathesis alone was unconfin'd, Too mad for mere material chains to bind, Now to pure space lifts her ecstatic stare, Now running round the circle finds it square. But held in tenfold bonds the Muses lie, Watch'd both by Envy's and by Flatt'ry's eye: There to her heart sad Tragedy addres'd The dagger wont to pierce the tyrant's breast; But sober History restrain'd her rage, And promised vengeance on a barb'rous age. There sunk Thalia, nerveless, cold, and dead, Had not her sister Satire held her head: Nor couldst thou, Chesterfield! a tear refuse, Thou weptst, and with thee wept each gentle Muse. When lo! a harlot form soft sliding by, With mincing step, small voice, and languid eye; Foreign her air, her robe's discordant pride In patchwork flutt'ring, and her head aside: By singing peers upheld on either hand, She tripp'd and laugh'd, too pretty much to stand; Cast on the prostrate Nine a scornful look, Then thus in quaint recitativo spoke. "O Cara! Cara! silence all that train: Joy to great Chaos! let Division reign: Chromatic tortures soon shall drive them hence, Break all their nerves, and fritter all their sense: One trill shall harmonize joy, grief, and rage, Wake the dull Church, and lull the ranting Stage; To the same notes thy sons shall hum, or snore, And all thy yawning daughters cry, encore. Another Phoebus, thy own Phoebus, reigns, Joys in my jigs, and dances in my chains. But soon, ah soon, Rebellion will commence, If Music meanly borrows aid from Sense. Strong in new arms, lo! Giant Handel stands, Like bold Briarerus, with a hundred hands; To stir, to rouse, to shake the soul he comes, And Jove's own thunders follow Mars's drums. Arrest him, Empress, or you sleep no more, " She heard, and drove him to th' Hibernian shore. And now had Fame's posterior trumpet blown, And all the nations summoned to the throne. The young, the old, who feel her inward sway, One instinct seizes, and transports away. None need a guide, by sure attraction led, And strong impulsive gravity of head: None want a place, for all their centre found Hung to the Goddess, and coher'd around. Not closer, orb in orb, conglob'd are seen The buzzing bees about their dusky Queen. The gath'ring number, as it moves along, Involves a vast involuntary throng, Who gently drawn, and struggling less and less, Roll in her Vortex, and her pow'r confess. Not those alone who passive own her laws, But who, weak rebels, more advance her cause. Whate'er of dunce in college or in town Sneers at another, in toupee or gown; Whate'er of mongrel no one class admits, A wit with dunces, and a dunce with wits. Nor absent they, no members of her state, Who pay her homage in her sons, the Great; Who false to Phoebus bow the knee to Baal; Or, impious, preach his Word without a call. Patrons, who sneak from living worth to dead, Withhold the pension, and set up the head; Or vest dull Flattery in the sacred gown; Or give from fool to fool the laurel crown. And (last and worst) with all the cant of wit, Without the soul, the Muse's hypocrite. There march'd the bard and blockhead, side by side, Who rhym'd for hire, and patroniz'd for pride. Narcissus, prais'd with all a Parson's pow'r, Look'd a white lily sunk beneath a show'r. There mov'd Montalto with superior air; His stretch'd-out arm display'd a volume fair; Courtiers and Patriots in two ranks divide, Through both he pass'd, and bow'd from side to side: But as in graceful act, with awful eye Compos'd he stood, bold Benson thrust him by: On two unequal crutches propp'd he came, Milton's on this, on that one Johnston's name. The decent knight retir'd with sober rage, Withdrew his hand, and closed the pompous page. But (happy for him as the times went then) Appear'd Apollo's mayor and aldermen, On whom three hundred gold-capp'd youths await, To lug the pond'rous volume off in state. When Dulness, smiling, "Thus revive the Wits! But murder first, and mince them all to bits; As erst Medea (cruel, so to save!) A new edition of old Aeson gave; Let standard authors, thus, like trophies born, Appear more glorious as more hack'd and torn, And you, my Critics! in the chequer'd shade, Admire new light through holes yourselves have made. Leave not a foot of verse, a foot of stone, A page, a grave, that they can call their own; But spread, my sons, your glory thin or thick, On passive paper, or on solid brick. So by each bard an Alderman shall sit, A heavy lord shall hang at ev'ry wit, And while on Fame's triumphal Car they ride, Some Slave of mine be pinion'd to their side." Now crowds on crowds around the Goddess press, Each eager to present their first address. Dunce scorning dunce beholds the next advance, But fop shows fop superior complaisance, When lo! a spector rose, whose index hand Held forth the virtue of the dreadful wand; His beaver'd brow a birchen garland wears, Dropping with infant's blood, and mother's tears. O'er every vein a shud'ring horror runs; Eton and Winton shake through all their sons. All flesh is humbl'd, Westminster's bold race Shrink, and confess the Genius of the place: The pale boy senator yet tingling stands, And holds his breeches close with both his hands. Then thus. "Since man from beast by words is known, Words are man's province, words we teach alone. When reason doubtful, like the Samian letter, Points him two ways, the narrower is the better. Plac'd at the door of learning, youth to guide, We never suffer it to stand too wide. To ask, to guess, to know, as they commence, As fancy opens the quick springs of sense, We ply the memory, we load the brain, Bind rebel Wit, and double chain on chain, Confine the thought, to exercise the breath; And keep them in the pale of words till death. Whate'er the talents, or howe'er design'd, We hang one jingling padlock on the mind: A Poet the first day, he dips his quill; And what the last? A very Poet still. Pity! the charm works only in our wall, Lost, lost too soon in yonder house or hall. There truant Wyndham every Muse gave o'er, There Talbot sunk, and was a wit no more! How sweet an Ovid, Murray was our boast! How many Martials were in Pult'ney lost! Else sure some bard, to our eternal praise, In twice ten thousand rhyming nights and days, Had reach'd the work, and All that mortal can; And South beheld that Masterpiece of Man." "Oh" (cried the Goddess) "for some pedant Reign! Some gentle James, to bless the land again; To stick the Doctor's chair into the throne, Give law to words, or war with words alone, Senates and courts with Greek and Latin rule, And turn the council to a grammar school! For sure, if Dulness sees a grateful day, 'Tis in the shade of arbitrary sway. O! if my sons may learn one earthly thing, Teach but that one, sufficient for a king; That which my priests, and mine alone, maintain, Which as it dies, or lives, we fall, or reign: May you, may Cam and Isis, preach it long! 'The Right Divine of Kings to govern wrong'." Prompt at the call, around the Goddess roll Broad hats, and hoods, and caps, a sable shoal: Thick and more thick the black blockade extends, A hundred head of Aristotle's friends. Nor wert thou, Isis! wanting to the day, Though Christ Church long kept prudishly away. Each staunch polemic, stubborn as a rock, Each fierce logician, still expelling Locke, Came whip and spur, and dash'd through thin and thick On German Crousaz, and Dutch Burgersdyck. As many quit the streams that murm'ring fall To lull the sons of Marg'ret and Clare Hall, Where Bentley late tempestuous wont to sport In troubled waters, but now sleeps in Port. Before them march'd that awful Aristarch; Plow'd was his front with many a deep remark: His hat, which never vail'd to human pride, Walker with rev'rence took, and laid aside. Low bowed the rest: He, kingly, did but nod; So upright Quakers please both man and God. "Mistress! dismiss that rabble from your throne: Avaunt, is Aristarchus yet unknown? Thy mighty scholiast, whose unwearied pains Made Horace dull, and humbl'd Milton's strains. Turn what they will to verse, their toil is vain, Critics like me shall make it prose again. Roman and Greek grammarians! know your better: Author of something yet more great than letter; While tow'ring o'er your alphabet, like Saul, Stands our Digamma, and o'ertops them all. 'Tis true, on words is still our whole debate, Disputes of Me or Te , of aut or at, To sound or sink in cano, O or A, Or give up Cicero to C or K. Let Freind affect to speak as Terence spoke, And Alsop never but like Horace joke: For me, what Virgil, Pliny may deny, Manilius or Solinus shall supply: For Attic Phrase in Plato let them seek, I poach in Suidas for unlicens'd Greek. In ancient sense if any needs will deal, Be sure I give them fragments, not a meal; What Gellius or Stobaeus hash'd before, Or chew'd by blind old Scholiasts o'er and o'er. The critic eye, that microscope of wit, Sees hairs and pores, examines bit by bit: How parts relate to parts, or they to whole, The body's harmony, the beaming soul, Are things which Kuster, Burman, Wasse shall see, When man's whole frame is obvious to a Flea. "Ah, think not, Mistress! more true dulness lies In Folly's cap, than Wisdom's grave disguise. Like buoys, that never sink into the flood, On learning's surface we but lie and nod. Thine is the genuine head of many a house, And much Divinity without a Nous. Nor could a Barrow work on every block, Nor has one Atterbury spoil'd the flock. See! still thy own, the heavy canon roll, And metaphysic smokes involve the pole. For thee we dim the eyes, and stuff the head With all such reading as was never read: For thee explain a thing till all men doubt it, And write about it, Goddess, and about it: So spins the silkworm small its slender store, And labours till it clouds itself all o'er. "What tho' we let some better sort of fool Thrid ev'ry science, run through ev'ry school? Never by tumbler through the hoops was shown Such skill in passing all, and touching none. He may indeed (if sober all this time) Plague with dispute, or persecute with rhyme. We only furnish what he cannot use, Or wed to what he must divorce, a Muse: Full in the midst of Euclid dip at once, And petrify a Genius to a Dunce: Or set on metaphysic ground to prance, Show all his paces, not a step advance. With the same cement ever sure to bind, We bring to one dead level ev'ry mind. Then take him to develop, if you can, And hew the block off, and get out the man. But wherefore waste I words? I see advance Whore, pupil, and lac'd governor from France. Walker! our hat" , nor more he deign'd to say, But, stern as Ajax' spectre, strode away. In flow'd at once a gay embroider'd race, And titt'ring push'd the Pedants off the place; Some would have spoken, but the voice was drown'd By the French horn, or by the op'ning hound. The first came forwards, with as easy mien, As if he saw St. James's and the Queen. When thus th' attendant Orator begun, Receive, great Empress! thy accomplish'd Son: Thine from the birth, and sacred from the rod, A dauntless infant! never scar'd with God. The Sire saw, one by one, his Virtues wake: The Mother begg'd the blessing of a Rake. Thou gav'st that Ripeness, which so soon began, And ceas'd so soon, he ne'er was Boy, nor Man, Thro' School and College, thy kind cloud o'ercast, Safe and unseen the young AEneas past: Thence bursting glorious, all at once let down, Stunn'd with his giddy Larum half the town. Intrepid then, o'er seas and lands he flew: Europe he saw, and Europe saw him too. There all thy gifts and graces we display, Thou, only thou, directing all our way! To where the Seine, obsequious as she runs, Pours at great Bourbon's feet her silken sons; Or Tyber, now no longer Roman, rolls, Vain of Italian Arts, Italian Souls: To happy Convents, bosom'd deep in vines, Where slumber Abbots, purple as their wines: To Isles of fragrance, lilly-silver'd vales, Diffusing languor in the panting gales: To lands of singing, or of dancing slaves, Love-whisp'ring woods, and lute-resounding waves. But chief her shrine where naked Venus keeps, And Cupids ride the Lyon of the Deeps; Where, eas'd of Fleets, the Adriatic main Wafts the smooth Eunuch and enamour'd swain. Led by my hand, he saunter'd Europe round, And gather'd ev'ry Vice on Christian ground; Saw ev'ry Court, hear'd ev'ry King declare His royal Sense, of Op'ra's or the Fair; The Stews and Palace equally explor'd, Intrigu'd with glory, and with spirit whor'd; Try'd all hors-d' uvres, all Liqueurs defin'd, Judicious drank, and greatly-daring din'd; Dropt the dull lumber of the Latin store, Spoil'd his own Language, and acquir'd no more; All Classic learning lost on Classic ground; And last turn'd Air, the Eccho of a Sound! See now, half-cur'd, and perfectly well-bred, With nothing but a Solo in his head; As much Estate, and Principle, and Wit, As Jansen, Fleetwood, Cibber shall think fit; Stol'n from a Duel, follow'd by a Nun, And, if a Borough chuse him, not undone; See, to my country happy I restore This glorious Youth, and add one Venus more. Her too receive (for her my soul adores) So may the sons of sons of sons of whores, Prop thine, O Empress! like each neighbour Throne, And make a long Posterity thy own. Pleas'd, she accepts the Hero, and the Dame, Wraps in her Veil, and frees from sense of Shame. Then look'd, and saw a lazy, lolling sort, Unseen at Church, at Senate, or at Court, Of ever-listless Loit'rers, that attend No Cause, no Trust, no Duty, and no Friend. Thee too, my Paridel! she mark'd thee there, Stretch'd on the rack of a too easy chair, And heard thy everlasting yawn confess The Pains and Penalties of Idleness. She pity'd! but her Pity only shed Benigner influence on thy nodding head. But Annius, crafty Seer, with ebon wand, And well-dissembl'd Em'rald on his hand, False as his Gems and canker'd as his Coins, Came, cramm'd with Capon, from where Pollio dines. Soft, as the wily Fox is seen to creep, Where bask on sunny banks the simple sheep, Walk round and round, now prying here, now there; So he; but pious, whisper'd first his pray'r. Grant, gracious Goddess! grant me still to cheat, O may thy cloud still cover the deceit! Thy choicer mists on this assembly shed, But pour them thickest on the noble head. So shall each youth, assisted by our eyes, See other C'sars, other Homers rise; Thro' twilight ages hunt th'Athenian fowl, Which Chalcis Gods, and mortals call an Owl, Now see an Attys, now a Cecrops clear, Nay, Mahomet! the Pigeon at thine ear; Be rich in ancient brass, tho' not in gold, And keep his Lares, tho' his house be sold; To headless Ph be his fair bride postpone, Honour a Syrian Prince above his own; Lord of an Otho, if I vouch it true; Blest in one Niger, till he knows of two. Mummius o'erheard him; Mummius, Fool-renown'd, Who like his Cheops stinks above the ground, Fierce as a startled Adder, swell'd, and said, Rattling an ancient Sistrum at his head. Speak'st thou of Syrian Princes? Traitor base! Mine, Goddess! mine is all the horned race. True, he had wit, to make their value rise; From foolish Greeks to steal them, was as wise; More glorious yet, from barb'rous hands to keep, When Sallee Rovers chac'd him on the deep. Then taught by Hermes, and divinely bold, Down his own throat he risqu'd the Grecian gold; Receiv'd each Demi-God, with pious care, Deep in his Entrails ,    I rever'd them there, I bought them, shrouded in that living shrine, And, at their second birth, they issue mine. Witness great Ammon! by whose horns I swore, (Reply'd soft Annius) this our paunch before Still bears them, faithful; and that thus I eat, Is to refund the Medals with the meat. To prove me, Goddess! clear of all design, Bid me with Pollio sup, as well as dine: There all the Learn'd shall at the labour stand, And Douglas lend his soft, obstetric hand. The Goddess smiling seem'd to give consent; So back to Pollio, hand in hand, they went. Then thick as Locusts black'ning all the ground, A tribe, with weeds and shells fantastic crown'd, Each with some wond'rous gift approach'd the Pow'r, A Nest, a Toad, a Fungus, or a Flow'r. But far the foremost, two, with earnest zeal, And aspect ardent to the Throne appeal. The first thus open'd: Hear thy suppliant's call, Great Queen, and common Mother of us all! Fair from its humble bed I rear'd this Flow'r, Suckled, and chear'd, with air, and sun, and show'r, Soft on the paper ruff its leaves I spread, Bright with the gilded button tipt its head, Then thron'd in glass, and nam'd it Caroline: Each Maid cry'd, charming! and each Youth, divine! Did Nature's pencil ever blend such rays, Such vary'd light in one promiscuous blaze? Now prostrate! dead! behold that Caroline: No Maid cries, charming! and no Youth, divine! And lo the wretch! whose vile, whose insect lust Lay'd this gay daughter of the Spring in dust. Oh punish him, or to th' Elysian shades Dismiss my soul, where no Carnation fades. He ceas'd, and wept. With innocence of mien, Th'Accus'd stood forth, and thus address'd the Queen. Of all th'enamel'd race, whose silv'ry wing Waves to the tepid Zephyrs of the spring, Or swims along the fluid atmosphere, Once brightest shin'd this child of Heat and Air. I saw, and started from its vernal bow'r The rising game, and chac'd from flow'r to flow'r. It fled, I follow'd; now in hope, now pain; It stopt, I stopt; it mov'd, I mov'd again. At last it fix'd, 'twas on what plant it pleas'd, And where it fix'd, the beauteous bird I seiz'd: Rose or Carnation was below my care; I meddle, Goddess! only in my sphere. I tell the naked fact without disguise, And, to excuse it, need but shew the prize; Whose spoils this paper offers to your eye, Fair ev'n in death! this peerless Butterfly. My sons! (she answer'd) both have done your parts: Live happy both, and long promote our arts. But hear a Mother, when she recommends To your fraternal care, our sleeping friends. The common Soul, of Heav'n's more frugal make, Serves but to keep fools pert, and knaves awake: A drowzy Watchman, that just gives a knock, And breaks our rest, to tell us what's a clock. Yet by some object ev'ry brain is stirr'd; The dull may waken to a Humming-bird; The most recluse, discreetly open'd, find Congenial matter in the Cockle-kind; The mind, in Metaphysics at a loss, May wander in a wilderness of Moss; The head that turns at super-lunar things, Poiz'd with a tail, may steer on Wilkins' wings. "O! would the sons of men once think their eyes And reason given them but to study flies ! See Nature in some partial narrow shape, And let the Author of the Whole escape: Learn but to trifle; or, who most observe, To wonder at their Maker, not to serve." "Be that my task" (replies a gloomy clerk, Sworn foe to Myst'ry, yet divinely dark; Whose pious hope aspires to see the day When Moral Evidence shall quite decay, And damns implicit faith, and holy lies, Prompt to impose, and fond to dogmatize): "Let others creep by timid steps, and slow, On plain experience lay foundations low, By common sense to common knowledge bred, And last, to Nature's Cause through Nature led. All-seeing in thy mists, we want no guide, Mother of Arrogance, and Source of Pride! We nobly take the high Priori Road, And reason downward, till we doubt of God: Make Nature still encroach upon his plan; And shove him off as far as e'er we can: Thrust some Mechanic Cause into his place; Or bind in matter, or diffuse in space. Or, at one bound o'erleaping all his laws, Make God man's image, man the final Cause, Find virtue local, all relation scorn See all in self , and but for self be born: Of naught so certain as our reason still, Of naught so doubtful as of soul and will . Oh hide the God still more! and make us see Such as Lucretius drew, a god like thee: Wrapp'd up in self, a god without a thought, Regardless of our merit or default. Or that bright image to our fancy draw, Which Theocles in raptur'd vision saw, While through poetic scenes the Genius roves, Or wanders wild in academic groves; That Nature our society adores, Where Tindal dictates, and Silenus snores." Rous'd at his name up rose the bousy Sire, And shook from out his pipe the seeds of fire; Then snapp'd his box, and strok'd his belly down: Rosy and rev'rend, though without a gown. Bland and familiar to the throne he came, Led up the youth, and call'd the Goddess Dame . Then thus, "From priestcraft happily set free, Lo! ev'ry finished Son returns to thee: First slave to words, then vassal to a name, Then dupe to party; child and man the same; Bounded by Nature, narrow'd still by art, A trifling head, and a contracted heart. Thus bred, thus taught, how many have I seen, Smiling on all, and smil'd on by a queen. Marked out for honours, honour'd for their birth, To thee the most rebellious things on earth: Now to thy gentle shadow all are shrunk, All melted down, in pension, or in punk! So K, - so B, - sneak'd into the grave, A monarch's half, and half a harlot's slave. Poor W, - nipp'd in Folly's broadest bloom, Who praises now? his chaplain on his tomb. Then take them all, oh take them to thy breast! Thy Magus , Goddess! shall perform the rest." With that, a Wizard old his Cup extends; Which whoso tastes, forgets his former friends, Sire, ancestors, himself. One casts his eyes Up to a Star , and like Endymion dies: A Feather , shooting from another's head, Extracts his brain, and principle is fled, Lost is his God, his country, ev'rything; And nothing left but homage to a king! The vulgar herd turn off to roll with hogs, To run with horses, or to hunt with dogs; But, sad example! never to escape Their infamy, still keep the human shape. But she, good Goddess, sent to ev'ry child Firm impudence, or stupefaction mild; And straight succeeded, leaving shame no room, Cibberian forehead, or Cimmerian gloom. Kind self-conceit to somewhere glass applies, Which no one looks in with another's eyes: But as the flatt'rer or dependant paint, Beholds himself a patriot, chief, or saint. On others Int'rest her gay liv'ry flings, Int'rest that waves on party-colour'd wings: Turn'd to the sun, she casts a thousand dyes, And, as she turns, the colours fall or rise. Others the siren sisters warble round, And empty heads console with empty sound. No more, Alas! the voice of Fame they hear, The balm of Dulness trickling in their ear. Great C, -, H, -, P, -, R, -, K, -, Why all your toils? your Sons have learn'd to sing. How quick ambition hastes to ridicule! The sire is made a peer, the son a fool. On some, a Priest succinct in amice white Attends; all flesh is nothing in his sight! Beeves, at his touch, at once to jelly turn, And the huge boar is shrunk into an urn: The board with specious miracles he loads, Turns hares to larks, and pigeons into toads. Another (for in all what one can shine?) Explains the Seve and Verdeur of the vine. What cannot copious sacrifice atone? Thy truffles, Perigord! thy hams, Bayonne! With French libation, and Italian strain, Wash Bladen white, and expiate Hays's stain. Knight lifts the head, for what are crowds undone. To three essential partridges in one? Gone ev'ry blush, and silent all reproach, Contending princes mount them in their coach. Next, bidding all draw near on bended knees, The Queen confers her Titles and Degrees . Her children first of more distinguish'd sort, Who study Shakespeare at the Inns of Court, Impale a glowworm, or vert' profess, Shine in the dignity of F.R.S. Some, deep Freemasons, join the silent race Worthy to fill Pythagoras's place: Some botanists, or florists at the least, Or issue members of an annual feast. Nor pass'd the meanest unregarded, one Rose a Gregorian, one a Gormogon. The last, not least in honour or applause, Isis and Cam made Doctors of her Laws. Then, blessing all, "Go, Children of my care! To practice now from theory repair. All my commands are easy, short, and full: My sons! be proud, be selfish, and be dull. Guard my prerogative, assert my throne: This nod confirms each privilege your own. The cap and switch be sacred to his Grace; With staff and pumps the Marquis lead the race; From stage to stage the licens'd Earl may run, Pair'd with his fellow charioteer the sun; The learned Baron butterflies design, Or draw to silk Arachne's subtle line; The Judge to dance his brother Sergeant call; The Senator at cricket urge the ball; The Bishop stow (pontific luxury!) An hundred souls of turkeys in a pie; The sturdy Squire to Gallic masters stoop, And drown his lands and manors in a soupe . Others import yet nobler arts from France, Teach kings to fiddle, and make senates dance. Perhaps more high some daring son may soar, Proud to my list to add one monarch more; And nobly conscious, princes are but things Born for first ministers, as slaves for kings, Tyrant supreme! shall three Estates command, And make one mighty Dunciad of the Land! More she had spoke, but yawn'd, All Nature nods: What mortal can resist the yawn of gods? Churches and Chapels instantly it reach'd; (St. James's first, for leaden Gilbert preach'd) Then catch'd the schools; the Hall scarce kept awake; The Convocation gap'd, but could not speak: Lost was the nation's sense, nor could be found, While the long solemn unison went round: Wide, and more wide, it spread o'er all the realm; Even Palinurus nodded at the helm: The vapour mild o'er each committee crept; Unfinish'd treaties in each office slept; And chiefless armies doz'd out the campaign; And navies yawn'd for orders on the main. O Muse! relate (for you can tell alone, Wits have short memories, and Dunces none), Relate, who first, who last resign'd to rest; Whose heads she partly, whose completely blest; What charms could faction, what ambition lull, The venal quiet, and entrance the dull; Till drown'd was sense, and shame, and right, and wrong, O sing, and hush the nations with thy song! In vain, in vain, the all-composing hour Resistless falls: The Muse obeys the Pow'r. She comes! she comes! the sable throne behold Of Night primeval, and of Chaos old! Before her, Fancy's gilded clouds decay, And all its varying rainbows die away. Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires, The meteor drops, and in a flash expires. As one by one, at dread Medea's strain, The sick'ning stars fade off th' ethereal plain; As Argus' eyes by Hermes' wand oppress'd, Clos'd one by one to everlasting rest; Thus at her felt approach, and secret might, Art after Art goes out, and all is Night. See skulking Truth to her old cavern fled, Mountains of Casuistry heap'd o'er her head! Philosophy, that lean'd on Heav'n before, Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more. Physic of Metaphysic begs defence, And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense ! See Mystery to Mathematics fly! In vain! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die. Religion blushing veils her sacred fires, And unawares Morality expires. Nor public Flame, nor private , dares to shine; Nor human Spark is left, nor Glimpse divine ! Lo! thy dread Empire, Chaos! is restor'd; Light dies before thy uncreating word: Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall; And universal Darkness buries All.

Moral.

John Hartley

Yo fowk 'ats tempted to goa buy Be careful what yo do; Dooant be persuaded coss "its cheap," For if yo do yo'll rue; Dooant think its lowerin to yor sen To ax a friend's advice, Else like poor Billy's pig, 't may be Bowt dear at ony price.

Prayer

Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

You are all that is lovely and light, Aziza whom I adore, And, waking, after the night, I am weary with dreams of you. Every nerve in my heart is tense and sore As I rise to another morning apart from you. I dream of your luminous eyes, Aziza whom I adore! Of the ruffled silk of your hair, I dream, and the dreams are lies. But I love them, knowing no more Will ever be mine of you Aziza, my life's despair. I would burn for a thousand days, Aziza whom I adore, Be tortured, slain, in unheard of ways If you pitied the pain I bore. You pity!    Your bright eyes, fastened on other things, Are keener to sting my soul, than scorpion stings! You are all that is lovely to me, All that is light, One white rose in a Desert of weariness. I only live in the night, The night, with its fair false dreams of you, You and your loveliness. Give me your love for a day, A night, an hour: If the wages of sin are Death I am willing to pay. What is my life but a breath Of passion burning away? Away for an unplucked flower. O Aziza whom I adore, Aziza my one delight, Only one night, I will die before day, And trouble your life no more.

Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part III. - IV - Latitudinarianism

William Wordsworth

Yet Truth is keenly sought for, and the wind Charged with rich words poured out in thought's defense; Whether the Church inspire that eloquence, Or a Platonic Piety confined To the sole temple of the inward mind; And One there is who builds immortal lays, Though doomed to tread in solitary ways, Darkness before and danger's voice behind; Yet not alone, nor helpless to repel Sad thoughts; for from above the starry sphere Come secrets, whispered nightly to his ear; And the pure spirit of celestial light Shines through his soul, "that he may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight."

Meditation For His Mistress

Robert Herrick

You are a Tulip seen to-day, But, Dearest, of so short a stay, That where you grew, scarce man can say. You are a lovely July-flower; Yet one rude wind, or ruffling shower, Will force you hence, and in an hour. You are a sparkling Rose i'th' bud, Yet lost, ere that chaste flesh and blood Can show where you or grew or stood. You are a full-spread fair-set Vine, And can with tendrils love entwine; Yet dried, ere you distil your wine. You are like Balm, enclosed well In amber, or some crystal shell; Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell. You are a dainty Violet; Yet wither'd, ere you can be set Within the virgins coronet. You are the Queen all flowers among; But die you must, fair maid, ere long, As he, the maker of this song.

In Morte. XLIII.

Emma Lazarus

Yon nightingale who mourns so plaintively Perchance his fledglings or his darling mate, Fills sky and earth with sweetness, warbling late, Prophetic notes of melting melody. All night, he, as it were, companions me, Reminding me of my so cruel fate, Mourning no other grief save mine own state, Who knew not Death reigned o'er divinity. How easy 't is to dupe the soul secure! Those two fair lamps, even than the sun more bright, Who ever dreamed to see turn clay obscure? But Fortune has ordained, I now am sure, That I, midst lifelong tears, should learn aright, Naught here can make us happy, or endure.

To a Republican Friend, 1848 - Continued

Matthew Arnold

Yet, when I muse on what life is, I seem Rather to patience prompted, than that prowl Prospect of hope which France proclaims so loud, France, fam'd in all great arts, in none supreme. Seeing this Vale, this Earth, whereon we dream, Is on all sides o'ershadow'd by the high Uno'erleap'd Mountains of Necessity, Sparing us narrower margin than we deem. Nor will that day dawn at a human nod, When, bursting through the network superpos'd By selfish occupation, plot and plan, Lust, avarice, envy liberated man, All difference with his fellow man compos'd, Shall be left standing face to face with God

Loch Uisk, Isle Of Mull.

John Campbell

Yon vale among the mountains, So sheltered from the sea, That lake which lies so lonely, Shall tell their tale to thee. Here stood a stately convent Where now the waters sleep, Here floated sweeter music Than comes from yonder deep. Above the holy building The summer cloud would rest, And listen where to heaven Rose hymns to God addressed; For the hills took up the chanting, And from their emerald wall The sounds they loved, would, lingering, In fainter accents fall. Hard by, beside a streamlet Fast flowing from a well, A nun, in long past ages, Had built her sainted cell: To her in dreams 'twas given As sacred task and charge, To keep unchanged for ever The bright Spring's mossy marge. "Peace shall with joys attendant For ever here abide, While reverently and faithfully You guard its taintless tide." And when she knew her spirit Was summoned to its rest, To all around her gathered She gave that high behest; And many followed after To seek the life she chose, Till, like a flower, in glory The cloistered convent rose. Through Scotland's times of bloodshed, Of foray, feud, and raid, Their home became the haven Where storm and strife were stayed. Men blessed each dark-robed Sister, And thought an angel trod, Where walked in love and meekness A lowly maid of God! Right happy were they, lighting With love those days of doom; For heart need ne'er be darkened By any garment's gloom. Yes, often life thereafter Was here with gladness crowned, For, sad as seemed their vesture The peace of God was found His holiness in beauty Made every trial seem A rock that lies all harmless Deep hidden in a stream. While life was pure there never Was wish in thought to gain The world, where far behind them The black nuns left their pain; And time but flew too quickly O'er that friend-circle small, Where each one loved her neighbour, And God was loved of all. Still from its beauteous chalice, That well's unceasing store Poured forth, through whispering channels, The crystal load it bore. Hope seemed to bring the fountain To seek the light of day; Faith made it bright; Obedience Smoothed, hallowing, its way. Full many a gorgeous Summer Woke heather into bloom, And oft cold stars in Winter Looked on a Sister's tomb; Before the joy had withered That virtue once had nursed; Before their Lord and Master Grew love for things accursed. Lo! then the stream neglected Forsook its wonted way: In stagnant pools, dark-tainted, Its wandering waters lay. There choked by moorland ridges, Black with the growth of peat, Beneath the quaking surface The fetid floods would meet; Till rising, spreading ever Above the chalice green Of that fair Well, they covered The place where it had been. Then, near the careless convent, Within the hill's deep shade, The Fate which works in silence A lake had slowly made. As evil knows not halting When passions strongly flow, So daily deeper, deeper Would those dark waters grow; Till on an awful midnight, When red the windows flamed And song and jest and revel The Vesper hour had shamed, And wanton sin dishonoured The time Christ's birth had crowned, They burst their banks in darkness, And with their raging sound The rocks of all the valley Rung for a few hours' space; Then the wide Loch at morning Reflected heaven's face. Few voices now are heard there, Around the wild deer feed; And winds sigh loud in Autumn Through copse, and rush, and reed. Men say that when in darkness They pass the water's verge, Each hears, mid sounds of revel The "Miserere's" dirge; That faintly, strangely, ever Upon the Loch's dark breast, Beneath, above, around it Shine lights that never rest. Of all such ghastly phantoms, Bred of the night and fear, By hope of our salvation None meets the noontide clear! The blue sky's tender beauties Upon the strong floods shine, As God's eternal mercy Dwells with His might divine! Pure as their mystic fountain They sleep and flow unstained, Although the hue of sorrow Hath in their depths remained. The swallow, swiftly passing Flies low to kiss the wave When rippling gently over Some pure saint's holy grave: The hunter's eyes discover Beneath those waters still The walls of that proud convent, Where God hath worked His will.

De Camp On De "Cheval Gris"

William Henry Drummond

You 'member de ole log-camp, Johnnie, up on de Cheval Gris, W'ere we work so hard all winter, long ago you an' me? Dere was fourteen man on de gang, den, all from our own paroisse, An' only wan lef' dem feller is ourse'f an' Pierre Laframboise. But Pierre can't see on de eye, Johnnie, I t'ink it's no good at all! An' it wasn't for not'ing, you're gettin' rheumateez on de leg las' fall! I t'ink it's no use waitin', for neider can come wit' me, So alone I mak' leetle visit dat camp on de Cheval Gris. An' if only you see it, Johnnie, an' change dere was all aroun', Ev'ryt'ing gone but de timber an' dat is all fallin' down; No sign of portage by de reever w'ere man dey was place canoe, W'y, Johnnie, I'm cry lak de beb', an' I'm glad you don't come, mon vieux! But strange t'ing's happen me dere, Johnnie, mebbe I go asleep, As I lissen de song of de rapide, as pas' de Longue Soo she sweep, Ma head she go biz-z-z lak de sawmeel, I don't know w'at's wrong wit' me, But firs' t'ing I don't know not'ing, an' den w'at you t'ink I see? Yourse'f an' res' of de boy, Johnnie, by light of de coal oil lamp, An' you're singin' an' tolin' story, sittin' aroun' de camp, We hear de win' on de chimley, an' we know it was beeg, beeg storm, But ole box stove she is roarin', an' camp's feelin' nice an' warm. I t'ink you're on boar' of de raf', Johnnie, near head of Riviere du Loup, W'en LeRoy an' young Patsy Kelly get drown comin' down de Soo, Wall! I see me dem very same feller, jus' lak you see me to-day, Playin' dat game dey call checker, de game dey was play alway! An' Louis Charette asleep, Johnnie, wit' hees back up agen de wall, Makin' soche noise wit' hees nose, dat you t'ink it was moose on de fall, I s'pose he's de mos' fattes' man dere 'cept mebbe Bateese La Rue, But if I mak fonne on poor Louis, I know he was good boy too! W'at you do over dere on your bunk, Johnnie, lightin' dem allumettes, Are you shame 'cos de girl she write you, is dat de las' wan you get? It's fonny you can't do widout it ev'ry tam you was goin' bed, W'y readin' dat letter so offen, you mus have it all on de head! Dat's de very sam' letter, Johnnie, was comin' t'ree mont' ago, I t'ink I know somet'ing about it, 'cos I fin' it wan day on de snow. An' I see on de foot dat letter, Philomene she is do lak dis: * * * I'm not very moche on de school, me, but I t'ink dat was mean de kiss. Wall! nobody's kickin' de row, Johnnie, an' if allumettes' fini, Put Philomene off on your pocket, an' sing leetle song wit' me; For don't matter de hard you be workin' toujours you're un bon gar'on, An' nobody sing lak our Johnnie, Kebeck to de Mattawa! An' it's den you be let her go, Johnnie, till roof she was mos' cave in, An' if dere's firs' prize on de singin', Bagosh! you're de man can win! Affer dat come fidelle of Joe Pilon, an' he's feller can make it play, So we're clearin' de floor right off den, for have leetle small danser. An' w'en dance she was tout finis, Johnnie, I go de sam' bunk wit' you W'ere we sleep lak two broder, an' dream of de girl on Riviere du Loup, Very nice ontil somebody call me, it soun' lak de boss Pelang, "Leve toi, Jeremie ma young feller, or else you'll be late on de gang." An' den I am wak' up, Johnnie, an' w'ere do you t'ink I be? Dere was de wood an' mountain, dere was de Cheval Gris, But w'ere is de boy an' musique I hear only w'ile ago? Gone lak de flower las' summer, gone lak de winter snow! An' de young man was bring me up, Johnnie, dat's son of ma boy Maxime, Say, "Gran'fader, w'at is de matter, you havin' de bad, bad dream? Come look on your face on de well dere, it's w'ite lak I never see, Mebbe 't was better you're stayin', an' not go along wit' me." An' w'en I look down de well, Johnnie, an' see de ole feller dere, I say on mese'f "you be makin' fou Jeremie Chateauvert, For t'ink you're gar'on agen. Ha! ha! jus' 'cos you are close de eye, An' only commence for leevin' w'en you're ready almos' for die!" Ah! dat's how de young day pass, Johnnie, purty moche lak de t'ing I see, Sometam dey be las' leetle longer, sam' as wit' you an' me, But no matter de ole we're leevin', de tam she must come some day, W'en boss on de place above, Johnnie, he's callin' us all away. I'm glad I was go on de camp, Johnnie, I t'ink it will do me good, Mebbe it's las' tam too, for sure, I'll never pass on de wood, For I don't expec' moche longer ole Jeremie will be lef', But about w'at I see dat day, Johnnie, tole nobody but yourse'f.

Marshall's Mate

Henry Lawson

You almost heard the surface bake, and saw the gum-leaves turn, You could have watched the grass scorch brown had there been grass to burn. In such a drought the strongest heart might well grow faint and weak, 'Twould frighten Satan to his home, not far from Dingo Creek. The tanks went dry on Ninety Mile, as tanks go dry out back, The Half-Way Spring had failed at last when Marshall missed the track; Beneath a dead tree on the plain we saw a pack-horse reel, Too blind to see there was no shade, and too done-up to feel. And charcoaled on the canvas bag (`twas written pretty clear) We read the message Marshall wrote. It said: `I'm taken queer, I'm somewhere off of Deadman's Track, half-blind and nearly dead; Find Crowbar, get him sobered up, and follow back,' it said. `Let Mitchell go to Bandicoot. You'll find him there,' said Mack. `I'll start the chaps from Starving Steers, and take the dry-holes back.' We tramped till dark, and tried to track the pack-horse on the sands, And just at daylight Crowbar came with Milroy's station hands. His cheeks were drawn, his face was white, but he was sober then, In times of trouble, fire, and flood, 'twas Crowbar led the men. `Spread out as widely as you can each side the track,' said he; `The first to find him make a smoke that all the rest can see.' We took the track and followed back where Crowbar followed fate, We found a dead man in the scrub, but 'twas not Crowbar's mate. The station hands from Starving Steers were searching all the week, But never news of Marshall's fate came back to Dingo Creek. And no one, save the spirit of the sand-waste, fierce and lone, Knew where Jack Marshall crawled to die, but Crowbar might have known. He'd scarcely closed his quiet eyes or drawn a sleeping breath, They say that Crowbar slept no more until he slept in death. A careless, roving scamp, that loved to laugh and drink and joke, But no man saw him smile again (and no one saw him smoke), And, when we spelled at night, he'd lie with eyes still open wide, And watch the stars as if they'd point the place where Marshall died. The search was made as searches are (and often made in vain), And on the seventh day we saw a smoke across the plain; We left the track and followed back, 'twas Crowbar still that led, And when his horse gave out at last he walked and ran ahead. We reached the place and turned again, dragged back and no man spoke, It was a bush-fire in the scrubs that made the cursed smoke. And when we gave it best at last, he said, `I'LL see it through,' Although he knew we'd done as much as mortal men could do. `I'll not, I won't give up!' he said, his hand pressed to his brow; `My God! the cursed flies and ants, they might be at him now. I'll see it so in twenty years, 'twill haunt me all my life, I could not face his sister, and I could not face his wife. It's no use talking to me now, I'm going back,' he said, `I'm going back to find him, and I will, alive or dead!' . . . . . He packed his horse with water and provisions for a week, And then, at sunset, crossed the plain, away from Dingo Creek. We watched him tramp beside the horse till we, as it grew late, Could not tell which was Bonypart and which was Marshall's mate. The dam went dry at Dingo Creek, and we were driven back, And none dared face the Ninety Mile when Crowbar took the track. They saw him at Dead Camel and along the Dry Hole Creeks, There came a day when none had heard of Marshall's mate for weeks; They'd seen him at No Sunday, he called at Starving Steers, There came a time when none had heard of Marshall's mate for years. They found old Bonypart at last, picked clean by hungry crows, But no one knew how Crowbar died, the soul of Marshall knows! And now, way out on Dingo Creek, when winter days are late, The bushmen talk of Crowbar's ghost `what's looking for his mate'; For let the fools indulge their mirth, and let the wise men doubt, The soul of Crowbar and his mate have travelled further out. Beyond the furthest two-rail fence, Colanne and Nevertire, Beyond the furthest rabbit-proof, barbed wire and common wire, Beyond the furthest `Gov'ment' tank, and past the furthest bore, The Never-Never, No Man's Land, No More, and Nevermore, Beyond the Land o' Break-o'-Day, and Sunset and the Dawn, The soul of Marshall and the soul of Marshall's mate have gone Unto that Loving, Laughing Land where life is fresh and clean, Where the rivers flow all summer, and the grass is always green.

Yon Wild Mossy Mountains.

Robert Burns

Tune - "Yon wild mossy mountains." I. Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed, And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed. Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed, And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed. II. Not Gowrie's rich valleys, nor Forth's sunny shores, To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy moors; For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream, Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream. For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream, Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream. III. Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path, Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath; For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, While o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o' love. For there wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, While o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o' love. IV. She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair; O' nice education but sma' is her share; Her parentage humble as humble can be; But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me. Her parentage humble as humble can be; But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me. V. To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize, In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs? And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her darts, They dazzle our een as they flee to our hearts. And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her darts, They dazzle our een, as they flee to our hearts. VI. But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling e'e, Has lustre outshining the diamond to me: And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in her arms, O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms! And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in her arms, O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms!

Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet XCV

Philip Sidney (Sir)

Yet sighes, deare sighs, indeede true friends you are, That do not leaue your best friend at the wurst, But, as you with my breast I oft haue nurst, So, gratefull now, you waite vpon my care. Faint coward Ioy no longer tarry dare, Seeing Hope yeeld when this wo strake him furst; Delight exclaims he is for my fault curst, Though oft himselfe my mate in Armes he sware; Nay, Sorrow comes with such maine rage, that he Kils his owne children (teares) finding that they By Loue were made apt to consort with me. Only, true Sighs, you do not goe away: Thanke may you haue for such a thankfull part, Thank-worthiest yet when you shall break my hart.

The War After The War

John Le Gay Brereton

I. Yonder, with eyes that tears, not distance, dim, With ears the wide world's thickness cannot daunt, We see tumultuous miseries that haunt The night's dead watches, hear the battle hymn Of ruin shrieking through the music grim, Where the red spectre straddles, long and gaunt, Spitting across the seas his hideous taunt At those who nurse at home the unwounded limb. What shall we say, who, drawing indolent breath, Mark the quick pant of those who, full of hate, Drive home the steel or loose the shrieking shell, Heroes or Huns, who smite the grin of death And laugh or curse beneath the blows of fate, Swept madly to the thudding heart of hell? II. O peace, be still! Let no drear whirlwind sweep Our souls about the vault, that groans or yells In travail of the brood of Fear, and swells Stupendous with new monsters of the deep. This is no day to wring the hands and weep, No hour for hopeless tolling and clash of bells. Faith is no faith if god or demon quells One hope or drugs it to uneasy sleep. What you have shed man's blood for, fight for still In world-wide conflict, joining hand with hand; Hate fear and hatred and the seed thereof, And, since you have struck for Freedom, do her will And smash the barriers parting land from land, Unfaltering armies of immortal love.

Monologue

Charles Baudelaire

You are a lovely autumn sky, rose-clear! But sadness is flowing in me like the sea, And leaves on my sullen lip, as it disappears, of its bitter slime the painful memory. Your hand glides over my numb breast in vain: what it seeks, dear friend, is a place made raw by woman's ferocious fang and claw, refrain: seek this heart, the wild beasts tear, no more. My heart is a palace defiled by the rabble, they drink, and murder, and clutch each other's hair! About your naked throat a perfume hovers!... O Beauty, harsh scourge of souls, this is your care! With your eyes of fire, dazzling as at our feasts, Burn these scraps to ashes, spared by the beasts!

Perversities II

John Frederick Freeman

Yet when I am alone my eyes say, Come. My hands cannot be still. In that first moment all my senses ache, Cells, that were empty fill, The clay walls shake, And unimprisoned thought runs where it will. Runs and is glad and listens and doubts, and glooms Because you are not here. Then once more rises and is clear again As sense is never clear, And happy, though in vain These eyes wait and these arms to bring you near. Yet spite of thought my arms and eyes say, Come, Pained with such discontent. For though thought have you all my senses ache-- O, it was not meant My body should never wake But on thought's tranquil bosom rest content.

The Find

Charles Kingsley

Yon sound's neither sheep-bell nor bark, They're running - they're running, Go hark! The sport may be lost by a moment's delay; So whip up the puppies and scurry away. Dash down through the cover by dingle and dell, There's a gate at the bottom - I know it full well; And they're running - they're running, Go hark! They're running - they're running, Go hark! One fence and we're out of the park; Sit down in your saddles and race at the brook, Then smash at the bullfinch; no time for a look; Leave cravens and skirters to dangle behind; He's away for the moors in the teeth of the wind, And they're running - they're running, Go hark! They're running - they're running, Go hark! Let them run on and run till it's dark! Well with them we are, and well with them we'll be, While there's wind in our horses and daylight to see: Then shog along homeward, chat over the fight, And hear in our dreams the sweet music all night Of - They're running - they're running, Go hark! Eversley, 1856.

Woman

Unknown

You are a dear, sweet girl, God bless you and keep you - Wish I could afford to do so.

The Homing Bee

Emily Pauline Johnson

You are belted with gold, little brother of mine, Yellow gold, like the sun That spills in the west, as a chalice of wine When feasting is done. You are gossamer-winged, little brother of mine, Tissue winged, like the mist That broods where the marshes melt into a line Of vapour sun-kissed. You are laden with sweets, little brother of mine, Flower sweets, like the touch Of hands we have longed for, of arms that entwine, Of lips that love much. You are better than I, little brother of mine, Than I, human-souled, For you bring from the blossoms and red summer shine, For others, your gold.

The Eyes Of Beauty

Charles Baudelaire

You are a sky of autumn, pale and rose; But all the sea of sadness in my blood Surges, and ebbing, leaves my lips morose, Salt with the memory of the bitter flood. In vain your hand glides my faint bosom o'er, That which you seek, beloved, is desecrate By woman's tooth and talon; ah, no more Seek in me for a heart which those dogs ate. It is a ruin where the jackals rest, And rend and tear and glut themselves and slay A perfume swims about your naked breast! Beauty, hard scourge of spirits, have your way! With flame-like eyes that at bright feasts have flared Burn up these tatters that the beasts have spared!

The Man-Of-War Hawk

Herman Melville

Yon black man-of-war-hawk that wheels in the light O'er the black ship's white sky-s'l, sunned cloud to the sight, Have we low-flyers wings to ascend to his height? No arrow can reach him; nor thought can attain To the placid supreme in the sweep of his reign.

To The Emperor William.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

You are at least a man, of men a king. You have a heart, and with that heart you love. The race you come from is not gendered of The filthy sty whose latest litter cling Round England's flesh-pots, gorged and gluttoning. No, but on flaming battle-fields, in courts Of honour and of danger old resorts, The name of Hohen-Zollern clear doth ring. O Father William, you, not falsely weak, Who never spared the rod to spoil the child, Our mighty Germany, we only speak To bless you with a blessing sweet and mild, Ere that near heaven your weary footsteps seek Where love with liberty is reconciled.

Sonnet XCIII.

Anna Seward

Yon soft Star, peering o'er the sable cloud, Sheds its [1]green lustre thro' the darksome air. - Haply in that mild Planet's crystal sphere Live the freed Spirits, o'er whose timeless shroud Swell'd my lone sighs, my tearful sorrows flow'd. They, of these long regrets perhaps aware, View them with pitying smiles. - O! then, if e'er Your guardian cares may be on me bestow'd, For the pure friendship of our youthful days, Ere yet ye soar'd from earth, illume my heart, That roves bewilder'd in Dejection's night, And lead it back to peace! - as now ye dart, From your pellucid mansion, the kind rays, That thro' misleading darkness stream so bright. 1: The lustre of the brightest of the Stars always appeared to me of a green hue; and they are so described by Ossian.

The Moral Bully

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Yon whey-faced brother, who delights to wear A weedy flux of ill-conditioned hair, Seems of the sort that in a crowded place One elbows freely into smallest space; A timid creature, lax of knee and hip, Whom small disturbance whitens round the lip; One of those harmless spectacled machines, The Holy-Week of Protestants convenes; Whom school-boys question if their walk transcends The last advices of maternal friends; Whom John, obedient to his master's sign, Conducts, laborious, up to ninety-nine, While Peter, glistening with luxurious scorn, Husks his white ivories like an ear of corn; Dark in the brow and bilious in the cheek, Whose yellowish linen flowers but once a week, Conspicuous, annual, in their threadbare suits, And the laced high-lows which they call their boots, Well mayst thou shun that dingy front severe, But him, O stranger, him thou canst not fear. Be slow to judge, and slower to despise, Man of broad shoulders and heroic size The tiger, writhing from the boa's rings, Drops at the fountain where the cobra stings. In that lean phantom, whose extended glove Points to the text of universal love, Behold the master that can tame thee down To crouch, the vassal of his Sunday frown; His velvet throat against thy corded wrist, His loosened tongue against thy doubled fist. The MORAL BULLY, though he never swears, Nor kicks intruders down his entry stairs, Though meekness plants his backward-sloping hat, And non-resistance ties his white cravat, Though his black broadcloth glories to be seen In the same plight with Shylock's gaberdine, Hugs the same passion to his narrow breast That heaves the cuirass on the trooper's chest, Hears the same hell-hounds yelling in his rear That chase from port the maddened buccaneer, Feels the same comfort while his acrid words Turn the sweet milk of kindness into curds, Or with grim logic prove, beyond debate, That all we love is worthiest of our hate, As the scarred ruffian of the pirate's deck, When his long swivel rakes the staggering wreck! Heaven keep us all! Is every rascal clown Whose arm is stronger free to knock us down? Has every scarecrow, whose cachectic soul Seems fresh from Bedlam, airing on parole, Who, though he carries but a doubtful trace Of angel visits on his hungry face, From lack of marrow or the coins to pay, Has dodged some vices in a shabby way, The right to stick us with his cutthroat terms, And bait his homilies with his brother worms?

The Lady And The Painter

Robert Browning

She. Yet womanhood you reverence, So you profess! He. With heart and soul. She. Of which fact this is evidence! To help Art-study, for some dole Of certain wretched shillings, you Induce a woman, virgin too To strip and stand stark-naked? He. True. She. Nor feel you so degrade her? He. What (Excuse the interruption), clings Half-savage-like around your hat? She. Ah, do they please you? Wild-bird-wings! Next season, Paris-prints assert, We must go feathered to the skirt: My modiste keeps on the alert. Owls, hawks, jays, swallows most approve. He. Dare I speak plainly? She. Oh, I trust! He. Then, Lady Blanche, it less would move In heart and soul of me disgust Did you strip off those spoils you wear, And stand, for thanks, not shillings, bare To help Art like my Model there. She well knew what absolved her, praise In me for God's surpassing good, Who granted to my reverent gaze A type of purest womanhood. You, clothed with murder of his best Of harmless beings, stand the test! What is it you know? She. That you jest!

Our Indian Summer

Oliver Wendell Holmes

1856 You 'll believe me, dear boys, 't is a pleasure to rise, With a welcome like this in your darling old eyes; To meet the same smiles and to hear the same tone Which have greeted me oft in the years that have flown. Were I gray as the grayest old rat in the wall, My locks would turn brown at the sight of you all; If my heart were as dry as the shell on the sand, It would fill like the goblet I hold in my hand. There are noontides of autumn when summer returns. Though the leaves are all garnered and sealed in their urns, And the bird on his perch, that was silent so long, Believes the sweet sunshine and breaks into song. We have caged the young birds of our beautiful June; Their plumes are still bright and their voices in tune; One moment of sunshine from faces like these And they sing as they sung in the green-growing trees. The voices of morning! how sweet is their thrill When the shadows have turned, and the evening grows still! The text of our lives may get wiser with age, But the print was so fair on its twentieth page! Look off from your goblet and up from your plate, Come, take the last journal, and glance at its date: Then think what we fellows should say and should do, If the 6 were a 9 and the 5 were a 2. Ah, no! for the shapes that would meet with as here, From the far land of shadows, are ever too dear! Though youth flung around us its pride and its charms, We should see but the comrades we clasped in our arms. A health to our future - a sigh for our past, We love, we remember, we hope to the last; And for all the base lies that the almanacs hold, While we've youth in our hearts we can never grow old!

A Mother To The Sea.

Charles Hamilton Musgrove

You are blue, you are blue like the sky, Cruel and cold and blue, And I turn from you, voiceless sea, To a sky that is voiceless, too. Upward the vast blue arch, Downward the blue abyss, With a line of foam where your lips Meet in a passionless kiss. But the silence is breaking my heart, And tears cannot comfort me With God in His cold blue sky, And my boy in the cold blue sea.

Feelings Of A Noble Biscayan At One Of Those Funerals

William Wordsworth

Yet, yet, Biscayans! we must meet our Foes With firmer soul, yet labour to regain Our ancient freedom; else 'twere worse than vain To gather round the bier these festal shows. A garland fashioned of the pure white rose Becomes not one whose father is a slave: Oh, bear the infant covered to his grave! These venerable mountains now enclose A people sunk in apathy and fear. If this endure, farewell, for us, all good! The awful light of heavenly innocence Will fail to illuminate the infant's bier; And guilt and shame, from which is no defense, Descend on all that issues from our blood.

The Parasol

Helen Leah Reed

You are the loveliest parasol I ever saw, - and all my own, - What frilly frills! I feel as tall As mother now. Here! take my doll. Dolls are for children - ladies grown Have parasols, and fans, and rings, And all those pretty, shiny things. Nurse calls you "sunshade," but I think That is too plain a word, for see! You are so satiny and pink And there is such a curly kink Here in your handle, there could be No name too fine, I love you so, I'll take you everywhere I go. Next Sunday when to church I walk, Above my head I'll hold you high. Oh! how the other girls will talk, And maybe some of them will mock, "How proud she feels," as I pass by - I'd hold you up, straight down the aisle, If only people wouldn't smile.

Existence

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

You are here, and you are wanted, Though a waif upon life's stair; Though the sunlit hours are haunted With the shadowy shapes of care. Still the Great One, the All-Seeing Called your spirit into being - Gave you strength for any fate. Since your life by Him was needed, All your ways by Him are heeded - You can trust and you can wait. You can wait to know the meaning Of the troubles sent your soul; Of the chasms intervening 'Twixt your purpose and your goal; Of the sorrows and the trials, Of the silence and denials, Ofttimes answering to your pleas; Of the stinted sweets of pleasure, And of pain's too generous measure - You can wait the WHY of these. Forth from planet unto planet, You have gone, and you will go. Space is vast, but we must span it; For life's purpose is TO KNOW. Earth retains you but a minute, Make the best of what lies in it; Light the pathway where you are. There is nothing worth the doing That will leave regret or rueing, As you speed from star to star. You are part of the Beginning, You are parcel of To-day. When He set His world to spinning You were flung upon your way. When the system falls to pieces, When this pulsing epoch ceases, When the IS becomes the WAS, You will live, for you will enter In the great Creative Centre, In the All-Enduring Cause.

The Curse Of Cromwell

William Butler Yeats

You ask what -- I have found, and far and wide I go: Nothing but Cromwell's house and Cromwell's mur- derous crew, The lovers and the dancers are beaten into the clay, And the tall men and the swordsmen and the horsemen, where are they? And there is an old beggar wandering in his pride -- - His fathers served their fathers before Christ was crucified. i(O what of that, O what of that,) i(What is there left to say?) All neighbourly content and easy talk are gone, But there's no good complaining, for money's rant is on. He that's mounting up must on his neighbour mount, And we and all the Muses are things of no account. They have schooling of their own, but I pass their schooling by, What can they know that we know that know the time to die? i(O what of that, O what of that,) i(What is there left to say?) But there's another knowledge that my heart destroys, As the fox in the old fable destroyed the Spartan boy's Because it proves that things both can and cannot be; That the swordsmen and the ladies can still keep com- pany, Can pay the poet for a verse and hear the fiddle sound, That I am still their setvant though all are under- ground. i(O what of that, O what of that,) i(What is there left to say?) I came on a great house in the middle of the night, Its open lighted doorway and its windows all alight, And all my friends were there and made me welcome too; But I woke in an old ruin that the winds. howled through; And when I pay attention I must out and walk Among the dogs and horses that understand my talk. i(O what of that, O what of that,) i(What is there left to say?)

You Ask Me, Why, Tho' Ill At Ease

Alfred Lord Tennyson

You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, Within this region I subsist, Whose spirits falter in the mist, And languish for the purple seas. It is the land that freemen till, That sober-suited Freedom chose, The land, where girt with friends or foes A man may speak the thing he will; A land of settled government, A land of just and old renown, Where Freedom slowly broadens down From precedent to precedent: Where faction seldom gathers head, But by degrees to fullness wrought, The strength of some diffusive thought Hath time and space to work and spread. Should banded unions persecute Opinion, and induce a time When single thought is civil crime, And individual freedom mute; Tho' Power should make from land to land The name of Britain trebly great-- Tho' every channel of the State Should fill and choke with golden sand-- Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth, Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky, And I will see before I die The palms and temples of the South.

Weltschmertz

Paul Laurence Dunbar

You ask why I am sad to-day, I have no cares, no griefs, you say? Ah, yes, 't is true, I have no grief-- But--is there not the falling leaf? The bare tree there is mourning left With all of autumn's gray bereft; It is not what has happened me, Think of the bare, dismantled tree. The birds go South along the sky, I hear their lingering, long good-bye. Who goes reluctant from my breast? And yet--the lone and wind-swept nest. The mourning, pale-flowered hearse goes by, Why does a tear come to my eye? Is it the March rain blowing wild? I have no dead, I know no child. I am no widow by the bier Of him I held supremely dear. I have not seen the choicest one Sink down as sinks the westering sun. Faith unto faith have I beheld, For me, few solemn notes have swelled; Love bekoned me out to the dawn, And happily I followed on. And yet my heart goes out to them Whose sorrow is their diadem; The falling leaf, the crying bird, The voice to be, all lost, unheard-- Not mine, not mine, and yet too much The thrilling power of human touch, While all the world looks on and scorns I wear another's crown of thorns. Count me a priest who understands The glorious pain of nail-pierced hands; Count me a comrade of the thief Hot driven into late belief. Oh, mother's tear, oh, father's sigh, Oh, mourning sweetheart's last good-bye, I yet have known no mourning save Beside some brother's brother's grave.

Welcome Home

Nora Pembroke (Margaret Moran Dixon McDougall)

You are coming home with the breath of spring Flying home to a love-lined nest, Most loving care hath made it fair Your hands will do the rest And the bridal robe you have laid aside And the vail all of lacy foam, The maiden's wed, the tour is sped So welcome, welcome home The past is laid by with the bridal wreath The bride has come home a wife, And now we pray that blessings may Crown all your wedded life What shall be the blessing, my dearest dear, When it's all that we have to give? That peace and love, from God above, Be yours while ye both shall live. That high love that makes of the wife a queen, Of a cottage a palace home, The coarse web fine, life's water wine, The fire-side chair a throne. Love that drops like dew from heaven to fill With all blessing your earthly cup; That draws you nigh to Him Most High, Bidding your souls look up Unto Him who has ordered all your lot, To the Hand that will give the best, That bids you come up to His home To be His wedding guest.

To The Viriginian Voyage

Michael Drayton

You braue Heroique minds, Worthy your Countries Name; That Honour still pursue, Goe, and subdue, Whilst loyt'ring Hinds Lurke here at home, with shame. Britans, you stay too long, Quickly aboard bestow you, And with a merry Gale Swell your stretch'd Sayle, With Vowes as strong, As the Winds that blow you. Your Course securely steere, West and by South forth keepe, Rocks, Lee-shores, nor Sholes, When EOLVS scowles, You need not feare, So absolute the Deepe. And cheerefully at Sea, Successe you still intice, To get the Pearle and Gold, And ours to hold, VIRGINIA, Earth's onely Paradise. Where Nature hath in store Fowle, Venison, and Fish, And the Fruitfull'st Soyle, Without your Toyle, Three Haruests more, All greater then your Wish. And the ambitious Vine Crownes with his purple Masse, The cedar reaching hie To kisse the Sky The Cypresse, Pine And vse-full Sassafras. To whome, the golden Age Still Natures lawes doth giue, No other Cares that tend, But Them to defend From Winters rage, That long there doth not liue. When as the Lushious smell Of that delicious Land, Aboue the Seas that flowes, The cleere Wind throwes, Your Hearts to swell Approaching the deare Strande. In kenning of the Shore (Thanks to God first giuen,) O you the happy'st men, Be Frolike then, Let Cannons roare, Frighting the wide Heauen. And in Regions farre Such Heroes bring yee foorth, As those from whom We came, And plant Our name, Vnder that Starre Not knowne vnto our North. And as there Plenty growes Of Lawrell euery where, APOLLO'S Sacred tree, You may it see, A Poets Browes To crowne, that may sing there. Thy Voyages attend, Industrious HACKLVIT, Whose Reading shall inflame Men to seeke Fame, And much commend To after-Times thy Wit.

Translation: From Horace, Book II. Ode X., beginning "Rectius vives, Licini," &c.

Philip Sidney (Sir)

You better sure shall live, not evermore Trying high seas; nor, while sea's rage you flee, Pressing too much upon ill-harboured shore. The golden mean who loves, lives safely free From filth of foreworn house, and quiet lives, Released from court, where envy needs must be. The wind most oft the hugest pine tree grieves: The stately towers come down with greater fall: The highest hills the bolt of thunder cleaves. Evil haps do fill with hope, good haps appall With fear of change, the courage well prepared: Foul winters, as they come, away they shall. Though present times, and past, with evils be snared, They shall not last:    with cithern silent Muse, Apollo wakes, and bow hath sometime spared. In hard estate, with stout shows, valour use, The same man still, in whom wisdom prevails; In too full wind draw in thy swelling sails.

Seven Times Two. Romance.

Jean Ingelow

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, How many soever they be, And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges Come over, come over to me. Yet bird's clearest carol by fall or by swelling No magical sense conveys, And bells have forgotten their old art of telling The fortune of future days. "Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily, While a boy listened alone; Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily All by himself on a stone. Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over, And mine, they are yet to be; No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover: You leave the story to me. The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather, And hangeth her hoods of snow; She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather: O, children take long to grow. I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster, Nor long summer bide so late; And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, For some things are ill to wait. I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, While dear hands are laid on my head; "The child is a woman, the book may close over, For all the lessons are said." I wait for my story - the birds cannot sing it, Not one, as he sits on the tree; The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it! Such as I wish it to be.

The Magic Flower

Richard Le Gallienne

You bear a flower in your hand, You softly take it through the air, Lest it should be too roughly fanned, And break and fall, for all your care. Love is like that, the lightest breath Shakes all its blossoms o'er the land, And its mysterious cousin, Death, Waits but to snatch it from your hand. O some day, should your hand forget, Your guardian eyes stray otherwhere, Your cheeks shall all in vain be wet, Vain all your penance and your prayer. God gave you once this creature fair, You two mysteriously met; By Time's strange stream There stood this Dream, This lovely Immortality Given your mortal eyes to see, That might have been your darling yet; But in the place Of her strange face Sorrow will stand forever more, And Sorrow's hand be on your brow, And vainly you shall watch the door For her so lightly with you now, And all the world be as before. Ah; Spring shall sing and Summer bloom, And flowers fill Life's empty room, And all the singers sing in vain, Nor bring you back your flower again. O have a care! - for this is all: Let not your magic blossom fall.

My Love's Gift.

Juliana Horatia Ewing

You ask me what--since we must part-- You shall bring home to me; Bring back a pure and faithful heart, As true as mine to thee. I ask not wealth nor fame, I only ask for thee, Thyself--and that dear self the same-- My love, bring back to me! You talk of gems from foreign lands, Of treasure, spoil, and prize. Ah, love! I shall not search your hands, But look into your eyes. I ask not wealth nor fame, I only ask for thee, Thyself--and that dear self the same-- My love, bring back to me! You speak of glory and renown, With me to share your pride, Unbroken faith is all the crown I ask for as your bride. I ask not wealth nor fame, I only ask for thee, Thyself--and that dear self the same-- My love, bring back to me! You bid me with hope's eager gaze Behold fair fortune come. I only dream I see your face Beside the hearth at home. I ask not wealth nor fame, I do but ask for thee! Thyself--and that dear self the same-- May God restore to me!

From The Hon. Henry ----, To Lady Emma ----.

Thomas Moore

Paris, March 30,1833. You bid me explain, my dear angry Ma'amselle, How I came thus to bolt without saying farewell; And the truth is,--as truth you will have, my sweet railer,-- There are two worthy persons I always feel loath To take leave of at starting,--my mistress and tailor,-- As somehow one always has scenes with them both; The Snip in ill-humor, the Syren in tears, She calling on Heaven, and he on the attorney,-- Till sometimes, in short, 'twixt his duns and his dears, A young gentleman risks being stopt in his journey. But to come to the point, tho' you think, I dare say. That 'tis debt or the Cholera drives me away, 'Pon honor you're wrong;--such a mere bagatelle As a pestilence, nobody now-a-days fears; And the fact is, my love, I'm thus bolting, pell-mell, To get out of the way of these horrid new Peers;[1] This deluge of coronets frightful to think of; Which England is now for her sins on the brink of; This coinage of nobles,--coined all of 'em, badly, And sure to bring Counts to a dis-count most sadly. Only think! to have Lords over running the nation, As plenty as frogs in a Dutch inundation; No shelter from Barons, from Earls no protection, And tadpole young Lords too in every direction,-- Things created in haste just to make a Court list of, Two legs and a coronet all they consist of! The prospect's quite frightful, and what Sir George Rose (My particular friend) says is perfectly true, That, so dire the alternative, nobody knows, 'Twixt the Peers and the Pestilence, what he's to do; And Sir George even doubts,--could he choose his disorder,-- 'Twixt coffin and coronet, which he would order. This being the case, why, I thought, my dear Emma, 'Twere best to fight shy of so curst a dilemma; And tho' I confess myself somewhat a villain, To've left idol mio without an addio, Console your sweet heart, and a week hence from Milan I'll send you--some news of Bellini's last trio. N.B.    Have just packt up my travelling set-out, Things a tourist in Italy can't go without-- Viz., a pair of gants gras, from old Houbigant's shop, Good for hands that the air of Mont Cenis might chap. Small presents for ladies,--and nothing so wheedles The creatures abroad as your golden-eyed needles. A neat pocket Horace by which folks are cozened To think one knows Latin, when--one, perhaps, doesn't; With some little book about heathen mythology, Just large enough to refresh one's theology; Nothing on earth being half such a bore as Not knowing the difference 'twixt Virgins and Floras. Once more, love, farewell, best regards to the girls, And mind you beware of damp feet and new Earls. HENRY.

Remembrance.[A]

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

You bid the minstrel strike the lute, And wake once more a soothing tone Alas! its strings, untuned, are mute, Or only echo moan for moan. The flowers around it twined are dead, And those who wreathed them there, are flown; The spring that gave them bloom is fled, And winter's frost is o'er them thrown. Poor lute! forgot 'mid strife and care, I fain would try thy strings once more, Perchance some lingering tone is there Some cherished melody of yore. If flowers that bloom no more are here, Their odors still around us cling And though the loved are lost-still dear, Their memories may wake the string. I strike but lo, the wonted thrill, Of joy in sorrowing cadence dies: Alas! the minstrel's hand is chill, And the sad lute, responsive, sighs. 'Tis ever thus our life begins, In Eden, and all fruit seems sweet We taste and knowledge, with our sins, Creeps to the heart and spoils the cheat. In youth, the sun brings light alone No shade then rests upon the sight But when the beaming morn is flown, We see the shadows not the light I once found music every where The whistle from the willow wrung The string, set in the window, there, Sweet measures to my fancy flung. But now, this dainty lute is dead Or answers but to sigh and wail, Echoing the voices of the fled, Passing before me dim and pale! Yet angel forms are in that train, And One upon the still air flings, Of woven melody, a strain, Down trembling from Her heaven-bent wings. 'Tis past that Speaking Form is flown But memory's pleased and listening ear, Shall oft recall that choral tone, To love and poetry so dear. And far away in after time, Shall blended Piety and Love Find fond expression in the rhyme, Bequeathed to earth by One above. * * * * * Poor lute! thy bounding pulse is still, Yet all thy silence I forgive, That thus thy last thy dying thrill, Would make Her gentle virtues live!

Accepted

Elizabeth Jennings

You are no longer young, Nor are you very old. There are homes where those belong. You know you do not fit When you observe the cold Stares of those who sit In bath-chairs or the park (A stick, then, at their side) Or find yourself in the dark And see the lovers who, In love and in their stride, Don't even notice you. This is a time to begin Your life. It could be new. The sheer not fitting in With the old who envy you And the young who want to win, Not knowing false from true, Means you have liberty Denied to their extremes. At last now you can be What the old cannot recall And the young long for in dreams, Yet still include them all.

The Lesser Beauty.

Margaret Steele Anderson

You are the first wild violet of the year; Young grass you are, and apple-bloom, and spray Of honeysuckle; you are dawn of day. And the first snow-fall! It is you I hear When the March robin calls me loud and clear. Or lonely rill goes singing on its way Like some small flute of heav'n; or when the gray Sad wood-dove calls and early stars appear. And you it is within the wayside shrine Carved tenderly; and in the folded wings On some neglected tomb; and in the vine And leaf and saint of old imaginings On some forgotten missal, little things We would not barter for things more divine!

Father Malloy

Edgar Lee Masters

You are over there, Father Malloy, Where holy ground is, and the cross marks every grave, Not here with us on the hill - Us of wavering faith, and clouded vision And drifting hope, and unforgiven sins. You were so human, Father Malloy, Taking a friendly glass sometimes with us, Siding with us who would rescue Spoon River From the coldness and the dreariness of village morality. You were like a traveler who brings a little box of sand From the wastes about the pyramids And makes them real and Egypt real. You were a part of and related to a great past, And yet you were so close to many of us. You believed in the joy of life. You did not seem to be ashamed of the flesh. You faced life as it is, And as it changes. Some of us almost came to you, Father Malloy, Seeing how your church had divined the heart, And provided for it, Through Peter the Flame, Peter the Rock.

Love Lies Bleeding

William Wordsworth

You call it, "Love lies bleeding," so you may, Though the red Flower, not prostrate, only droops, As we have seen it here from day to day, From month to month, life passing not away: A flower how rich in sadness! Even thus stoops, (Sentient by Grecian sculpture's marvelous power) Thus leans, with hanging brow and body bent Earthward in uncomplaining languishment The dying Gladiator. So, sad Flower! ('Tis Fancy guides me willing to be led, Though by a slender thread,) So drooped Adonis bathed in sanguine dew Of his death-wound, when he from innocent air The gentlest breath of resignation drew; While Venus in a passion of despair Rent, weeping over him, her golden hair Spangled with drops of that celestial shower. She suffered, as Immortals sometimes do; But pangs more lasting far, 'that' Lover knew Who first, weighed down by scorn, in some lone bower Did press this semblance of unpitied smart Into the service of his constant heart, His own dejection, downcast Flower! could share With thine, and gave the mournful name which thou wilt ever bear.

Verses

Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

You are my God, and I would fain adore You With sweet and secret rites of other days. Burn scented oil in silver lamps before You, Pour perfume on Your feet with prayer and praise. Yet are we one; Your gracious condescension Granted, and grants, the loveliness I crave. One, in the perfect sense of Eastern mention, "Gold and the Bracelet, Water and the Wave."

To a Rebellious Daughter

Fay Inchfawn

You call authority "a grievous thing." With careless hands you snap the leading string, And, for a frolic (so it seems to you), Put off the old love, and put on the new. For "What does Mother know of love?" you say. "Did her soul ever thrill? Did little tendernesses ever creep Into her dreams, and over-ride her will? Did her eyes shine, or her heart ever leap As my heart leaps to-day? I, who am young; who long to try my wings! How should she understand, She, with her calm cool hand? She never felt such yearnings? And, beside, It's clear I can't be tied For ever to my mother's apron strings." There are Infinities of Knowledge, dear. And there are mysteries, not yet made clear To you, the Uninitiate. . . . Life's book Is open, yes; but you may only look At its first section. Youth Is part, not all, the truth. It is impossible that you should see The end from the beginning perfectly. You answer: "Even so. But how can Mother know, Who meditates upon the price of bacon? On 'liberties' the charwoman has taken, And on the laundry's last atrocities? She knows her cookery book, And how a joint of English meat should look. But all such things as these Make up her life. She dwells in tents, but I In a vast temple open to the sky." Yet, time was, when that Mother stooped to learn The language written in your infant face. For years she walked your pace, And none but she interpreted your chatter. Who else felt interest in such pitter-patter? Or, weary, joined in all your games with zest, And managed with a minimum of rest? Now, is it not your turn To bridge the gulf, to span the gap between you? To-day, before Death's angel over-lean you, Before your chance is gone? This is worth thinking on. "Are mothers blameless, then?" Nay, dearie, nay. Nor even tactful, always. Yet there may Come some grey dawning in the by and by, When, no more brave, nor sure, nor strong, you'll cry Aloud to God, for that despised thing, The old dear comfort -- Mother's apron string.

My Old Football

John Milton Hayes

& Cuthbert Clarke You can keep your antique silver and your statuettes of bronze, Your curios and tapestries so fine, But of all your treasures rare there is nothing to compare With this patched up, wornout football pal o' mine. Just a patchedup wornout football, yet how it clings! I live again my happier days in thoughts that football brings. It's got a mouth, it's got a tongue, And oft when we're alone I fancy that it speaks To me of golden youth that's flown. It calls to mind our meeting, 'Twas a present from the Dad. I kicked it yet I worshipped it, How strange a priest it had! And yet it jumped with pleasure When I punched it might and main: And when it had the dumps It got blown up and punched again. It's lived its life; It's played the game; Its had its rise and fall, There's history in the wrinkles of that wornout football. Caresses rarely came its way in babyhood 'twas tanned. It's been well oiled, and yet it's quite teetotal, understand. It's gone the pace, and sometimes it's been absolutely bust, And yet 'twas always full of bounce, No matter how 'twas cussed. He's broken many rules and oft has wandered out of bounds, He's joined in shooting parties Over other people's grounds. Misunderstood by women, He was never thought a catch, Yet he was never happier Than when bringing off a match. He's often been in danger Caught in nets that foes have spread, He's even come to life again When all have called him dead. Started on the centre, And he's acted on the square, To all parts of the compass He's been bullied everywhere. His aims and his ambitious Were opposed by one and all, And yet he somehow reached his goal That plucky old football. When schooling days were ended I forgot him altogether, And 'midst the dusty years He lay a crumpled lump of leather. Then came the threat'ning voice of War, And games had little chance, My brother went to do his bit Out there somewhere in France. And when my brother wrote he said, 'Of all a Tommy's joys, There's none compares with football. Will you send one for the boys?' I sent not one but many, And my old one with the rest, I thought that football's finished now, But no he stood the test. Behind the lines they kicked him As he'd never been kicked before. Till they busted him and sent him back A keepsake of the war. My brother lies out there in France, Beneath a simple cross, And I seem to feel my football knows my grief, And shares my loss. He tells me of that splendid charge, And then my brother's fall. In life he loved our mutual chum That worn-out football. Oh you can keep your antique silver And your statuettes of bronze Your curios and tapestries so fine But of all your treasures rare There is nothing to compare With that patched-up worn-out football' Pal o' mine

Sonnets: Idea LVII

Michael Drayton

You best discerned of my mind's inward eyes, And yet your graces outwardly divine, Whose dear remembrance in my bosom lies, Too rich a relic for so poor a shrine; You, in whom nature chose herself to view, When she her own perfection would admire; Bestowing all her excellence on you, At whose pure eyes Love lights his hallowed fire; Even as a man that in some trance hath seen More than his wond'ring utterance can unfold, That rapt in spirit in better worlds hath been, So must your praise distractedly be told; Most of all short when I would show you most, In your perfections so much am I lost.

Father William

Lewis Carroll

"You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head, Do you think, at your age, it is right?" "In my youth," Father William replied to his son, "I feared it might injure the brain; But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again." "You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door, Pray, what is the reason of that?" "In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks, "I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment,one shilling the box, Allow me to sell you a couple?" "You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak, Pray, how did you manage to do it?" "In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw Has lasted the rest of my life." "You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose, What made you so awfully clever?" "I have answered three questions, and that is enough," Said his father. "Don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!"

A Tardy Apology - II

Eugene Field

You ask me, friend, Why I don't send The long since due-and-paid-for numbers; Why, songless, I As drunken lie Abandoned to Lethean slumbers. Long time ago (As well you know) I started in upon that carmen; My work was vain,-- But why complain? When gods forbid, how helpless are men! Some ages back, The sage Anack Courted a frisky Samian body, Singing her praise In metered phrase As flowing as his bowls of toddy. Till I was hoarse Might I discourse Upon the cruelties of Venus; 'T were waste of time As well of rhyme, For you've been there yourself, M'cenas! Perfect your bliss If some fair miss Love you yourself and not your min'; I, fortune's sport, All vainly court The beauteous, polyandrous Phryne!

His Answer To A Friend.

Robert Herrick

You ask me what I do, and how I live? And, noble friend, this answer I must give: Drooping, I draw on to the vaults of death, O'er which you'll walk, when I am laid beneath.

The Rose Delima

William Henry Drummond

You can sew heem up in a canvas sack, An' t'row    heem over boar' You can wait till de ship she 's comin' back Den bury heem on de shore For dead man w'en he 's dead for sure, Ain't good for not'ing at all An' he 'll stay on de place you put heem Till he hear dat bugle call Dey say will soun' on de las', las' day W'en ev'ry t'ing 's goin' for pass away, But down on de Gulf of St. Laurent W'ere de sea an' de reever meet An' off on St. Pierre de Miquelon, De chil'ren on de street Can tole you story of Pierre Guillaume, De sailor of St. Yvonne Dat 's bringin' de Rose Delima home Affer he 's dead an' gone. He was stretch heem on de bed an' he couldn't raise hees head So dey place heem near de winder w'ere he can look below, An' watch de schooner lie wit'    her topmas' on de sky, An' oh! how mad it mak' heem, ole Cap-tinne Baribeau. For she 's de fines' boat dat never was afloat From de harbour of St. Simon to de shore of New-fun-lan' She can almos' dance a reel, an' de sea shell on her keel Wall! you count dem very easy on de finger of your han'. But de season 's flyin' fas', an' de fall is nearly pas' An' de leetle Rose Delima she 's doin' not'ing dere Only pullin' on her chain, an' wishin' once again She was w'ere de black fish tumble, an jomp upon de air. But who can tak'    her out, for she 's got de tender mout' Lak a trotter on de race-course dat's mebbe run away If he 's not jus' handle so-an' ole Captinne Baribeau    Was de only man can sail her, dat 's w'at dey offen say. An' now he's lyin' dere, w'ere de breeze is blow hees hair An' he's hearin'    ev'ry morning de Rose Delima call, Sayin', "Come along wit' me, an' we 'll off across de sea, For I'm lonesome waitin' for you, Captinne Paul. "On Anticosti shore we hear de breaker roar An' reef of dead Man's Islan' too we know, But we never miss de way, no matter night or day, De Rose Delima schooner an' Captinne Baribeau." De Captinne cry out den, so de house is shake again, "Come here! come here, an' quickly, ma daughter Virginie, An' let me hol' your han', for so    long as I can stan' I'll tak' de Rose Delima, an' sail her off to sea." "No, no, ma fader dear, you 're better stayin' here Till de cherry show her blossom on de spring, For de loon he 's flyin'    sout' an' de fall is nearly out, W'en de wil' bird of de nort' is on de wing. "But fader dear, I know de man can go below Wit' leetle Rose Delima on St.Pierre de Miquelon Hees nam' is Pierre Guillaume, an' he 'll bring de schooner home Till she 's t'rowin'    out her anchor on de port of St. Simon." "Ha!Ha! ma Virginie, it is n't hard to see You lak dat smart young sailor man youse'f, I s'pose he love you too, but I tole you w'at I do W'en I have some leetle talk wit' heem mese'f. "So call heem up de stair" : an' w'en he 's stannin' dere, De Captinne say, "Young feller, you see how sick I be? De poor ole Baribeau has n't very much below Beside de Rose Delima, an' hees daughter Virginie. "An' I know your fader well, he 's fine man too, No'l, An' hees nam' was comin' offen on ma prayer, An' if your sailor blood she 's only half as good You can sail de Rose Delima from here to any w'ere. "You love ma Virginie? wall! if you promise me You bring de leetle schooner safely home From St. Pierre de Miquelon to de port of St. Simon You can marry on my daughter, Pierre Guillaume." An' Pierre he answer den, "Ma fader was your frien' An' it 's true your daughter Virginie I love, Dat schooner she 'll come home, or ma nam' 's not Pierre Guillaume I swear by all de angel up above." So de wil' bird goin' out sout', see her shake de canvas out, An' soon de Rose Delima she 's flyin' down de bay An' poor young Virginie so long as she can see Kip watchin' on dat schooner till at las' she 's gone away. Ho! ho! for Gasp' cliff w' en de win'    is blowin' stiff, Ho! ho! for Anticosti w'ere bone of dead    man lie! De sailor cimetiere! God help de beeg ship dere if dey come too near de islan' w'en de wave she 's runnin' high. It 's locky t' ing he know de way he ought to go It 's locky too de star above, he know dem ev'ry wan For God he mak' de star, was shinin' up so far, So he trus no oder compass, young Pierre of St. Yvonne. An' de schooner sail away pas' Wolf Islan' an' Cape Ray, W'ere de beeg wave fight each oder roun' de head of ole Pointe Blanc Only gettin' pleasan' win'. till she tak' de canvas in An' drop de anchor over on St. Pierre de Miquelon. We're glad to see some more, de girl upon de shore An' Jean Barbette was kipin' Hotel de Sanssouci He 's also glad we come, 'cos we mak' de rafter hum; An' w'en we 're stayin' dere, ma foi!    we spen' de monee free. But Captinne Pierre Guillaume, might jus' as well be home, For he don 't forget his sweetheart an' ole man Baribeau, An' so he stay on boar', an' fifty    girl or more Less dey haul heem on de bowline, dey could n't mak' heem go. Wall! we 're workin' hard an' fas', an' de cargo 's on at las' Two honder cask of w'isky, de fines' on de worl'! So good-bye to Miquelon, an' hooraw for St. Simon, An' au revoir to Jean Barbette, an' don 't forget de girl. You can hear de schooner sing, w'en she open out her wing So glad to feel de slappin' of de sea wave on her breas' She did n't los' no tam, but travel jus' de sam', As de small bird w'en he 's flyin' on de evening to hees nes'. But her sail 's not blowin' out wit' de warm breeze out de sout' An' it 's not too easy tellin' w'ere de snow flake meet de foam Stretchin' out on ev'ry side, all across de Gulf so wide W'en de nor'- eas' win' is chasin' de Rose Delima home. An' we 're flyin' once again pas' de Isle of Madeleine An' away for Anticosti we let de schooner go Lak a race-horse on de track, we could never hol' her back, She mebbe hear heem callin' her, ole Captinne Baribeau! But we 're ketchin' it wan night w'en de star go out of sight For de storm dat 's waitin' for us, come before we know it 's dere, An' it blow us near de coas' w'ere dey leev' de sailor's ghos' On de shore of Dead Man 's Islan' till dey almos' fill de air. So de Captinne tak' de wheel, an' it mak' de schooner feel Jus'    de sam' as ole man Baribeau is workin' dere hese'f Well she know it 's life or deat', so she 's fightin' hard for breat' For wit' all dem wave a chokin' her, it 's leetle she got lef'. Den de beeges' sea of all, stannin' up dere lak a wall Come along an' sweep de leetle Rose De- lima for an' af' An' above de storm a cry, "Help, mon Dieu! before I die." An' dere 's no wan on de wheel house, an' we hear dem spirit laugh. Dey 're lookin' for dead man, an' dey 're shoutin' all dey can Don 't matter all de pile dey got dey want anoder wan, An' now dey 're laughin' loud, for out of all de crowd Dey got no finer sailor boy dan Pierre of St. Yvonne! But look dere on de wheel! a'at 's dat was seem to steal From now'ere, out of not'ing, till it reach de pilot 's place An' steer de rudder too, lak de Captinne used to do So lak' de Captinne 's body, so lak de Captinne's face. But well enough we know de poor boy's gone below, W'ere hees bone will join de oder on de place w'ere dead man be, An' we only see phantome of young captinne Pierre Guillaume Dat sail de Rose Delima all night along de sea. So we help heem all we can, kip de schooner off de lan' W'ere bad spirit work de current dat was pullin' us inside, But we fool dem all at las', an' we know de danger 's pas' W'en de sun come out an' fin' us floatin' on de morning tide. So de Captinne's work is done, an' nex' day de schooner run Wit' de sail all hangin' roun' her, to de port of St. Simon. Dat 's de way young Pierre Guillaume bring de Rose Delima home T'roo de wil' an' stormy wedder from St. Pierre de Miquelon. An' de leetle Virginie never look upon de sea Since de tam de Rose Delima 's comin' home, For she 's lef' de worl' an' all! but behin' de convent wall She don 't forget her fader an' poor young Pierre Guillaume.

A Reformer.

George Augustus Baker, Jr.

You call me trifler, fain'ant, And bid me give my life an aim! You're most unjust, dear. Hear me out, And own your hastiness to blame. I live with but a single thought; My inmost heart and soul are set On one sole task a mighty one To simplify our alphabet. Five vowel sounds we use in speech; They're A, and E, I, O, and U: I mean to cut them down to four. You "wonder what good that will do." Why, this cold earth will bloom again, Eden itself be half re-won, When breaks the dawn of my success And U and I at last are one.

Guido

Robert Browning

You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you, Abate Panciatichi two good Tuscan names: Acciaiuoli ah, your ancestor it was, Built the huge battlemented convent-block Over the little forky flashing Greve That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days! 'Tis Ema, though, the other rivulet, The one-arched, brown brick bridge yawns over, yes, Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged: Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend O'erturreted by Certosa which he built, That Senescal (we styled him) of your House! I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood Comes from as far a source: ought it to end This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs? Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy, If there be any vile experiment In the air, if this your visit simply prove, When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick, That tries for truth truer than truth itself, By startling up a man, ere break of day, To tell him he must die at sunset, pshaw! That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse, Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep! You have my last word, innocent am I As Innocent my Pope and murderer, Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own, As Mary's self, I said, say and repeat, And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay His dues of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside, As gallants use who go at large again! For why? All honest Rome approved my part; Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter, nay, Mistress, had any shadow of any right That looks like right, and, all the more resolved, Held it with tooth and nail, these manly men Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me! Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge My lawyers held by, kept for last resource, Firm should all else, the impossible fancy! fail, And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day: The knaves! One plea at least would hold, they laughed, One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock Even should the middle mud let anchor go And hook my cause on to the Clergy's, plea Which, even if law tipped off my hat and plume, Would show my priestly tonsure, save me so, The Pope moreover, this old Innocent, Being so meek and mild and merciful, So fond o' the poor and so fatigued of earth, So . . . fifty thousand devils in deepest hell! Why must he cure us of our strange conceit Of the angel in man's likeness, that we loved And looked should help us at a pinch? He help? He pardon? Here's his mind and message death, Thank the good Pope! Now, is he good in this, Never mind, Christian, no such stuff's extant, But will my death do credit to his reign, Show he both lived and let live, so was good? Cannot I live if he but like? 'The law!' Why, just the law gives him the very chance, The precise leave to let my life alone, Which the angelic soul of him (he says) Yearns after! Here they drop it in his palm, My lawyers, capital o' the cursed kind, A life to take and hold and keep: but no! He sighs, shakes head, refuses to shut hand, Motions away the gift they bid him grasp, And of the coyness comes that off I run And down I go, he best knows whither, mind, He knows, and sets me rolling all the same! Disinterested Vicar of our Lord, This way he abrogates and disallows, Nullifies and ignores, reverts in fine To the good and right, in detriment of me! Talk away! Will you have the naked truth? He's sick of his life's supper, swallowed lies: So, hobbling bedward, needs must ease his maw Just where I sit o' the door-sill. Sir Abate, Can you do nothing? Friends, we used to frisk: What of this sudden slash in a friend's face, This cut across our good companionship That showed its front so gay when both were young? Were not we put into a beaten path, Bid pace the world, we nobles born and bred, The body of friends with each his scutcheon full Of old achievement and impunity, Taking the laugh of morn and Sol's salute As forth we fared, pricked on to breathe our steeds And take equestrian sport over the green Under the blue, across the crop, what care? So we went prancing up hill and down dale, In and out of the level and the straight, By the bit of pleasant byeway, where was harm? Still Sol salutes me and the morning laughs: I see my grandsire's hoof-prints, point the spot Where he drew rein, slipped saddle, and stabbed knave For daring throw gibe much less, stone from pale, Then back, and on, and up with the cavalcade; Just so wend we, now canter, now converse, Till, 'mid the jauncing pride and jaunty port, Something of a sudden jerks at somebody A dagger is out, a flashing cut and thrust, Because I play some prank my grandsire played, And here I sprawl: where is the company? Gone! A trot and a trample! only I lie trapped, Writhe in a certain novel springe just set By the good old Pope: I'm first prize. Warn me? Why? Apprize me that the law o' the game is changed? Enough that I'm a warning, as I writhe, To all and each my fellows of the file, And make law plain henceforward past mistake, 'For such a prank, death is the penalty!' Pope the Five Hundredth . . . what do I know or care? Deputes your Eminence and Abateship To announce that, twelve hours from this time, he needs I just essay upon my body and soul The virtue of his bran-new engine, prove Represser of the pranksome! I'm the first! Thanks. Do you know what teeth you mean to try The sharpness of, on this soft neck and throat? I know it, I have seen and hate it, ay, As you shall, while I tell you: let me talk, Or leave me, at your pleasure! talk I must: What is your visit but my lure to talk? You have a something to disclose? a smile, At end of the forced sternness, means to mock The heart-beats here? I call your two hearts stone! Is your charge to stay with me till I die? Be tacit as your bench, then! Use your ears, I use my tongue: how glibly yours will run At pleasant supper-time . . . God's curse! . . . to-night When all the guests jump up, begin so brisk 'Welcome, his Eminence who shrived the wretch! 'Now we shall have the Abate's story!' Life! How I could spill this overplus of mine Among those hoar-haired, shrunk-shanked, odds and ends Of body and soul, old age is chewing dry! Those windle-straws that stare while purblind death Mows here, mows there, makes hay of juicy me, And misses, just the bunch of withered weed, Would brighten hell and streak its smoke with flame! How the life I could shed yet never shrink, Would drench their stalks with sap like grass in May! Is it not terrible, I entreat you, Sirs? Such manifold and plenitudinous life, Prompt at death's menace to give blow for threat, Answer his 'Be thou not!' by 'Thus I am!' Terrible so to be alive yet die? How I live, how I see! so, how I speak! Lucidity of soul unlocks the lips: I never had the words at will before. How I see all my folly at a glance! 'A man requires a woman and a wife:' There was my folly; I believed the saw: I knew that just myself concerned myself, Yet needs must look for what I seemed to lack, In a woman, why, the woman's in the man! Fools we are, how we learn things when too late! Overmuch life turns round my woman-side; The male and female in me, mixed before, Settle of a sudden: I'm my wife outright In this unmanly appetite for truth, This careless courage as to consequence, This instantaneous sight through things and through, This voluble rhetoric, if you please, 'tis she! Here you have that Pompilia whom I slew, Also the folly for which I slew her! Fool! And, fool-like, what is it I wander from? What, of the sharpness of your iron tooth? Ah, that I know the hateful thing: this way. I chanced to stroll forth, many a good year gone, One warm Spring eve in Rome, and unaware Looking, mayhap, to count what stars were out, Came on your huge axe in a frame, that falls And so cuts off a man's head underneath, Mannaia, thus we made acquaintance first, Out of the way, in a bye-part o' the town, At the Mouth-of-Truth o' the river-side, you know: One goes by the Capitol: and wherefore coy, Retiring out of crowded noisy Rome? Because a very little time ago It had done service, chopped off head from trunk, Belonging to a fellow whose poor house The thing had made a point to stand before. Felice Whatsoever-was-the-name Who stabled buffaloes and so gained bread, (Our clowns unyoke them in the ground hard by) And, after use of much improper speech, Had struck at Duke Some-title-or-other's face, Because he kidnapped, carried away and kept Felice's sister that would sit and sing I' the filthy doorway while she plaited fringe To deck the brutes with, on their gear it goes, The good girl with the velvet in her voice. So did the Duke, so did Felice, so Did Justice, intervening with her axe. There the man-mutilating engine stood At ease, both gay and grim, like a Swiss guard Off duty, purified itself as well, Getting dry, sweet and proper for next week, And doing incidental good, 'twas hoped To the rough lesson-lacking populace Who now and then, forsooth, must right their wrongs! There stood the twelve-foot square of scaffold, railed Considerately round to elbow-height: (Suppose an officer should tumble thence And sprain his ankle and be lame a month, Through starting when the axe fell and head too?) Railed likewise were the steps whereby 'twas reached. All of it painted red: red, in the midst, Ran up two narrow tall beams barred across, Since from the summit, some twelve feet to reach, The iron plate with the sharp shearing edge Had . . . slammed, jerked, shot or slid, I shall find which! There it lay quiet, fast in its fit place, The wooden half-moon collar, now eclipsed By the blade which blocked its curvature: apart, The other half, the under half-moon board Which, helped by this, completes a neck's embrace, Joined to a sort of desk that wheels aside Out of the way when done with, down you kneel, In you're wheeled, over you the other drops, Tight you are clipped, whiz, there's the blade on you, Out trundles body, down flops head on floor, And where's your soul gone? That, too, I shall find! This kneeling-place was red, red, never fear! But only slimy-like with paint, not blood, For why? a decent pitcher stood at hand, A broad dish to hold sawdust, and a broom By some unnamed utensil, scraper-rake, Each with a conscious air of duty done. Underneath, loungers, boys and some few men, Discoursed this platter and the other tool, Just as, when grooms tie up and dress a steed, Boys lounge and look on, and elucubrate What the round brush is used for, what the square, So was explained to me the skill-less man The manner of the grooming for next world Undergone by Felice What's-his-name. There's no such lovely month in Rome as May May's crescent is no half-moon of red plank, And came now tilting o'er the wave i' the west, One greenish-golden sea, right 'twixt those bars Of the engine I began acquaintance with, Understood, hated, hurried from before, To have it out of sight and cleanse my soul! Here it is all again, conserved for use: Twelve hours hence I may know more, not hate worse. That young May-moon-month! Devils of the deep! Was not a Pope then Pope as much as now? Used not he chirrup o'er the Merry Tales, Chuckle, his nephew so exact the wag To play a jealous cullion such a trick As wins the wife i' the pleasant story! Well? Why do things change? Wherefore is Rome un-Romed? I tell you, ere Felice's corpse was cold, The Duke, that night, threw wide his palace-doors, Received the compliments o' the quality, For justice done him, bowed and smirked his best, And in return passed round a pretty thing, A portrait of Felice's sister's self, Florid old rogue Albano's masterpiece, As better than virginity in rags Bouncing Europa on the back o' the bull: They laughed and took their road the safelier home. Ah, but times change, there's quite another Pope, I do the Duke's deed, take Felice's place, And, being no Felice, lout and clout, Stomach but ill the phrase 'I lose my head!' How euphemistic! Lose what? Lose your ring, Your snuff-box, tablets, kerchief! but, your head? I learnt the process at an early age; 'Twas useful knowledge in those same old days, To know the way a head is set on neck. My fencing-master urged 'Would you excel? 'Rest not content with mere bold give-and-guard, 'Nor pink the antagonist somehow-anyhow, 'See me dissect a little, and know your game! 'Only anatomy makes a thrust the thing.' Oh Cardinal, those lithe live necks of ours! Here go the vertebr', here's Atlas, here Axis, and here the symphyses stop short, So wisely and well, as, o'er a corpse, we cant, And here's the silver cord which . . . what's our word? Depends from the gold bowl, which loosed (not 'lost') Lets us from heaven to hell, one chop, we're loose! 'And not much pain i' the process,' quoth the sage: Who told him? Not Felice's ghost, I think! Such 'losing' is scarce Mother Nature's mode. She fain would have cord ease itself away, Worn to a thread by threescore years and ten, Snap while we slumber: that seems bearable: I'm told one clot of blood extravasate Ends one as certainly as Roland's sword, One drop of lymph suffused proves Oliver's mace, Intruding, either of the pleasant pair, On the arachnoid tunic of my brain. That's Nature's way of loosing cord! but Art, How of Art's process with the engine here? When bowl and cord alike are crushed across, Bored between, bruised through? Why, if Fagon's self, The French Court's pride, that famed practitioner, Would pass his cold pale lightning of a knife Pistoja-ware, adroit 'twixt joint and joint, With just a 'See how facile, gentlefolks!' The thing were not so bad to bear! Brute force Cuts as he comes, breaks in, breaks on, breaks out O' the hard and soft of you: is that the same? A lithe snake thrids the hedge, makes throb no leaf: A heavy ox sets chest to brier and branch, Bursts somehow through, and leaves one hideous hole Behind him! And why, why must this needs be? Oh, if men were but good! They are not good, Nowise like Peter: people called him rough, But if, as I left Rome, I spoke the Saint, 'Petrus, quo vadis?' doubtless, I should hear, 'To free the prisoner and forgive his fault! 'I plucked the absolute dead from God's own bar, 'And raised up Dorcas, why not rescue thee?' What would cost such nullifying word? If Innocent succeeds to Peter's place, Let him think Peter's thought, speak Peter's speech! I say, he is bound to it: friends, how say you? Concede I be all one bloodguiltiness And mystery of murder in the flesh, Why should that fact keep the Pope's mouth shut fast? He execrates my crime, good! sees hell yawn One inch from the red plank's end which I press, Nothing is better! What's the consequence? How does a Pope proceed that knows his cue? Why, leaves me linger out my minute here, Since close on death come judgment and the doom, Nor cribs at dawn its pittance from a sheep Destined ere dewfall to be butcher's-meat! Think, Sirs, if I had done you any harm, And you require the natural revenge, Suppose, and so intend to poison me, Just as you take and slip into my draught The paperful of powder that clears scores, You notice on my brow a certain blue: How you both overset the wine at once! How you both smile! 'Our enemy has the plague! 'Twelve hours hence he'll be scraping his bones bare 'Of that intolerable flesh, and die, 'Frenzied with pain: no need for poison here! 'Step aside and enjoy the spectacle!' Tender for souls are you, Pope Innocent! Christ's maxim is one soul outweighs the world: Respite me, save a soul, then, curse the world! 'No,' venerable sire, I hear you smirk, 'No: for Christ's gospel changes names, not things, 'Renews the obsolete, does nothing more! 'Our fire-new gospel is retinkered law, 'Our mercy, justice, Jove's rechristened God 'Nay, whereas, in the popular conceit, ''Tis pity that old harsh Law somehow limps, 'Lingers on earth, although Law's day be done, 'Else would benignant Gospel interpose, 'Not furtively as now, but bold and frank 'O'erflutter us with healing in her wings, 'Law is all harshness, Gospel were all love! 'We like to put it, on the contrary, 'Gospel takes up the rod which Law lets fall; 'Mercy is vigilant when justice sleeps; 'Does Law let Guido taste the Gospel-grace? 'The secular arm allow the spiritual power 'To act for once? what compliment so fine 'As that the Gospel handsomely be harsh, 'Thrust back Law's victim on the nice and coy?' Yes, you do say so, else you would forgive Me, whom Law dares not touch but tosses you! Don't think to put on the professional face! You know what I know, casuists as you are, Each nerve must creep, each hair start, sting, and stand, At such illogical inconsequence! Dear my friends, do but see! A murder's tried, There are two parties to the cause: I'm one, Defend myself, as somebody must do: I have the best o' the battle: that's a fact. Simple fact, fancies find no place beside: What though half Rome condemned me? Half approved: And, none disputes, the luck is mine at last, All Rome, i' the main, acquits me: whereupon What has the Pope to ask but 'How finds Law?' 'I find,' replies Law, 'I have erred this while: 'Guilty or guiltless, Guido proves a priest, 'No layman: he is therefore yours, not mine: 'I bound him: loose him, you whose will is Christ's!' And now what does this Vicar of the Lord, Shepherd o' the flock, one of whose charge bleats sore For crook's help from the quag wherein it drowns? Law suffers him put forth the crumpled end, His pleasure is to turn staff, use the point, And thrust the shuddering sheep he calls a wolf, Back and back, down and down to where hell gapes! 'Guiltless,' cries Law 'Guilty,' corrects the Pope! 'Guilty,' for the whim's sake! 'Guilty,' he somehow thinks, And anyhow says: 'tis truth; he dares not lie! Others should do the lying. That's the cause Brings you both here: I ought in decency Confess to you that I deserve my fate, Am guilty, as the Pope thinks, ay, to the end, Keep up the jest, lie on, lie ever, lie I' the latest gasp of me! What reason, Sirs? Because to-morrow will succeed to-day For you, though not for me: and if I stick Still to the truth, declare with my last breath, I die an innocent and murdered man, Why, there's the tongue of Rome will wag a-pace This time to-morrow, don't I hear the talk! 'So, to the last he proved impenitent? 'Pagans have said as much of martyred saints! 'Law demurred, washed her hands of the whole case. 'Prince Somebody said this, Duke Something, that. 'Doubtless the man's dead, dead enough, don't fear! 'But, hang it, what if there have been a spice, 'A touch of . . . eh? You see, the Pope's so old, 'Some of us add, obtuse, age never slips 'The chance of shoving youth to face death first!' And so on. Therefore to suppress such talk You two come here, entreat I tell you lies, And end, the edifying way. I end, Telling the truth! Your self-styled shepherd thieves! A thief and how thieves hate the wolves we know: Damage to theft, damage to thrift, all's one! The red hand is sworn foe of the black jaw! That's only natural, that's right enough: But why the wolf should compliment the thief With the shepherd's title, bark out life in thanks, And, spiteless, lick the prong that spits him, eh, Cardinal? My Abate, scarcely thus! There, let my sheepskin-garb, a curse on't go Leave my teeth free if I must show my shag! Repent? What good shall follow? If I pass Twelve hours repenting, will that fact hook fast The thirteenth at the horrid dozen's end? If I fall forthwith at your feet, gnash, tear, Foam, rave, to give your story the due grace, Will that assist the engine half-way back Into its hiding-house? boards, shaking now, Bone against bone, like some old skeleton bat That wants, now winter's dead, to wake and prey! Will howling put the spectre back to sleep? Ah, but I misconceive your object, Sirs! Since I want new life like the creature, life Being done with here, begins i' the world away: I shall next have 'Come, mortals, and be judged!' There's but a minute betwixt this and then: So, quick, be sorry since it saves my soul! Sirs, truth shall save it, since no lies assist! Hear the truth, you, whatever you style yourselves, Civilisation and society! Come, one good grapple, I with all the world! Dying in cold blood is the desperate thing; The angry heart explodes, bears off in blaze The indignant soul, and I'm combustion-ripe. Why, you intend to do your worst with me! That's in your eyes! You dare no more than death, And mean no less. I must make up my mind! So Pietro, when I chased him here and there, Morsel by morsel cut away the life I loathed, cried for just respite to confess And save his soul: much respite did I grant! Why grant me respite who deserve my doom? Me who engaged to play a prize, fight you, Knowing your arms, and foil you, trick for trick, At rapier-fence, your match and, may be, more. I knew that if I chose sin certain sins, Solace my lusts out of the regular way Prescribed me, I should find you in the path, Have to try skill with a redoubted foe; You would lunge, I would parry, and make end. At last, occasion of a murder comes: We cross blades, I, for all my brag, break guard, And in goes the cold iron at my breast, Out at my back, and end is made of me. You stand confessed the adroiter swordsman, ay, But on your triumph you increase, it seems, Want more of me than lying flat on face: I ought to raise my ruined head, allege Not simply I pushed worse blade o' the pair, But my antagonist dispensed with steel! There was no passage of arms, you looked me low, With brow and eye abolished cut-and-thrust Nor used the vulgar weapon! This chance scratch, This incidental hurt, this sort of hole I' the heart of me? I stumbled, got it so! Fell on my own sword as a bungler may! Yourself proscribe such heathen tools, and trust To the naked virtue: it was virtue stood Unarmed and awed me, on my brow there burned Crime out so plainly, intolerably, red, That I was fain to cry 'Down to the dust 'With me, and bury there brow, brand and all!' Law had essayed the adventure, but what's Law? Morality exposed the Gorgon-shield! Morality and Religion conquer me. If Law sufficed would you come here, entreat I supplement law, and confess forsooth? Did not the Trial show things plain enough? 'Ah, but a word of the man's very self 'Would somehow put the keystone in its place 'And crown the arch!' Then take the word you want! I say that, long ago, when things began, All the world made agreement, such and such Were pleasure-giving profit-bearing acts, But henceforth extra-legal, nor to be: You must not kill the man whose death would please And profit you, unless his life stop yours Plainly, and need so be put aside: Get the thing by a public course, by law, Only no private bloodshed as of old! All of us, for the good of every one, Renounced such licence and conformed to law: Who breaks law, breaks pact, therefore, helps himself To pleasure and profit over and above the due, And must pay forfeit, pain beyond his share: For pleasure is the sole good in the world, Any one's pleasure turns to some one's pain, So, let law watch for everyone, say we, Who call things wicked that give too much joy, And nickname the reprisal, envy makes, Punishment: quite right! thus the world goes round. I, being well aware such pact there was, Who in my time have found advantage too In law's observance and crime's penalty, Who, but for wholesome fear law bred in friends, Had doubtless given example long ago, Furnished forth some friend's pleasure with my pain, And, by my death, pieced out his scanty life, I could not, for that foolish life of me, Help risking law's infringement, I broke bond, And needs must pay price, wherefore, here's my head, Flung with a flourish! But, repentance too? But pure and simple sorrow for law's breach Rather than blunderer's-ineptitude? Cardinal, no! Abate, scarcely thus! 'Tis the fault, not that I dared try a fall With Law and straightway am found undermost, But that I fail to see, above man's law, God's precept you, the Christians recognise? Colly my cow! Don't fidget, Cardinal! Abate, cross your breast and count your beads And exorcise the devil, for here he stands And stiffens in the bristly nape of neck, Daring you drive him hence! You, Christians both? I say, if ever was such faith at all Born in the world, by your community Suffered to live its little tick of time, 'Tis dead of age now, ludicrously dead; Honour its ashes, if you be discreet, In epitaph only! For, concede its death, Allow extinction, you may boast unchecked What feats the thing did in a crazy land At a fabulous epoch, treat your faith, that way, Just as you treat your relics: 'Here's a shred 'Of saintly flesh, a scrap of blessed bone, 'Raised King Cophetua, who was dead, to life 'In Mesopotamy twelve centuries since, 'Such was its virtue!' twangs the Sacristan, Holding the shrine-box up, with hands like feet Because of gout in every finger-joint: Does he bethink him to reduce one knob, Allay one twinge by touching what he vaunts? I think he half uncrooks fist to catch fee, But, for the grace, the quality of cure, Cophetua was the man put that to proof! Not otherwise, your faith is shrined and shown And shamed at once: you banter while you bow! Do you dispute this? Come, a monster-laugh, A madman's laugh, allowed his Carnival Later ten days than when all Rome, but he, Laughed at the candle-contest: mine's alight, 'Tis just it sputter till the puff o' the Pope End it to-morrow and the world turn Ash. Come, thus I wave a wand and bring to pass In a moment, in the twinkle of an eye, What but that feigning everywhere grows fact, Professors turn possessors, realise The faith they play with as a fancy now, And bid it operate, have full effect On every circumstance of life, to-day, In Rome, faith's flow set free at fountain-head! Now, you'll own, at this present when I speak, Before I work the wonder, there's no man Woman or child in Rome, faith's fountain-head, But might, if each were minded, realise Conversely unbelief, faith's opposite Set it to work on life unflinchingly, Yet give no symptom of an outward change: Why should things change because men disbelieve? What's incompatible, in the whited tomb, With bones and rottenness one inch below? What saintly act is done in Rome to-day But might be prompted by the devil, 'is' I say not, 'has been, and again may be,' I do say, full i' the face o' the crucifix You try to stop my mouth with! Off with it! Look in your own heart, if your soul have eyes! You shall see reason why, though faith were fled, Unbelief still might work the wires and move Man, the machine, to play a faithful part. Preside your college, Cardinal, in your cape, Or, having got above his head, grown Pope, Abate, gird your loins and wash my feet! Do you suppose I am at loss at all Why you crook, why you cringe, why fast or feast? Praise, blame, sit, stand, lie or go! all of it, In each of you, purest unbelief may prompt, And wit explain to who has eyes to see. But, lo, I wave wand, make the false the true! Here's Rome believes in Christianity! What an explosion, how the fragments fly Of what was surface, mask, and make-believe! Begin now, look at this Pope's-halberdier In wasp-like black and yellow foolery! He, doing duty at the corridor, Wakes from a muse and stands convinced of sin! Down he flings halbert, leaps the passage-length, Pushes into the presence, pantingly Submits the extreme peril of the case To the Pope's self, whom in the world beside? And the Pope breaks talk with ambassador, Bids aside bishop, wills the whole world wait Till he secure that prize, outweighs the world, A soul, relieve the sentry of his qualm! His Altitude the Referendary, Robed right, and ready for the usher's word To pay devoir, is, of all times, just then 'Ware of a master-stroke of argument Will cut the spinal cord . . . ugh, ugh! . . . I mean, Paralyse Molinism for evermore! Straight he leaves lobby, trundles, two and two, Down steps, to reach home, write if but a word Shall end the impudence: he leaves who likes Go pacify the Pope: there's Christ to serve! How otherwise would men display their zeal? If the same sentry had the least surmise A powder-barrel 'neath the pavement lay In neighbourhood with what might prove a match, Meant to blow sky-high Pope and presence both Would he not break through courtiers, rank and file, Bundle up, bear off and save body so, O' the Pope, no matter for his priceless soul? There's no fool's-freak here, nought to soundly swinge, Only a man in earnest, you'll so praise And pay and prate about, that earth shall ring! Had thought possessed the Referendary His jewel-case at home was left ajar, What would be wrong in running, robes awry, To be beforehand with the pilferer? What talk then of indecent haste? Which means, That both these, each in his degree, would do Just that, for a comparative nothing's sake, And thereby gain approval and reward Which, done for what Christ says is worth the world, Procures the doer curses, cuffs, and kicks. I call such difference 'twixt act and act, Sheer lunacy unless your truth on lip Be recognised a lie in heart of you! How do you all act, promptly or in doubt, When there's a guest poisoned at supper-time And he sits chatting on with spot on cheek? 'Pluck him by the skirt, and round him in the ears, 'Have at him by the beard, warn anyhow!' Good, and this other friend that's cheat and thief And dissolute, go stop the devil's feast, Withdraw him from the imminent hell-fire! Why, for your life, you dare not tell your friend 'You lie, and I admonish you for Christ!' Who yet dare seek that same man at the Mass To warn him on his knees, and tinkle near, He left a cask a-tilt, a tap unturned, The Trebbian running: what a grateful jump Out of the Church rewards your vigilance! Perform that self-same service just a thought More maladroitly, since a bishop sits At function! and he budges not, bites lip, 'You see my case: how can I quit my post? 'He has an eye to any such default. 'See to it, neighbour, I beseech your love!' He and you know the relative worth of things, What is permissible or inopportune. Contort your brows! You know I speak the truth: Gold is called gold, and dross called dross, i' the Book: Gold you let lie and dross pick up and prize! Despite your master of some fifty monks And nuns a-maundering here and mumping there, Who could, and on occasion would, spurn dross, Clutch gold, and prove their faith a fact so far, I grant you! Fifty times the number squeak And gibber in the madhouse firm of faith, This fellow, that his nose supports the moon, The other, that his straw hat crowns him Pope: Does that prove all the world outside insane? Do fifty miracle-mongers match the mob That acts on the frank faithless principle, Born-baptised-and-bred Christian-atheists, each With just as much a right to judge as you, As many senses in his soul, or nerves I' neck of him as I, whom, soul and sense, Neck and nerve, you abolish presently, I being the unit in creation now Who pay the Maker, in this speech of mine, A creature's duty, spend my last of breath In bearing witness, even by my worst fault To the creature's obligation, absolute, Perpetual: my worst fault protests, 'The faith 'Claims all of me: I would give all she claims, 'But for a spice of doubt: the risk's too rash: 'Double or quits, I play, but, all or nought, 'Exceeds my courage: therefore, I descend 'To the next faith with no dubiety 'Faith in the present life, made last as long 'And prove as full of pleasure as may hap, 'Whatever pain it cause the world.' I'm wrong? I've had my life, whate'er I lose: I'm right? I've got the single good there was to gain. Entire faith, or else complete unbelief, Aught between has my loathing and contempt, Mine and God's also, doubtless: ask yourself, Cardinal, where and how you like a man! Why, either with your feet upon his head, Confessed your caudatory, or at large The stranger in the crowd who caps to you But keeps his distance, why should he presume? You want no hanger-on and dropper-off, Now yours, and now not yours but quite his own, According as the sky looks black or bright. Just so I capped to and kept off from faith You promised trudge behind through fair and foul, Yet leave i' the lurch at the first spit of rain. Who holds to faith whenever rain begins? What does the father when his son lies dead, The merchant when his money-bags take wing, The politician whom a rival ousts? No case but has its conduct, faith prescribes: Where's the obedience that shall edify? Why, they laugh frankly in the face of faith And take the natural course, this rends his hair Because his child is taken to God's breast, That gnashes teeth and raves at loss of trash Which rust corrupts and thieves break through and steal, And this, enabled to inherit earth Through meekness, curses till your blood runs cold! Down they all drop to my low level, ease Heart upon dungy earth that's warm and soft, And let who will, attempt the altitudes. We have the prodigal son of heavenly sire, Turning his nose up at the fatted calf, Fain to fill belly with the husks we swine Did eat by born depravity of taste! Enough of the hypocrites. But you, Sirs, you Who never budged from litter where I lay, And buried snout i' the draff-box while I fed, Cried amen to my creed's one article 'Get pleasure, 'scape pain, give your preference 'To the immediate good, for time is brief, 'And death ends good and ill and everything: 'What's got is gained, what's gained soon is gained twice, 'And, inasmuch as faith gains most, feign faith!' So did we brother-like pass word about: You, now, like bloody drunkards but half-drunk, Who fool men yet perceive men find them fools, And that a titter gains the gravest mouth, O'the sudden you must needs re-introduce Solemnity, must sober undue mirth By a blow dealt your boon companion here Who, using the old licence, dreamed of harm No more than snow in harvest: yet it falls! You check the merriment effectually By pushing your abrupt machine i' the midst, Making me Rome's example: blood for wine! The general good needs that you chop and change! I may dislike the hocus-pocus, Rome, The laughter-loving people, won't they stare Chap-fallen! while serious natures sermonise 'The magistrate, he beareth not the sword 'In vain; who sins may taste its edge, we see!' Why my sin, drunkards? Where have I abused Liberty, scandalised you all so much? Who called me, who crooked finger till I came, Fool that I was, to join companionship? I knew my own mind, meant to live my life, Elude your envy, or else make a stand, Take my own part and sell you my life dear: But it was 'Fie! No prejudice in the world 'To the proper manly instinct! Cast your lot 'Into our lap, one genius ruled our births, 'We'll compass joy by concert; take with us 'The regular irregular way i' the wood; 'You'll miss no game through riding breast by breast, 'In this preserve, the Church's park and pale, 'Rather than outside where the world is waste!' Come, if you said not that, did you say this? Give plain and terrible warning, 'Live, enjoy? 'Such life begins in death and ends in hell! 'Dare you bid us assist you to your sins 'Who hurry sin and sinners from the earth? 'No such delight for us, why then for you? 'Leave earth, seek heaven or find its opposite!' Had you so warned me, not in lying words But veritable deeds with tongues of flame, That had been fair, that might have struck a man, Silenced the squabble between soul and sense, Compelled him make his mind up, take one course Or the other, peradventure! wrong or right, Foolish or wise, you would have been at least Sincere, no question, forced me choose, indulge Or else renounce my instincts, still play wolf Or find my way submissive to the fold, Be red-crossed on the fleece, one sheep the more. But you as good as bade me wear sheep's wool Over wolf's skin, suck blood and hide the noise By mimicry of something like a bleat, Whence it comes that because, despite my care, Because I smack my tongue too loud for once, Drop baaing, here's the village up in arms! Have at the wolf's throat, you who hate the breed! Oh, were it only open to choose One little time more whether I'd be free Your foe, or subsidised your friend forsooth! Should not you get a growl through the white fangs In answer to your beckoning! Cardinal, Abate, managers o' the multitude, I'd turn your gloved hands to account, be sure! You should manipulate the coarse rough mob: 'Tis you I'd deal directly with, not them, Using your fears: why touch the thing myself When I could see you hunt and then cry 'Shares! 'Quarter the carcass or we quarrel; come, 'Here's the world ready to see justice done!' Oh, it had been a desperate game, but game Wherein the winner's chance were worth the pains To try conclusions! at the worst, what's worse Than this Mannaia-machine, each minute's talk, Helps push an inch the nearer me? Fool, fool! You understand me and forgive, sweet Sirs? I blame you, tear my hair and tell my woe All's but a flourish, figure of rhetoric! One must try each expedient to save life. One makes fools look foolisher fifty-fold By putting in their place the wise like you To take the full force of an argument Would buffet their stolidity in vain. If you should feel aggrieved by the mere wind O' the blow that means to miss you and maul them, That's my success! Is it not folly, now, To say with folks, 'A plausible defence 'We see through notwithstanding, and reject?' Reject the plausible they do, these fools, Who never even make pretence to show One point beyond its plausibility In favour of the best belief they hold! 'Saint Somebody-or-other raised the dead:' Did he? How do you come to know as much? 'Know it, what need? The story's plausible, 'Avouched for by a martyrologist, 'And why should good men sup on cheese and leeks 'On such a saint's day, if there were no saint?' I praise the wisdom of these fools, and straight Tell them my story 'plausible, but false!' False, to be sure! What else can story be That runs a young wife tired of an old spouse, Found a priest whom she fled away with, both Took their full pleasure in the two-days' flight, Which a grey-headed greyer-hearted pair, (Whose best boast was, their life had been a lie) Helped for the love they bore all liars. Oh, Here incredulity begins! Indeed? Allow then, were no one point strictly true, There's that i' the tale might seem like truth at least To the unlucky husband, jaundiced patch, Jealousy maddens people, why not him? Say, he was maddened, so, forgivable! Humanity pleads that though the wife were true, The priest true, and the pair of liars true, They might seem false to one man in the world! A thousand gnats make up a serpent's sting, And many sly soft stimulants to wrath Compose a formidable wrong at last, That gets called easily by some one name Not applicable to the single parts, And so draws down a general revenge, Excessive if you take crime, fault by fault. Jealousy! I have known a score of plays, Were listened to and laughed at in my time As like the everyday-life on all sides, Wherein the husband, mad as a March hare, Suspected all the world contrived his shame; What did the wife? The wife kissed both eyes blind, Explained away ambiguous circumstance, And while she held him captive by the hand, Crowned his head, you know what's the mockery, By half her body behind the curtain. That's Nature now! That's the subject of a piece I saw in Vallombrosa Convent, made Expressly to teach men what marriage was! But say 'Just so did I misapprehend!' Or 'Just so she deceived me to my face!' And that's pretence too easily seen through! All those eyes of all husbands in all plays, At stare like one expanded peacock-tail, Are laughed at for pretending to be keen While horn-blind: but the moment I step forth Oh, I must needs o' the sudden prove a lynx And look the heart, that stone-wall, through and through! Such an eye, God's may be, not yours nor mine. Yes, presently . . . what hour is fleeting now? When you cut earth away from under me, I shall be left alone with, pushed beneath Some such an apparitional dread orb; I fancy it go filling up the void Above my mote-self it devours, or what Immensity please wreak on nothingness. Just so I felt once, couching through the dark, Hard by Vittiano; young I was, and gay, And wanting to trap fieldfares: first a spark Tipped a bent, as a mere dew-globule might Any stiff grass-stalk on the meadow, this Grew fiercer, flamed out full, and proved the sun. What do I want with proverbs, precepts here? Away with man! What shall I say to God? This, if I find the tongue and keep the mind 'Do Thou wipe out the being of me, and smear 'This soul from off Thy white of things, I blot! 'I am one huge and sheer mistake, whose fault? 'Not mine at least, who did not make myself!' Someone declares my wife excused me so! Perhaps she knew what argument to use. Grind your teeth, Cardinal, Abate, writhe! What else am I to cry out in my rage, Unable to repent one particle O' the past? Oh, how I wish some cold wise man Would dig beneath the surface which you scrape, Deal with the depths, pronounce on my desert Groundedly! I want simple sober sense, That asks, before it finishes with a dog, Who taught the dog that trick you hang him for? You both persist to call that act a crime, Sense would call . . . yes, I do assure you, Sirs, . . . A blunder! At the worst, I stood in doubt On cross-road, took one path of many paths: It leads to the red thing, we all see now, But nobody at first saw one primrose In bank, one singing-bird in bush, the less, To warn from wayfare: let me prove you that! Put me back to the cross-road, start afresh! Advise me when I take the first false step! Give me my wife: how should I use my wife, Love her or hate her? Prompt my action now! There she stands, there she is alive and pale, The thirteen-years'-old child, with milk for blood, Pompilia Comparini, as at first, Which first is only four brief years ago! I stand too in the little ground-floor room O' the father's house at Via Vittoria: see! Her so-called mother, one arm round the waist O' the child to keep her from the toys let fall, At wonder I can live yet look so grim, Ushers her in, with deprecating wave Of the other, there she fronts me loose, at large, Held only by her mother's finger-tip Struck dumb, for she was white enough before! She eyes me with those frightened balls of black, As heifer the old simile comes pat Eyes tremblingly the altar and the priest: The amazed look, all one insuppressive prayer, Might she but be set free as heretofore, Have this cup leave her lips unblistered, bear Any cross anywhither anyhow, So but alone, so but apart from me! You are touched? So am I, quite otherwise, If 'tis with pity. I resent my wrong, Being a man: we only show man's soul Through man's flesh, she sees mine, it strikes her thus! Is that attractive? To a youth perhaps Calf-creature, one-part boy to three-parts girl, To whom it is a flattering novelty That he, men use to motion from their path, Can thus impose, thus terrify in turn A chit whose terror shall be changed apace To bliss unbearable when, grace and glow, Prowess and pride descend the throne and touch Esther in all that pretty tremble, cured By the dove o' the sceptre! But myself am old, O' the wane at least, in all things: what do you say To her who frankly thus confirms my doubt? I am past the prime, I scare the woman-world, Done-with that way: you like this piece of news? A little saucy rose-bud minx can strike Death-damp into the breast of doughty king Though 'twere French Louis, soul I understand, Saying, by gesture of repugnance, just 'Sire, you are regal, puissant and so forth, 'But young you have been, are not, nor will be!' In vain the mother nods, winks, bustles up 'Count, girls incline to mature worth like you! 'As for Pompilia, what's flesh, fish, or fowl 'To one who apprehends no difference, 'And would accept you even were you old 'As you are . . . youngish by her father's side? 'Trim but your beard a little, thin your bush 'Of eyebrow; and for presence, portliness 'And decent gravity, you beat a boy!' Deceive you for a second, if you may, In presence of the child that so loves age, Whose neck writhes, cords itself against your kiss, Whose hand you wring stark, rigid with despair! Well, I resent this; I am young in soul, Nor old in body, thews and sinews here, Though the vile surface be not smooth as once, Far beyond the first wheelwork that went wrong Through the untempered iron ere 'twas proof: I am the steel man worth ten times the crude, Would woman see what this declines to see, Declines to say 'I see,' the officious word That makes the thing, pricks on the soul to shoot New fire into the half-used cinder, flesh! Therefore 'tis she begins with wronging me, Who cannot but begin with hating her. Our marriage follows: there we stand again! Why do I laugh? Why, in the very gripe O' the jaws of death's gigantic skull do I Grin back his grin, make sport of my own pangs? Why from each clashing of his molars, ground To make the devil bread from out my grist, Leaps out a spark of mirth, a hellish toy? Take notice we are lovers in a church, Waiting the sacrament to make us one And happy! Just as bid, she bears herself, Comes and kneels, rises, speaks, is silent, goes: So have I brought my horse, by word and blow, To stand stock-still and front the fire he dreads. How can I other than remember this, Resent the very obedience? Gain thereby? Yes, I do gain my end and have my will, Thanks to whom? When the mother speaks the word, She obeys it even to enduring me! There had been compensation in revolt Revolt's to quell: but martyrdom rehearsed, But determined saintship for the sake O' the mother? 'Go!' thought I, 'we meet again!' Pass the next weeks of dumb contented death, She lives, wakes up, installed in house and home, Is mine, mine all day-long, all night-long mine. Good folks begin at me with open mouth 'Now, at least, reconcile the child to life! 'Study and make her love . . . that is, endure 'The . . . hem! the . . . all of you though somewhat old, 'Till it amount to something, in her eye, 'As good as love, better a thousand times 'Since nature helps the woman in such strait, 'Makes passiveness her pleasure: failing which, 'What if you give up boys' and girls' fools'-play 'And go on to wise friendship all at once? 'Those boys and girls kiss themselves cold, you know. 'Toy themselves tired and slink aside full soon 'To friendship, as they name satiety; 'Thither go you and wait their coming!' Thanks, Considerate advisers, but, fair play! Had you and I but started fair at first We, keeping fair, might reach it, neck by neck, This blessed goal, whenever fate so please: But why am I to miss the daisied mile The course begins with, why obtain the dust Of the end precisely at the starting-point? Why quaff life's cup blown free of all the beads, The bright red froth wherein our beard should steep Before our mouth essay the black o' the wine? Foolish, the love-fit? Let me prove it such Like you, before like you I puff things clear! 'The best's to come, no rapture but content! 'Not the first glory but a sober glow, 'Nor a spontaneous outburst in pure boon, 'So much as, gained by patience, care and toil!' Go preach that to your nephews, not to me Who, tired i' the midway of my life, would stop And take my first refreshment in a rose: What's this coarse woolly hip, worn smooth of leaf, You counsel I go plant in garden-pot, Water with tears, manure with sweat and blood, In confidence the seed shall germinate And, for its very best, some far-off day, Grow big, and blow me out a dog-rose bell? Why must your nephews begin breathing spice O' the hundred-petalled Provence prodigy? Nay, more and worse, would such my root bear rose Prove really flower and favourite, not the kind That's queen, but those three leaves that make one cup. And hold the hedge-bird's breakfast, then indeed The prize though poor would pay the care and toil! Respect we Nature that makes least as most, Marvellous in the minim! But this bud, Bit through and burned black by the tempter's tooth, This bloom whose best grace was the slug outside And the wasp inside its bosom, call you 'rose?' Claim no immunity from a weed's fate For the horrible present! What you call my wife I call a nullity in female shape, Vapid disgust, soon to be pungent plague, When mixed with, made confusion and a curse By two abominable nondescripts, That father and that mother: think you see The dreadful bronze our boast, we Aretines, The Etruscan monster, the three-headed thing, Bellerophon's foe! How name you the whole beast? You choose to name the body from one head, That of the simple kid which droops the eye, Hangs the neck and dies tenderly enough: I rather see the griesly lion belch Flame out i' the midst, the serpent writhe her rings, Grafted into the common stock for tail, And name the brute, Chim'ra, which I slew! How was there ever more to be (concede My wife's insipid harmless nullity) Dissociation from that pair of plagues That mother with her cunning and her cant The eyes with first their twinkle of conceit, Then, dropped to earth in mock-demureness, now, The smile self-satisfied from ear to ear Now, the prim pursed-up mouth's protruded lips, With deferential duck, slow swing of head, Tempting the sudden fist of man too much, That owl-like screw of lid and rock of ruff! As for the father, Cardinal, you know, The kind of idiot! rife are such in Rome, But they wear velvet commonly, such fools, At the end of life, can furnish forth young folk Who grin and bear with imbecility, Since the stalled ass, the joker, sheds from jaw Corn, in the joke, for those who laugh or starve: But what say we to the same solemn beast Wagging his ears and wishful of our pat, When turned, with hide in holes and bones laid bare, To forage for himself i' the waste o' the world, Sir Dignity i' the dumps? Pat him? We drub Self-knowledge, rather, into frowzy pate, Teach Pietro to get trappings or go hang! Fancy this quondam oracle in vogue At Via Vittoria, this personified Authority when time was, Pantaloon Flaunting his tom-fool tawdry just the same As if Ash-Wednesday were mid-Carnival! That's the extreme and unforgivable Of sins, as I account such. Have you stooped For your own ends to bestialise yourself By flattery of a fellow of this stamp? The ends obtained, or else shown out of reach, He goes on, takes the flattery for pure truth, 'You love and honour me, of course: what next?' What, but the trifle of the stabbing, friend? Which taught you how one worships when the shrine Has lost the relic that we bent before. Angry? And how could I be otherwise? 'Tis plain: this pair of old pretentious fools Meant to fool me: it happens, I fooled them, Why could not these who sought to buy and sell Me, when they found themselves were bought and sold, Make up their mind to the proved rule of right, Be chattel and not chapman any more? Miscalculation has its consequence; But when the shepherd crooks a sheep-like thing And meaning to get wool, dislodges fleece And finds the veritable wolf beneath, (How that staunch image serves at every turn!) Does he, by way of being politic, Pluck the first whisker grimly visible? Or rather grow in a trice all gratitude, Protest this sort-of-what-one-might-name sheep Beats the old other curly-coated kind, And shall share board and bed, if so it deign, With its discoverer, like a royal ram? Ay, thus, with chattering teeth and knocking knees, Would wisdom treat the adventure: these, forsooth, Tried whisker-plucking, and so found what trap The whisker kept perdue, two rows of teeth Sharp, as too late the prying fingers felt. What would you have? The fools transgress, the fools Forthwith receive appropriate punishment: They first insult me, I return the blow, There follows noise enough: four hubbub months, Now hue and cry, now whimpering and wail A perfect goose-yard cackle of complaint Because I do not gild the geese their oats, I have enough of noise, ope wicket wide, Sweep out the couple to go whine elsewhere, Frightened a little, hurt in no respect, And am just taking thought to breathe again, Taste the sweet sudden silence all about, When, there they are at it, the old noise I know, At Rome i' the distance! 'What, begun once more? 'Whine on, wail ever, 'tis the loser's right!' But eh, what sort of voice grows on the wind? Triumph it sounds and no complaint at all! And triumph it is! My boast was premature: The creatures, I turned forth, clapped wing and crew Fighting-cock-fashion, they had filched a pearl From dung-heap, and might boast with cause enough! I was defrauded of all bargained for, You know, the Pope knows, not a soul but knows My dowry was derision, my gain muck, My wife (the Church declared my flesh and blood) The nameless bastard of a common whore: My old name turned henceforth to . . . shall I say 'He that received the ordure in his face?' And they who planned this wrong, performed this wrong, And then revealed this wrong to the wide world, Rounded myself in the ears with my own wrong, Why, these were . . . note hell's lucky malice, now! . . . These were just they, and they alone, could act And publish in this wise their infamy, Secure that men would in a breath believe Compassionate and pardon them, for why? They plainly were too stupid to invent, Too simple to distinguish wrong from right, Inconscious agents they, the silly-sooth, Of heaven's retributive justice on the strong Proud cunning violent oppressor me! Follow them to their fate and help your best, You Rome, Arezzo, foes called friends of mine, They gave the good long laugh to at my cost! Defray your share o' the cost since you partook The entertainment! Do! assured the while, That not one stab, I dealt to right and left, But went the deeper for a fancy this That each might do me two-fold service, find A friend's face at the bottom of each wound, And scratch its smirk a little! Panciatichi! There's a report at Florence, is it true? That when your relative the Cardinal Built, only the other day, that barrack-bulk, The palace in Via Larga, some one picked From out the street a saucy quip enough That fell there from its day's flight through the town, About the flat front and the windows wide And ugly heap of cornice, hitched the joke Into a sonnet, signed his name thereto, And forthwith pinned on post the pleasantry. For which he's at the galleys, rowing now Up to his waist in water, just because Panciatic and lymphatic rhymed so pat: I hope, Sir, those who passed this joke on me Were not unduly punished? What say you, Prince of the Church, my patron? Nay, indeed! I shall not dare insult your wits so much As think this problem difficult to solve! This Pietro and Violante, then, I say, These two ambiguous insects, changing name And nature with the season's warmth or chill, Now, grovelled, grubbing toiling moiling ants, A very synonym of thrift and peace, Anon, with lusty June to prick their heart, Soared i' the air, winged flies for more offence, Circled me, buzzed me deaf and stung me blind, And stunk me dead with fetor in the face Until I stopped the nuisance: there's my crime! Pity I did not suffer them subside Into some further shape and final form Of execrable life? My masters, no! I, by one blow, wisely cut short at once Them and their transformations of disgust In the snug little Villa out of hand. 'Grant me confession, give bare time for that!' Shouted the sinner till his mouth was stopped. His life confessed! that was enough for me, Who came to see that he did penance. 'S death! Here's a coil raised, a pother and for what? Because strength, being provoked by weakness, fought And conquered, the world never heard the like! Pah, how I spend my breath on them, as if 'Twas their fate troubled me, too hard to range Among the right and fit and proper things! Ay, but Pompilia, I await your word, She, unimpeached of crime, unimplicate In folly, one of alien blood to these I punish, why extend my claim, exact Her portion of the penalty? Yes, friends, I go too fast: the orator's at fault: Yes, ere I lay her, with your leave, by them As she was laid at San Lorenzo late, I ought to step back, lead her by degrees, Recounting at each step some fresh offence, Up to the red bed, never fear, I will! Gaze on her, where you place her, to begin, Confound me with her gentleness and worth! The horrible pair have fled and left her now, She has her husband for her sole concern, His wife, the woman fashioned for his help, Flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone, the bride To groom as is the Church and Spouse, to Christ: There she stands in his presence, 'Thy desire 'Shall be to the husband, o'er thee shall he rule!' 'Pompilia, who declare that you love God, 'You know who said that: then, desire my love, 'Yield me contentment and be ruled aright!' She sits up, she lies down, she comes and goes, Kneels at the couch-side, overleans the sill O' the window, cold and pale and mute as stone, Strong as stone also. 'Well, are they not fled? 'Am I not left, am I not one for all? 'Speak a word, drop a tear, detach a glance, 'Bless me or curse me of your own accord! 'Is it the ceiling only wants your soul, 'Is worth your eyes?' And then the eyes descend And do look at me. Is it at the meal? 'Speak!' she obeys, 'Be silent!' she obeys, Counting the minutes till I cry 'Depart,' As brood-bird when you saunter past her eggs, Departed, just the same through door and wall I see the same stone strength of white despair. And all this will be never otherwise! Before, the parents' presence lent her life: She could play off her sex's armoury, Intreat, reproach, be female to my male, Try all the shrieking doubles of the hare, Go clamour to the Commissary, bid The Archbishop hold my hands and stop my tongue, And yield fair sport so: but the tactics change, The hare stands stock-still to enrage the hound! Since that day when she learned she was no child Of those she thought her parents, that their trick Had tricked me whom she thought sole trickster late, Why, I suppose she said within herself 'Then, no more struggle for my parents' sake, 'And, for my own sake, why needs struggle be?' But is there no third party to the pact? What of her husband's relish or dislike For this new game of giving up the game, This worst offence of not offending more? I'll not believe but instinct wrought in this, Set her on to conceive and execute The preferable plague . . . how sure they probe, These jades, the sensitivest soft of man! The long black hair was wound now in a wisp, Crowned sorrow better than the wild web late: No more soiled dress, 'tis trimness triumphs now, For how should malice go with negligence? The frayed silk looked the fresher for her spite! There was an end to springing out of bed, Praying me, with face buried on my feet, Be hindered of my pastime, so an end To my rejoinder, 'What, on the ground at last? 'Vanquished in fight, a supplicant for life? 'What if I raise you? 'Ware the casting down 'When next you fight me!' Then, she lay there, mine: Now, mine she is if I please wring her neck, A moment of disquiet, working eyes, Protruding tongue, a long sigh, then no more As if one killed the horse one could not ride! Had I enjoined 'Cut off the hair!' why, snap The scissors, and at once a yard or so Had fluttered in black serpents to the floor: But till I did enjoin it, how she combs, Uncurls and draws out to the complete length, Plaits, places the insulting rope on head To be an eyesore past dishevelment! Is all done? Then sit still again and stare! I advise no one think to bear that look Of steady wrong, endured as steadily, Through what sustainment of deluding hope? Who is the friend i' the background that notes all? Who may come presently and close accounts? This self-possession to the uttermost, How does it differ in aught, save degree, From the terrible patience of God? 'All which just means, 'She did not love you!' Again the word is launched And the fact fronts me! What, you try the wards With the true key and the dead lock flies ope? No, it sticks fast and leaves you fumbling still! You have some fifty servants, Cardinal, Which of them loves you? Which subordinate But makes parade of such officiousness That, if there's no love prompts it, love, the sham, Does twice the service done by love, the true. God bless us liars, where's one touch of truth In what we tell the world, or world tells us, Oh how we like each other? All the same, We calculate on word and deed, nor err, Bid such a man do such a loving act, Sure of effect and negligent of cause, Just as we bid a horse, with cluck of tongue, Stretch his legs arch-wise, crouch his saddled back To foot-reach of the stirrup all for love, And some for memory of the smart of switch On the inside of the foreleg what care we? Yet where's the bond obliges horse to man Like that which binds fast wife to husband? God Laid down the law: gave man the brawny arm And ball of fist woman the beardless cheek And proper place to suffer in the side: Since it is he can strike, let her obey! Can she feel no love? Let her show the more, Sham the worse, damn herself praiseworthily! Who's that soprano Rome went mad about Last week while I lay rotting in my straw? The very jailor gossiped in his praise How, dressed up like Armida, though a man; And painted to look pretty, though a fright, He still made love so that the ladies swooned, Being an eunuch. 'Ah, Rinaldo mine! 'But to breathe by thee while Jove slays us both!' All the poor bloodless creature never felt, Si, do, re, me, fa, squeak and squall for what? Two gold zecchines the evening! Here's my slave, Whose body and soul depend upon my nod, Can't falter out the first note in the scale For her life! Why blame me if I take the life? All women cannot give men love, forsooth! No, nor all pullets lay the henwife eggs Whereat she bids them remedy the fault, Brood on a chalk-ball: soon the nest is stocked Otherwise, to the plucking and the spit! This wife of mine was of another mood Would not begin the lie that ends with truth, Nor feign the love that brings real love about: Wherefore I judged, sentenced and punished her. But why particularise, defend the deed? Say that I hated her for no one cause Beyond my pleasure so to do, what then? Just on as much incitement acts the world, All of you! Look and like! You favour one, Brow-beat another, leave alone a third, Why should you master natural caprice? Pure nature! Try plant elm by ash in file; Both unexceptionable trees enough, They ought to overlean each other, pair At top and arch across the avenue The whole path to the pleasaunce: do they so Or loathe, lie off abhorrent each from each? Lay the fault elsewhere, since we must have faults: Mine shall have been, seeing there's ill in the end Come of my course, that I fare somehow worse For the way I took, my fault . . . as God's my judge I see not where the fault lies, that's the truth! I ought . . . oh, ought in my own interest Have let the whole adventure go untried, This chance by marriage, or else, trying it, Ought to have turned it to account some one O' the hundred otherwises? Ay, my friend, Easy to say, easy to do, step right Now you've stepped left and stumbled on the thing, The red thing! Doubt I any more than you That practice makes man perfect? Give again The chance, same marriage and no other wife, Be sure I'll edify you! That's because I'm practised, grown fit guide for Guido's self. You proffered guidance, I know, none so well, You laid down law and rolled decorum out, From pulpit-corner on the gospel-side, Wanted to make your great experience mine, Save me the personal search and pains so: thanks! Take your word on life's use? When I take his The muzzled ox that treadeth out the corn, Gone blind in padding round and round one path, As to the taste of green grass in the field! What do you know o' the world that's trodden flat And salted sterile with your daily dung, Leavened into a lump of loathsomeness? Take your opinion of the modes of life, The aims of life, life's triumph or defeat, How to feel, how to scheme and how to do Or else leave undone? You preached long and loud On high-days, 'Take our doctrine upon trust! 'Into the mill-house with you! Grind our corn, 'Relish our chaff, and let the green grass grow!' I tried chaff, found I famished on such fare, So made this mad rush at the mill-house-door, Buried my head up to the ears in dew, Browsed on the best, for which you brain me, Sirs! Be it so! I conceived of life that way, And still declare life, without absolute use Of the actual sweet therein, is death, not life. Give me, pay down, not promise, which is air, Something that's out of life and better still, Make sure reward, make certain punishment, Entice me, scare me, I'll forego this life; Otherwise, no! the less that words, mere wind, Would cheat me of some minutes while they plague. The fulness of revenge here, blame yourselves For this eruption of the pent-up soul You prisoned first and played with afterward! 'Deny myself' meant simply pleasure you, The sacred and superior, save the mark! You, whose stupidity and insolence I must defer to, soothe at every turn, Whose swine-like snuffling greed and grunting lust I had to wink at or help gratify, While the same passions, dared they perk in me, Me, the immeasurably marked, by God, Master of the whole world of such as you, I, boast such passions? 'Twas 'Suppress them straight! 'Or stay, we'll pick and choose before destroy: 'Here's wrath in you, a serviceable sword, 'Beat it into a ploughshare! What's this long 'Lance-like ambition? Forge a pruning-hook, 'May be of service when our vines grow tall! 'But sword used swordwise, spear thrust out as spear? 'Anathema! Suppression is the word!' My nature, when the outrage was too gross, Widened itself an outlet over-wide By way of answer? sought its own relief With more of fire and brimstone than you wished? All your own doing: preachers, blame yourselves! 'Tis I preach while the hour-glass runs and runs! God keep me patient! All I say just means My wife proved, whether by her fault or mine, That's immaterial, a true stumbling-block I' the way of me her husband: I but plied The hatchet yourselves use to clear a path, Was politic, played the game you warrant wins, Plucked at law's robe a-rustle through the courts, Bowed down to kiss divinity's buckled shoe Cushioned i' the church: efforts all wide the aim! Procedures to no purpose! Then flashed truth! The letter kills, the spirit keeps alive In law and gospel: there be nods and winks Instruct a wise man to assist himself In certain matters nor seek aid at all. 'Ask money of me,' quoth the clownish saw, 'And take my purse! But, speaking with respect, 'Need you a solace for the troubled nose? 'Let everybody wipe his own himself!' Sirs, tell me free and fair! Had things gone well At the wayside inn: had I surprised asleep The runaways, as was so probable, And pinned them each to other partridge-wise, Through back and breast to breast and back, then bade Bystanders witness if the spit, my sword, Were loaded with unlawful game for once Would you have interposed to damp the glow Applauding me on every husband's cheek? Would you have checked the cry 'A judgment, see! 'A warning, note! Be henceforth chaste, ye wives, 'Nor stray beyond your proper precinct, priests!' If you had, then your house against itself Divides, nor stands your kingdom any more. Oh, why, why was it not ordained just so? Why fell not things out so nor otherwise? Ask that particular devil whose task it is To trip the all-but-at perfection, slur The line o' the painter just where paint leaves off And life begins, puts ice into the ode O' the poet while he cries 'Next stanza fire!' Inscribes all human effort with one word, Artistry's haunting curse, the Incomplete! Being incomplete, the act escaped success. Easy to blame now! Every fool can swear To hole in net that held and slipped the fish. But, treat my act with fair unjaundiced eye, What was there wanting to a masterpiece Except the luck that lies beyond a man? My way with the woman, now proved grossly wrong, Just missed of being gravely grandly right And making critics laugh o' the other side. Do, for the poor obstructed artist's sake, Go with him over that spoiled work once more! Take only its first flower, the ended act Now in the dusty pod, dry and defunct! I march to the Villa, and my men with me, That evening, and we reach the door and stand. I say . . . no, it shoots through me lightning-like While I pause, breathe, my hand upon the latch, 'Let me forebode! Thus far, too much success: 'I want the natural failure find it where? 'Which thread will have to break and leave a loop 'I' the meshy combination, my brain's loom 'Wove this long while and now next minute tests? 'Of three that are to catch, two should go free, 'One must: all three surprised, impossible! 'Beside, I seek three and may chance on six, 'This neighbour, t'other gossip, the babe's birth 'Brings such to fireside and folks give them wine, ''Tis late: but when I break in presently 'One will be found outlingering the rest 'For promise of a posset, one whose shout 'Would raise the dead down in the catacombs, 'Much more the city-watch that goes its round. 'When did I ever turn adroitly up 'To sun some brick embedded in the soil, 'And with one blow crush all three scorpions there? 'Or Pietro or Violante shambles off 'It cannot be but I surprise my wife 'If only she is stopped and stamped on, good! 'That shall suffice: more is improbable. 'Now I may knock!' And this once for my sake The impossible was effected: I called king, Queen and knave in a sequence, and cards came, All three, three only! So, I had my way, Did my deed: so, unbrokenly lay bare Each t'nia that had sucked me dry of juice, At last outside me, not an inch of ring Left now to writhe about and root itself I' the heart all powerless for revenge! Henceforth I might thrive: these were drawn and dead and damned. Oh Cardinal, the deep long sigh you heave When the load's off you, ringing as it runs All the way down the serpent-stair to hell! No doubt the fine delirium flustered me, Turned my brain with the influx of success As if the sole need now were to wave wand And find doors fly wide, wish and have my will, The rest o' the scheme would care for itself: escape? Easy enough were that, and poor beside! It all but proved so, ought to quite have proved, Since, half the chances had sufficed, set free Any one, with his senses at command, From thrice the danger of my flight. But, drunk, Redundantly triumphant, some reverse Was sure to follow! There's no other way Accounts for such prompt perfect failure then And there on the instant. And day o' the week, A ducat slid discreetly into palm O' the mute post-master, while you whisper him How you the Count and certain four your knaves, Have just been mauling who was malapert, Suspect the kindred may prove troublesome, Therefore, want horses in a hurry, that And nothing more secures you any day The pick o' the stable! Yet I try the trick, Double the bribe, call myself Duke for Count, And say the dead man only was a Jew, And for my pains find I am dealing just With the one scrupulous fellow in all Rome Just this immaculate official stares, Sees I want hat on head and sword in sheath, Am splashed with other sort of wet than wine, Shrugs shoulder, puts my hand by, gold and all, Stands on the strictness of the rule o' the road! 'Where's the Permission?' Where's the wretched rag With the due seal and sign of Rome's Police, To be had for asking, half-an-hour ago? 'Gone? Get another, or no horses hence!' He dares not stop me, we five glare too grim, But hinders, hacks and hamstrings sure enough, Gives me some twenty miles of miry road More to march in the middle of that night Whereof the rough beginning taxed the strength O' the youngsters, much more mine, such as you see, Who had to think as well as act: dead-beat, We gave in ere we reached the boundary And safe spot out of this irrational Rome, Where, on dismounting from our steeds next day, We had snapped our fingers at you, safe and sound, Tuscans once more in blessed Tuscany, Where the laws make allowance, understand Civilised life and do its champions right! Witness the sentence of the Rota there, Arezzo uttered, the Granduke confirmed, One week before I acted on its hint, Giving friend Guillichini, for his love, The galleys, and my wife your saint, Rome's saint, Rome manufactures saints enough to know, Seclusion at the Stinche for her life, All this, that all but was, might all have been, Yet was not! baulked by just a scrupulous knave Whose palm was horn through handling horses' hoofs And could not close upon my proffered gold! What say you to the spite of fortune? Well, The worst's in store: thus hindered, haled this way To Rome again by hangdogs, whom find I Here, still to fight with, but my pale frail wife? Riddled with wounds by one not like to waste The blows he dealt, knowing anatomy, (I think I told you) one to pick and choose The vital parts! 'Twas learning all in vain! She too must shimmer through the gloom o' the grave, Come and confront me not at judgment-seat Where I could twist her soul, as erst her flesh, And turn her truth into a lie, but there, O' the death-bed, with God's hand between us both, Striking me dumb, and helping her to speak, Tell her own story her own way, and turn My plausibility to nothingness! Four whole days did Pompilia keep alive, With the best surgery of Rome agape At the miracle, this cut, the other slash, And yet the life refusing to dislodge, Four whole extravagant impossible days, Till she had time to finish and persuade Every man, every woman, every child In Rome of what she would: the selfsame she Who, but a year ago, had wrung her hands, Reddened her eyes and beat her breasts, rehearsed The whole game at Arezzo, nor availed Thereby to move one heart or raise one hand! When destiny intends you cards like these, What good of skill and preconcerted play? Had she been found dead, as I left her dead, I should have told a tale brooked no reply: You scarcely will suppose me found at fault With that advantage! 'What brings me to Rome? 'Necessity to claim and take my wife: 'Better, to claim and take my new-born babe, 'Strong in paternity a fortnight old, 'When 'tis at strongest: warily I work, 'Knowing the machinations of my foe; 'I have companionship and use the night: 'I seek my wife and child, I find no child 'But wife, in the embraces of that priest 'Who caused her to elope from me. These two, 'Backed by the pander-pair who watch the while, 'Spring on me like so many tiger-cats, 'Glad of the chance to end the intruder. I 'What should I do but stand on my defence, 'Strike right, strike left, strike thick and threefold, slay, 'Not all because the coward priest escapes. 'Last, I escape, in fear of evil tongues, 'And having had my taste of Roman law.' What's disputable, refutable here? Save by just one ghost-thing half on earth, Half out of it, as if she held God's hand While she leant back and looked her last at me, Forgiving me (here monks begin to weep) Oh, from her very soul, commending mine To heavenly mercies which are infinite, While fixing fast my head beneath your knife! 'Tis fate not fortune! All is of a piece! What was it you informed me of my youths? My rustic four o' the family, soft swains, What sweet surprise had they in store for me, Those of my very household, what did Law Twist with her rack-and-cord-contrivance late From out their bones and marrow? What but this Had no one of these several stumbling-blocks Stopped me, they yet were cherishing a scheme, All of their honest country homespun wit, To quietly next day at crow of cock, Cut my own throat too, for their own behoof, Seeing I had forgot to clear accounts O' the instant, nowise slackened speed for that, And somehow never might find memory, Once safe back in Arezzo, where things change, And a court-lord needs mind no country lout. Well, being the arch-offender, I die last, May, ere my head falls, have my eyesight free, Nor miss them dangling high on either hand, Like scarecrows in a hemp-field, for their pains! And then my Trial, 'tis my Trial that bites Like a corrosive, so the cards are packed, Dice loaded, and my life-stake tricked away! Look at my lawyers, lacked they grace of law, Latin or logic? Were not they fools to the height, Fools to the depth, fools to the level between, O' the foolishness set to decide the case? They feign, they flatter; nowise does it skill, Everything goes against me: deal each judge His dole of flattery and feigning, why, He turns and tries and snuffs and savours it, As an old fly the sugar-grain, your gift; Then eyes your thumb and finger, brushes clean The absurd old head of him, and whisks away, Leaving your thumb and finger dirty. Faugh! And finally, after this long-drawn range Of affront, failure, failure and affront, This path, twixt crosses leading to a skull, Paced by me barefoot, bloodied by my palms From the entry to the end, there's light at length, A cranny of escape, appeal may be To the old man, to the father, to the Pope For a little life from one whose life is spent, A little pity from pity's source and seat, A little indulgence to rank, privilege, From one who is the thing personified, Rank, privilege, indulgence, grown beyond Earth's bearing, even, ask Jansenius else! Still the same answer, still no other tune From the cicala perched at the tree-top Than crickets noisy round the root, 'tis 'Die!' Bids Law 'Be damned!' adds Gospel, nay, No word so frank, 'tis rather, 'Save yourself!' The Pope subjoins 'Confess and be absolved! 'So shall my credit countervail your shame, 'And the world see I have not lost the knack 'Of trying all the spirits, yours, my son, 'Wants but a fiery washing to emerge 'In clarity! Come, cleanse you, ease the ache 'Of these old bones, refresh our bowels, boy!' Do I mistake your mission from the Pope? Then, bear his Holiness the mind of me! I do get strength from being thrust to wall, Successively wrenched from pillar and from post By this tenacious hate of fortune, hate Of all things in, under, and above earth. Warfare, begun this mean unmanly mode, Does best to end so, gives earth spectacle Of a brave fighter who succumbs to odds That turn defeat to victory. Stab, I fold My mantle round me! Rome approves my act: Applauds the blow which costs me life but keeps My honour spotless: Rome would praise no more Had I fallen, say, some fifteen years ago, Helping Vienna when our Aretines Flocked to Duke Charles and fought Turk Mustafa: Nor would you two be trembling o'er my corpse With all this exquisite solicitude. Why is it that I make such suit to live? The popular sympathy that's round me now Would break like bubble that o'er-domes a fly Pretty enough while he lies quiet there, But let him want the air and ply the wing, Why, it breaks and bespatters him, what else? Cardinal, if the Pope had pardoned me, And I walked out of prison through the crowd, It would not be your arm I should dare press! Then, if I got safe to my place again, How sad and sapless were the years to come! I go my old ways and find things grown grey; You priests leer at me, old friends look askance; The mob's in love, I'll wager, to a man, With my poor young good beauteous murdered wife: For hearts require instruction how to beat, And eyes, on warrant of the story, wax Wanton at portraiture in white and black Of dead Pompilia gracing ballad-sheet, Which, had she died unmurdered and unsung, Would never turn though she paced street as bare As the mad penitent ladies do in France. My brothers quietly would edge me out Of use and management of things called mine; Do I command? 'You stretched command before!' Show anger? 'Anger little helped you once!' Advise? 'How managed you affairs of old?' My very mother, all the while they gird, Turns eye up, gives confirmatory groan, For unsuccess, explain it how you will, Disqualifies you, makes you doubt yourself, Much more, is found decisive by your friends. Beside, am I not fifty years of age? What new leap would a life take, checked like mine I' the spring at outset? Where's my second chance? Ay, but the babe . . . I had forgot my son, My heir! Now for a burst of gratitude! There's some appropriate service to intone, Some gaudeamus and thanksgiving-psalm! Old, I renew my youth in him, and poor Possess a treasure, is not that the phrase? Only I must wait patient twenty years Nourishing all the while, as father ought, The excrescence with my daily blood of life. Does it respond to hope, such sacrifice, Grows the wen plump while I myself grow lean? Why, here's my son and heir in evidence, Who stronger, wiser, handsomer than I By fifty years, relieves me of each load, Tames my hot horse, carries my heavy gun, Courts my coy mistress, has his apt advice On house-economy, expenditure, And what not? All which good gifts and great growth Because of my decline, he brings to bear On Guido, but half apprehensive how He cumbers earth, crosses the brisk young Count, Who civilly would thrust him from the scene. Contrariwise, does the blood-offering fail? There's an ineptitude, one blank the more Added to earth in semblance of my child? Then, this has been a costly piece of work, My life exchanged for his! why he, not I, Enjoy the world, if no more grace accrue? Dwarf me, what giant have you made of him? I do not dread the disobedient son I know how to suppress rebellion there, Being not quite the fool my father was. But grant the medium measure of a man, The usual compromise 'twixt fool and sage, You know the tolerably-obstinate, The not-so-much-perverse but you may train, The true son-servant that, when parent bids 'Go work, son, in my vineyard!' makes reply 'I go, Sir!' Why, what profit in your son Beyond the drudges you might subsidise, Have the same work from at a paul the head? Look at those four young precious olive-plants Reared at Vittiano, not on flesh and blood, These twenty years, but black bread and sour wine! I bade them put forth tender branch, and hook And hurt three enemies I had in Rome: They did my hest as unreluctantly, At promise of a dollar, as a son Adjured by mumping memories of the past! No, nothing repays youth expended so Youth, I say, who am young still, give but leave To live my life out, to the last I'd live And die conceding age no right of youth! It is the will runs the renewing nerve Through flaccid flesh, would faint before the time. Therefore no sort of use for son have I Sick, not of life's feast but of steps to climb To the house where life prepares her feast, of means To the end: for make the end attainable Without the means, my relish were like yours. A man may have an appetite enough For a whole dish of robins ready cooked, And yet lack courage to face sleet, pad snow, And snare sufficiency for supper. Thus The time's arrived when, ancient Roman-like, I am bound to fall on my own sword, why not Say Tuscan-like, more ancient, better still? Will you hear truth can do no harm nor good? I think I never was at any time A Christian, as you nickname all the world, Me among others: truce to nonsense now! Name me, a primitive religionist As should the aboriginary be I boast myself, Etruscan, Aretine, One sprung, your frigid Virgil's fieriest word, From fauns and nymphs, trunks and the heart of oak, With, for a visible divinity, The portent of a Jove 'giochus Descried 'mid clouds, lightning and thunder, couched On topmost crag of your Capitoline 'Tis in the Seventh 'neid, what, the Eighth? Right, thanks, Abate, though the Christian's dumb, The Latinist's vivacious in you yet! I know my grandsire had out tapestry Marked with the motto, 'neath a certain shield His grandson presently will give some gules To vary azure. First we fight for faiths, But get to shake hands at the last of all: Mine's your faith too, in Jove 'giochus! Nor do Greek gods, that serve as supplement, Jar with the simpler scheme, if understood. We want such intermediary race To make communication possible; The real thing were too lofty, we too low, Midway hang these: we feel their use so plain In linking height to depth, that we doff hat And put no question nor pry narrowly Into the nature hid behind the names. We grudge no rite the fancy may demand; But never, more than needs, invent, refine, Improve upon requirement, idly wise Beyond the letter, teaching gods their trade, Which is to teach us: we'll obey when taught. Why should we do our duty past the due? When the sky darkens, Jove is wroth, say prayer! When the sun shines and Jove is glad, sing psalm! But where fore pass prescription and devise Blood-offering for sweat-service, lend the rod A pungency through pickle of our own? Learned Abate, no one teaches you What Venus means and who's Apollo here! I spare you, Cardinal, but, though you wince, You know me, I know you, and both know that! So, if Apollo bids us fast, we fast: But where does Venus order we stop sense When Master Pietro rhymes a pleasantry? Give alms prescribed on Friday, but, hold hand Because your foe lies prostrate, where's the word Explicit in the book debars revenge? The rationale of your scheme is just 'Pay toll here, there pursue your pleasure free!' So do you turn to use the medium-powers, Mars and Minerva, Bacchus and the rest, And so are saved propitiating what? What all good, all wise and all potent Jove Vexed by the very sins in man, himself Made life's necessity when man he made? Irrational bunglers! So, the living truth Revealed to strike Pan dead, ducks low at last, Prays leave to hold its own and live good days Provided it go masque grotesquely, called Christian not Pagan? Oh, you purged the sky Of all gods save One, the great and good, Clapped hands and triumphed! But the change came fast: The inexorable need in man for life Life, you may mulct and minish to a grain Out of the lump, so the grain left but live, Laughed at your substituting death for life, And bade you do your worst, which worst was done Pass that age styled the primitive and pure When Saint this, Saint that, dutifully starved, Froze, fought with beasts, was beaten and abused, And finally ridded of his flesh by fire, Keeping the while unspotted from the world! Good: but next age, how goes the game, who gives His life and emulates Saint that and this? They mutiny, mutter who knows what excuse? In fine make up their minds to leave the new, Stick to the old, enjoy old liberty, No prejudice, all the same, if so it please, To the new profession: sin o' the sly, henceforth! Let the law stand: the letter kills, what then? The spirit saves as unmistakeably. Omniscience sees, Omnipotence could stop, All-mercifulness pardons, it must be, Frown law its fiercest, there's a wink somewhere. Such was the logic in this head of mine: I, like the rest, wrote 'poison' on my bread; But broke and ate: said 'those that use the sword 'Shall perish by the same;' then stabbed my foe. I stand on solid earth, not empty air: Dislodge me, let your Pope's crook hale me hence! Not he, nor you! And I so pity both, I'll make the speech you want the wit to make: 'Count Guido, who reveal our mystery, 'You trace all issues to the love of life: 'We have a life to love and guard, like you. 'Why did you put us upon self-defence? 'You well knew what prompt pass-word would appease 'The sentry's ire when folk infringe his bounds, 'And yet kept mouth shut: do you wonder then 'If, in mere decency, he shot you dead? 'He can't have people play such pranks as you 'Beneath his nose at noonday, who disdain 'To give him an excuse before the world, 'By crying 'I break rule to save our camp!' 'Under the old rule, such offence were death; 'And so had you heard Pontifex pronounce ''Since you slay foe and violate the form, ''That turns to murder, which were sacrifice ''Had you, while, say, law-suiting him to death, ''But raised an altar to the Unknown God, ''Or else the Genius of the Vatican.' 'Why then this pother? all because the Pope 'Doing his duty, cries 'A foreigner, ''You scandalise the natives: here at Rome ''Romano vivitur more: wise men, here, ''Put the Church forward and efface themselves. ''The fit defence had been, you stamped on wheat, ''Intending all the time to trample tares, ''Were fain extirpate, then, the heretic, ''And now find, in your haste you slew a fool: ''Nor Pietro, nor Violante, nor your wife ''Meant to breed up your babe a Molinist! ''Whence you are duly contrite. Not one word ''Of all this wisdom did you urge! Which slip ''Death must atone for!'' So, let death atone! So ends mistake, so end mistakers! end Perhaps to recommence, how should I know? Only, be sure, no punishment, no pain Childish, preposterous, impossible, But some such fate as Ovid could foresee, Byblis in fluvium, let the weak soul end In water, sed Lycaon in lupum, but The strong become a wolf for evermore! Change that Pompilia to a puny stream Fit to reflect the daisies on its bank! Let me turn wolf, be whole, and sate, for once, Wallow in what is now a wolfishness Coerced too much by the humanity That's half of me as well! Grow out of man, Glut the wolf-nature, what remains but grow Into the man again, be man indeed And all man? Do I ring the changes right Deformed, transformed, reformed, informed, conformed! The honest instinct, pent and crossed through life, Let surge by death into a visible flow Of rapture: as the strangled thread of flame Painfully winds, annoying and annoyed, Malignant and maligned, thro' stone and ore, Till earth exclude the stranger: vented once, It finds full play, is recognised a-top Some mountain as no such abnormal birth. Fire for the mount, the streamlet for the vale! Ay, of the water was that wife of mine Be it for good, be it for ill, no run O' the red thread through that insignificance! Again, how she is at me with those eyes! Away with the empty stare! Be holy still, And stupid ever! Occupy your patch Of private snow that's somewhere in what world May now be growing icy round your head, And aguish at your foot-print, freeze not me, Dare follow not another step I take. Not with so much as those detested eyes, No, though they follow but to pray me pause On the incline, earth's edge that's next to hell! None of your abnegation of revenge! Fly at me frank, tug while I tear again! There's God, go tell Him, testify your worst! Not she! There was no touch in her of hate: And it would prove her hell, if I reached mine! To know I suffered, would still sadden her, Do what the angels might to make amends! Therefore there's either no such place as hell, Or thence shall I be thrust forth, for her sake, And thereby undergo three hells, not one I who, with outlet for escape to heaven, Would tarry if such flight allowed my foe To raise his head, relieved of that firm foot Had pinned him to the fiery pavement else! So am I made, 'who did not make myself:' (How dared she rob my own lip of the word?) Beware me in what other world may be! Pompilia, who have brought me to this pass! All I know here, will I say there, and go Beyond the saying with the deed. Some use There cannot but be for a mood like mine, Implacable, persistent in revenge. She maundered 'All is over and at end: 'I go my own road, go you where God will! 'Forgive you? I forget you!' There's the saint That takes your taste, you other kind of men! How you had loved her! Guido wanted skill To value such a woman at her worth! Properly the instructed criticise 'What's here, you simpleton have tossed to take 'Its chance i' the gutter? This a daub, indeed? 'Why, 'tis a Rafael that you kicked to rags!' Perhaps so: some prefer the pure design: Give me my gorge of colour, glut of gold In a glory round the Virgin made for me! Titian's the man, not Monk Angelico Who traces you some timid chalky ghost That turns the church into a charnel: ay, Just such a pencil might depict my wife! She, since she, also, would not change herself, Why could not she come in some heart-shaped cloud, Rainbowed about with riches, royalty Rimming her round, as round the tintless lawn Guardingly runs the selvage cloth of gold? I would have left the faint fine gauze untouched, Needle-worked over with its lily and rose, Let her bleach unmolested in the midst, Chill that selected solitary spot Of quietude she pleased to think was life: Purity, pallor grace the lawn no doubt When there's the costly bordure to unthread And make again an ingot: but what's grace When you want meat and drink and clothes and fire? A tale comes to my mind that's apposite Possibly true, probably false, a truth Such as all truths we live by, Cardinal! 'Tis said, a certain ancestor of mine Followed whoever was the potentate, To Paynimrie, and in some battle, broke Through more than due allowance of the foe And, risking much his own life, saved the lord's Battered and bruised, the Emperor scrambles up, Rubs his eyes and looks round and sees my sire, Picks a furze-sprig from out his hauberk-joint, (Token how near the ground went majesty) And says 'Take this, and, if thou get safe home, 'Plant the same in thy garden-ground to grow: 'Run thence an hour in a straight line, and stop: 'Describe a circle round (for central point) 'The furze aforesaid, reaching every way 'The length of that hour's run: I give it thee, 'The central point, to build a castle there, 'The circumjacent space, for fit demesne, 'The whole to be thy children's heritage, 'Whom, for my sake, bid thou wear furze on cap!' Those are my arms: we turned the furze a tree To show more, and the greyhound tied thereto, Straining to start, means swift and greedy both; He stands upon a triple mount of gold By Jove, then, he's escaping from true gold And trying to arrive at empty air! Aha! the fancy never crossed my mind! My father used to tell me, and subjoin 'As for the castle, that took wings and flew: 'The broad lands, why, to traverse them to-day 'Would task my gouty feet, though in my prime 'I doubt not I could stand and spit so far: 'But for the furze, boy, fear no lack of that, 'So long as fortune leaves one field to grub! 'Wherefore hurra for furze and loyalty!' What may I mean, where may the lesson lurk? 'Do not bestow on man by way of gift 'Furze without some substantial framework, grace 'Of purity, a furze-sprig of a wife, 'To me i' the thick of battle for my bread, 'Without some better dowry, house and land!' No other gift than sordid muck? Yes, Sir! Many more and much better. Give them me! O those Olimpias bold, those Biancas brave, That brought a husband will worth Ormuz' wealth! Cried 'Thou being mine, why, what but thine am I? 'Be thou to me law, right, wrong, heaven and hell! 'Let us blend souls, be thou in me to bid 'Two bodies work one pleasure! What are these 'Called king, priest, father, mother, stranger, friend? 'They fret thee or they frustrate? Give the word 'Be certain they shall frustrate nothing more! 'And who is this young florid foolishness 'That holds thy fortune in his pigmy clutch, 'Being a prince and potency, forsooth! 'And hesitates to let the trifle go? 'Let me but seal up eye, sing ear to sleep 'Sounder than Samson, pounce thou on the prize 'Shall slip from off my breast, and down couch-side 'And on to floor, and far as my lord's feet 'Where he stands in the shadow with the sword 'Waiting to see what Delilah dares do! 'Is the youth fair? What is a man to me 'Who am thy call-bird? Twist his neck my dupe's, 'Then take the breast shall turn a breast indeed!' Such women are there; and they marry whom? Why, when a man has gone and hanged himself Because of what he calls a wicked wife, See, if the turpitude, he makes his moan, Be not mere excellence the fool ignores! His monster is perfection, Circe, sent Straight from the sun, with rod the idiot blames As not an honest distaff to spin wool! O thou Lucrezia, is it long to wait Yonder where all the gloom is in a glow With thy suspected presence? virgin yet, Virtuous again in face of what's to teach Sin unimagined, unimaginable, I come to claim my bride, thy Borgia's self Not half the burning bridegroom I shall be! Cardinal, take away your crucifix! Abate, leave my lips alone, they bite! 'Tis vain you try to change, what should not change, And cannot. I have bared, you bathe my heart It grows the stonier for your saving dew! You steep the substance, you would lubricate, In waters that but touch to petrify! You too are petrifactions of a kind: Move not a muscle that shows mercy; rave Another twelve hours, every word were waste! I thought you would not slay impenitence, Teazed first contrition from the man you slew, I thought you had a conscience. Cardinal, You know I am wronged! wronged, say, and wronged maintain. Was this strict inquisition made for blood When first you showed us scarlet on your back, Called to the College? That straightforward way To that legitimate end, I think it passed Over a scantling of heads brained, hearts broke, Lives trodden into dust, how otherwise? Such is the way o' the world, and so you walk: Does memory haunt your pillow? Not a whit. God wills you never pace your garden-path One appetising hour ere dinner-time But your intrusion there treads out of life An universe of happy innocent things: Feel you remorse about that damsel-fly Which buzzed so near your mouth and flapped your face, You blotted it from being at a blow? It was a fly, you were a man, and more, Lord of created things, so took your course. Manliness, mind, these are things fit to save, Fit to brush fly from: why, because I take My course, must needs the Pope kill me? kill you! Because this instrument he throws away Is strong to serve a master: it were yours To have and hold and get such good from out! The Pope who dooms me, needs must die next year; I'll tell you how the chances are supposed For his successor: first the Chamberlain, Old San Cesario, Colloredo, next, Then, one, two, three, four, I refuse to name, After these, comes Altieri; then come you Seventh on the list you are, unless . . . ha, ha, How can a dead hand give a friend a lift? Are you the person to despise the help O' the head shall drop in pannier presently? So a child seesaws on or kicks away The fulcrum-stone that's all the sage requires To fit his lever to and move the world. Cardinal, I adjure you in God's name, Save my life, fall at the Pope's feet, set forth Things your own fashion, not in words like these Made for a sense like yours who apprehend! Translate into the court-conventional 'Count Guido must not die, is innocent! 'Fair, be assured! But what an he were foul, 'Blood-drenched and murder-crusted head to foot? 'Spare one whose death insults the Emperor, 'And outrages the Louis you so love! 'He has friends who will avenge him; enemies 'Who hate the church now with impunity 'Missing the old coercive: would you send 'A soul straight to perdition, dying frank 'An atheist?' Go and say this, for God's sake! Why, you don't think I hope you'll say one word? Neither shall I persuade you from your stand Nor you persuade me from my station: take Your crucifix away, I tell you twice! Come, I am tired of silence! Pause enough! You have prayed: I have gone inside my soul And shut its door behind me: 'tis your torch Makes the place dark, the darkness let alone Grows tolerable twilight, one may grope And get to guess at length and breadth and depth. What is this fact I feel persuaded of This something like a foothold in the sea, Although Saint Peter's bark scuds, billow-borne, Leaves me to founder where it flung me first? Spite of your splashing, I am high and dry! God takes his own part in each thing he made; Made for a reason, he conserves his work, Gives each its proper instinct of defence. My lamblike wife could neither bark nor bite, She bleated, bleated, till for pity pure, The village roused it, ran with pole and prong To the rescue, and behold the wolf's at bay! Shall he try bleating? or take turn or two, Since the wolf owns to kinship with the fox, And failing to escape the foe by these, Give up attempt, die fighting quietly? The last bad blow that strikes fire in at eye And on to brain, and so out, life and all, How can it but be cheated of a pang While, fighting quietly, the jaws enjoy Their re-embrace in mid back-bone they break, After their weary work thro' the foes' flesh? That's the wolf-nature. Don't mistake my trope! The Cardinal is qualmish! Eminence, My fight is figurative, blows i' the air, Brain-war with powers and principalities, Spirit-bravado, no real fisticuffs! I shall not presently, when the knock comes, Cling to this bench nor flee the hangman's face, No, trust me! I conceive worse lots than mine. Whether it be the old contagious fit And plague o' the prison have surprised me too, The appropriate drunkenness of the death-hour Creep on my sense, the work o' the wine and myrrh, I know not, I begin to taste my strength, Careless, gay even: what's the worth of life? The Pope is dead, my murderous old man, For Tozzi told me so: and you, forsooth Why, you don't think, Abate, do your best, You'll live a year more with that hacking cough And blotch of crimson where the cheek's a pit? Tozzi has got you also down in book. Cardinal, only seventh of seventy near, Is not one called Albano in the lot? Go eat your heart, you'll never be a Pope! Inform me, is it true you left your love, A Pucci, for promotion in the church? She's more than in the church, in the churchyard! Plautilla Pucci, your affianced bride, Has dust now in the eyes that held the love, And Martinez, suppose they make you Pope, Stops that with veto, so, enjoy yourself! I see you all reel to the rock, you waves Some forthright, some describe a sinuous track, Some crested, brilliantly with heads above, Some in a strangled swirl sunk who knows how, But all bound whither the main-current sets, Rockward, an end in foam for all of you! What if I am o'ertaken, pushed to the front By all you crowding smoother souls behind, And reach, a minute sooner than was meant, The boundary, whereon I break to mist? Go to! the smoothest safest of you all, Most perfect and compact wave in my train, Spite of the blue tranquillity above, Spite of the breadth before of lapsing peace Where broods the halcyon and the fish leaps free, Will presently begin to feel the prick At lazy heart, the push at torpid brain, Will rock vertiginously in turn, and reel, And, emulative, rush to death like me: Later or sooner by a minute then, So much for the untimeliness of death, And, as regards the manner that offends, The rude and rough, I count the same for gain Be the act harsh and quick! Undoubtedly The soul's condensed and, twice itself, expands To burst thro' life, in alternation due, Into the other state whate'er it prove. You never know what life means till you die: Even throughout life, 'tis death that makes life live, Gives it whatever the significance. For see, on your own ground and argument, Suppose life had no death to fear, how find A possibility of nobleness In man, prevented daring any more? What's love, what's faith without a worst to dread? Lack-lustre jewelry; but faith and love With death behind them bidding do or die Put such a foil at back, the sparkle's born! From out myself how the strange colours come! Is there a new rule in another world? Be sure I shall resign myself: as here I recognised no law I could not see, There, what I see, I shall acknowledge too: On earth I never took the Pope for God, In heaven I shall scarce take God for the Pope. Unmanned, remade: I hold it probable With something changeless at the heart of me To know me by, some nucleus that's myself: Accretions did it wrong? Away with them You soon shall see the use of fire! Till when, All that was, is; and must for ever be. Nor is it in me to unhate my hates, I use up my last strength to strike once more Old Pietro in the wine-house-gossip-face, To trample underfoot the whine and wile Of that Violante, and I grow one gorge To loathingly reject Pompilia's pale Poison my hasty hunger took for food. A strong tree wants no wreaths about its trunk, No cloying cups, no sickly sweet of scent, But sustenance at root, a bucketful. How else lived that Athenian who died so, Drinking hot bull's-blood, fit for men like me? I lived and died a man, and take man's chance, Honest and bold: right will be done to such. Who are these you have let descend my stair? Ha, their accursed psalm! Lights at the sill! Is it 'Open' they dare bid you? Treachery! Sirs, have I spoken one word all this while Out of the world of words I had to say? Not one word! All was folly I laughed and mocked! Sirs, my first true word all truth and no lie, Is save me notwithstanding! Life is all! I was just stark mad, let the madman live Pressed by as many chains as you please pile! Don't open! Hold me from them! I am yours, I am the Granduke's no, I am the Pope's! Abate, Cardinal, Christ, Maria, God, . . . Pompilia, will you let them murder me?

Old Love-Letters

Richard Le Gallienne

You ask and I send. It is well, yea! best: A lily hangs dead on its stalk, ah me! A dream hangs dead on a life it blest. Shall it flaunt its death where sad eyes may see In the cold dank wind of our memory? Shall we watch it rot like an empty nest? Love's ghost, poor pitiful mockery - Bury these shreds and behold it shall rest. And shall life fail if one dream be sped? For loss of one bloom shall the lily pass? Nay, bury these deep round the roots, for so In soil of old dreams do the new dreams grow, New 'Hail' is begot of the old 'Alas.' See, here are our letters, so sweet - so dead.

Nancy - A Song.

Robert Bloomfield

You ask me, dear Nancy, what makes me presume That you cherish a secret affection for me? When we see the Flow'rs bud, don't we look for the Bloom? Then, sweetest, attend, while I answer to thee. When we Young Men with pastimes the Twilight beguile, I watch your plump cheek till it dimples with joy: And observe, that whatever occasions the smile, You give me a glance; but provokingly coy. Last Month, when wild Strawberries pluckt in the Grove, Like beads on the tall seeded grass you had strung; You gave me the choicest; I hop'd 'twas for Love; And I told you my hopes while the Nightingale sung. Remember the Viper: - 'twas close at your feet; How you started, and threw yourself into my arms; Not a Strawberry there was so ripe nor so sweet As the lips which I kiss'd to subdue your alarms. As I pull'd down the clusters of Nuts for my Fair, What a blow I receiv'd from a strong bending bough; Though Lucy and other gay lasses were there, Not one of them show'd such compassion as you. And was it compassion? - by Heaven 'twas more! A telltale betrays you; - that blush on your cheek. Then come, dearest Maid, all your trifling give o'er, And whisper what Candour will teach you to speak. Can you stain my fair Honour with one broken vow? Can you say that I've ever occasion'd a pain? On Truth's honest base let your tenderness grow: I swear to be faithful, again and again.

De Nice Leetle Canadienne

William Henry Drummond

You can pass on de worl' w'erever you lak, Tak' de steamboat for go Angleterre, Tak' car on de State, an' den you come back, An' go all de place, I don't care, Ma frien' dat 's a fack, I know you will say, W'en you come on dis contree again, Dere 's no girl can touch, w'at we see ev'ry day, De nice leetle Canadienne. Don't matter how poor dat girl she may be, Her dress is so neat ab' so clean, Mos' ev'rywan t'ink it was mak' on Paree An' she wear it, wall! jus' lak de Queen. Den come for fin' out she is mak' it herse'f, For she ain't got moche monee for spen', But all de sam' tam, she was never get lef', Dat nice leetle Canadienne. W'en "un vrai Canayen" is mak' it mari'e, You t'ink he go leev on beeg flat An' bodder hese'f all de tam, night an' day, Wit' housemaid, an' cook, an' all dat? Not moche, ma dear frien', he tak' de maison, Cos' only nine dollar or ten, W'ere he leev lak blood rooster, an' save de l'argent, Wit' hees nice leetle Canadienne. I marry ma famme w'en I 'm jus' twenty year, An' now we got fine familee, Dat skip roun' de place lak leetle small deer, No smarter crowd you never see, An' I t'ink as I watch dem all chasin' about, Four boy an' six girl, she mak' ten, Dat 's help mebbe kip it, de stock from run out, Of de nice leetle Canadienne. O she 's quick an' she 's smart, an' got plaintee heart, If you know correc' way go about, An' if you don't know, she soon tole you so Den tak' de firs' chance an' get out; But if she love you, I spik it for true, She will mak' it more beautiful den, An' sun on de sky can't shine lak de eye Of dat nice leetle Canadienne.

To Be Amused

Henry Lawson

You ask me to be gay and glad While lurid clouds of danger loom, And vain and bad and gambling mad, Australia races to her doom. You bid me sing the light and fair, The dance, the glance on pleasure's wings, While you have wives who will not bear, And beer to drown the fear of things. A war with reason you would wage To be amused for your short span, Until your children's heritage Is claimed for China by Japan. The football match, the cricket score, The "scraps", the tote, the mad'ning Cup, You drunken fools that evermore "To-morrow morning" sober up! I see again with haggard eyes, The thirsty land, the wasted flood; Unpeopled plains beyond the skies, And precious streams that run to mud; The ruined health, the wasted wealth, In our mad cities by the seas, The black race suicide by stealth, The starved and murdered industries! You bid me make a farce of day, And make a mockery of death; While not five thousand miles away The yellow millions pant for breath! But heed me now, nor ask me this, Lest you too late should wake to find That hopeless patriotism is The strongest passion in mankind! You'd think the seer sees, perhaps, While staring on from days like these, Politeness in the conquering Japs, Or mercy in the banned Chinese! I mind the days when parents stood, And spake no word, while children ran From Christian lanes and deemed it good To stone a helpless Chinaman. I see the stricken city fall, The fathers murdered at their doors, The sack, the massacre of all Save healthy slaves and paramours, The wounded hero at the stake, The pure girl to the leper's kiss, God, give us faith, for Christ's own sake To kill our womankind ere this. I see the Bushman from Out Back, From mountain range and rolling downs, And carts race on each rough bush track With food and rifles from the towns; I see my Bushmen fight and die Amongst the torn blood-spattered trees, And hear all night the wounded cry For men! More men and batteries! I see the brown and yellow rule The southern lands and southern waves, White children in the heathen school, And black and white together slaves; I see the colour-line so drawn (I see it plain and speak I must), That our brown masters of the dawn Might, aye, have fair girls for their lusts! With land and life and race at stake, No matter which race wronged, or how, Let all and one Australia make A superhuman effort now. Clear out the blasting parasites, The paid-for-one-thing manifold, And curb the goggled "social-lights" That "scorch" to nowhere with our gold. Store guns and ammunition first, Build forts and warlike factories, Sink bores and tanks where drought is worst, Give over time to industries. The outpost of the white man's race, Where next his flag shall be unfurled, Make clean the place! Make strong the place! Call white men in from all the world!

You Are Old Father William

Lewis Carroll

"You are old, father William," the young man said, "And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head, Do you think, at your age, it is right? "In my youth," father William replied to his son, "I feared it might injure the brain; But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again." "You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before, And you have grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door, Pray what is the reason for that?" "In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks, "I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment, one shilling a box, Allow me to sell you a couple?" "You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak, Pray, how did you mange to do it?" "In my youth," said his fater, "I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life." "You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as every; Yet you balanced an eel on the tend of your nose, What made you so awfully clever?" "I have answered three questions, and that is enough," Said his father. "Don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs.

The Lost Lady

Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

You are the drowned, Star that I found Washed on the rim of the sea Before the morning. You are the little dying light That stopped me in the night. From the Arabic of John Duncan.

A Woman's Answer

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

You call me an angel of love and of light, A being of goodness and heavenly fire, Sent out from God's kingdom to guide you aright, In paths where your spirit may mount and aspire, You say that I glow like a star on its course, Like a ray from the altar, a spark from the source. Now list to my answer - let all the world hear it, I speak unafraid what I know to be true - A pure, faithful love is the creative spirit Which make women angels!    I live but in you. We are bound soul to soul by life's holiest laws; If I am an angel - why, you are the cause. As my ship skims the sea, I look up from the deck. Fair, firm at the wheel shines Love's beautiful form. And shall I curse the bark that last night went to wreck By the pilot abandoned to darkness and storm? My craft is no stauncher, she too had been lost Had the wheelman deserted, or slept at his post. I laid down the wealth of my soul at your feet (Some woman does this for some man every day). No desperate creature who walks in the street Has a wickeder heart than I might have, I say, Had you wantonly misused the treasures you won - As so many men with heart-riches have done. This fire from God's altar, this holy love-flame, That burns like sweet incense forever for you, Might now be a wild conflagration of shame, Had you tortured my heart, or been base or untrue. For angels and devils are cast in one mould, Till love guides them upward or downward, I hold. I tell you the women who make fervent wives And sweet tender mothers, had Fate been less fair, Are the women who might have abandoned their lives To the madness that springs from and ends in despair. As the fire on the hearth which sheds brightness around, Neglected, may level the walls to the ground. The world makes grave errors in judging these things. Great good and great evil are born in one breast: Love horns us and hoofs us, or gives us our wings, And the best could be worst, as the worst could be best. You must thank your own worth for what I grew to be, For the demon lurked under the angel in me.

Little Bateese

William Henry Drummond

YOU bad leetle boy, not moche you care How busy you're kipin' your poor gran'-pere Tryin to stop you ev'ry day Chasin' de hen aroun' de hay, W'y don't you geev' dem a chance to lay? Leetle Bateese! Off on de fiel' you foller de plough Den w'en you're tire you scare de cow Sickin' de dog till dey jomp de wall So de milk ain't good for not'ing at all, An' you're only five an' a half dis fall, Leetle Bateese! Too sleepy for sayin' de prayer to-night? Never min' I s'pose it'll be all right Say dem to-morrow'ah! dere he go! Fas' asleep in a minute or so, An' he'll stay lak dat till de rooster crow, Leetle Bateese! Den wake us up right away toute suite Lookin' for somet'ing more to eat, Makin' me t'ink of dem long again, I wonder your stomach don't get no pain, Leetle Bateese! But see heem now lyin' dere in bed, Look at de arm onderneat' hees head; If he grow lak dat till he's twenty year I bet he'll be stronger dan Louis Cyr An' beat all de voyageurs leevin' here, Leetle Bateese! Jus' feel de muscle along hees back, Won't geev' heem moche bodder for carry pack On de long portage, any size canoe, Dere's not many t'ing dat boy won't do For he's got double-joint on hees body too, Leetle Bateese! But leetle Bateese! please don't forget We rader you're stayin' de small boy yet, So chase de chicken an' mak' dem scare An' do w'at you lak wit' your ole gran'pere For w'en you're beeg feller he won't be dere, Leetle Bateese!

The Giver

Sara Teasdale

You bound strong sandals on my feet, You gave me bread and wine, And sent me under sun and stars, For all the world was mine. Oh, take the sandals off my feet, You know not what you do; For all my world is in your arms, My sun and stars are you.

Chanson Without Music By The Professor Emeritus Of Dead And Live Languages

Oliver Wendell Holmes

PHI BETA KAPPA. - CAMBRIDGE, 1867 You bid me sing, - can I forget The classic ode of days gone by, - How belle Fifine and jeune Lisette Exclaimed, "Anacreon, geron ei"? "Regardez done," those ladies said, - "You're getting bald and wrinkled too When summer's roses all are shed, Love 's nullum ite, voyez-vous!" In vain ce brave Anacreon's cry, "Of Love alone my banjo sings" (Erota mounon). "Etiam si, - Eh b'en?" replied the saucy things, - "Go find a maid whose hair is gray, And strike your lyre, - we sha'n't complain; But parce nobis, s'il vous plait, - Voila Adolphe! Voila Eugene!" Ah, jeune Lisette! Ah, belle Fifine! Anacreon's lesson all must learn; O kairos oxiis; Spring is green, But Acer Hyems waits his turn I hear you whispering from the dust, "Tiens, mon cher, c'est toujours so, - The brightest blade grows dim with rust, The fairest meadow white with snow!" You do not mean it! Not encore? Another string of playday rhymes? You 've heard me - nonne est?-before, Multoties,-more than twenty times; Non possum, - vraiment, - pas du tout, I cannot! I am loath to shirk; But who will listen if I do, My memory makes such shocking work? Ginosko. Scio. Yes, I 'm told Some ancients like my rusty lay, As Grandpa Noah loved the old Red-sandstone march of Jubal's day. I used to carol like the birds, But time my wits has quite unfixed, Et quoad verba, - for my words, - Ciel! Eheu! Whe-ew! - how they're mixed! Mehercle! Zeu! Diable! how My thoughts were dressed when I was young, But tempus fugit! see them now Half clad in rags of every tongue! O philoi, fratres, chers amis I dare not court the youthful Muse, For fear her sharp response should be, "Papa Anacreon, please excuse!" Adieu! I 've trod my annual track How long! - let others count the miles, - And peddled out my rhyming pack To friends who always paid in smiles. So, laissez-moi! some youthful wit No doubt has wares he wants to show; And I am asking, "Let me sit," Dum ille clamat, "Dos pou sto!"

Song I

Sara Teasdale

You bound strong sandals on my feet, You gave me bread and wine, And sent me under sun and stars, For all the world was mine. Oh, take the sandals off my feet, You know not what you do; For all my world is in your arms, My sun and stars are you.

Bertha's Eyes

Charles Baudelaire

You can scorn more illustrious eyes, sweet eyes of my child, through which there takes flight something as good or as tender as night. Turn to mine your charmed shadows, sweet eyes! Great eyes of a child, adorable secrets, you resemble those grottoes of magic where, behind the dark and lethargic, shine vague treasures the world forgets. My child has veiled eyes, profound and vast, and shining like you, Night, immense, above! Their fires are of Trust, mixed with thoughts of Love, that glitter in depths, voluptuous or chaste.

Pepys' "Diary"

Henry Austin Dobson

To One who asked why he wrote it. You ask me what was his intent? In truth, I'm not a German; 'Tis plain though that he neither meant A Lecture nor a Sermon. But there it is,--the thing's a Fact. I find no other reason But that some scribbling itch attacked Him in and out of season, To write what no one else should read, With this for second meaning, To "cleanse his bosom" (and indeed It sometimes wanted cleaning); To speak, as 'twere, his private mind, Unhindered by repression, To make his motley life a kind, Of Midas' ears confession; And thus outgrew this work per se,-- This queer, kaleidoscopic, Delightful, blabbing, vivid, free Hotch-pot of daily topic. So artless in its vanity, So fleeting, so eternal, So packed with "poor Humanity"-- We know as Pepys' his journal.[1]

Sonnet 57

Michael Drayton

You best discern'd of my interior eies, And yet your graces outwardly diuine, Whose deare remembrance in my bosome lies, Too riche a relique for so poore a shrine: You in whome Nature chose herselfe to view, When she her owne perfection would admire, Bestowing all her excellence on you; At whose pure eies Loue lights his halowed fire, Euen as a man that in some traunce hath scene, More than his wondring vttrance can vnfolde, That rapt in spirite in better worlds hath beene, So must your praise distractedly be tolde; Most of all short, when I should shew you most, In your perfections altogether lost.

The Bumblebee

James Whitcomb Riley

You better not fool with a Bumblebee! - Ef you don't think they can sting - you'll see! They're lazy to look at, an' kindo' go Buzzin' an' bummin' aroun' so slow, An' ac' so slouchy an' all fagged out, Danglin' their legs as they drone about The hollyhawks 'at they can't climb in 'Ithout ist a-tumble-un out agin! Wunst I watched one climb clean 'way In a jim'son-blossom, I did, one day, - An' I ist grabbed it - an' nen let go - An' "Ooh-ooh! Honey! I told ye so!" Says The Raggedy Man; an' he ist run An' pullt out the stinger, an' don't laugh none, An' says: "They has ben folks, I guess, 'At thought I wuz predjudust, more er less, - Yit I still muntain 'at a Bumblebee Wears out his welcome too quick fer me!"

Americans

Unknown

You can always tell the English, You can always tell the Dutch, You can always tell the Yankees - But you can't tell them much!

Father William

James Whitcomb Riley

A NEW VERSION BY LEE O. HARRIS AND JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY "You are old, Father William, and though one would think All the veins in your body were dry, Yet the end of your nose is red as a pink; I beg your indulgence, but why?" "You see," Father William replied, "in my youth - 'Tis a thing I must ever regret - It worried me so to keep up with the truth That my nose has a flush on it yet." "You are old," said the youth, "and I grieve to detect A feverish gleam in your eye; Yet I'm willing to give you full time to reflect. Now, pray, can you answer me why?" "Alas," said the sage, "I was tempted to choose Me a wife in my earlier years, And the grief, when I think that she didn't refuse, Has reddened my eyelids with tears." "You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And you never touch wine, you declare, Yet you sleep with your feet at the head of the bed; Now answer me that if you dare." "In my youth," said the sage, "I was told it was true, That the world turned around in the night; I cherished the lesson, my boy, and I knew That at morning my feet would be right." "You are old," said the youth, "and it grieved me to note, As you recently fell through the door, That 'full as a goose' had been chalked on your coat; Now answer me that I implore." "My boy," said the sage, "I have answered you fair, While you stuck to the point in dispute, But this is a personal matter, and there Is my answer - the toe of my boot."

Epigram.

Alexander Pope

You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come; Knock as you please, there's nobody at home.

Worn Out

Paul Laurence Dunbar

You bid me hold my peace And dry my fruitless tears, Forgetting that I bear A pain beyond my years. You say that I should smile And drive the gloom away; I would, but sun and smiles Have left my life's dark day. All time seems cold and void, And naught but tears remain; Life's music beats for me A melancholy strain. I used at first to hope, But hope is past and, gone; And now without a ray My cheerless life drags on. Like to an ash-stained hearth When all its fires are spent; Like to an autumn wood By storm winds rudely shent,-- So sadly goes my heart, Unclothed of hope and peace; It asks not joy again, But only seeks release.

Song

John Collings Squire, Sir

You are my sky; beneath your circling kindness My meadows all take in the light and grow; Laugh with the joy you've given, The joy you've given, And open in a thousand buds, and blow. But when you are sombre, sad, averse, forgetful, Heavily veiled by clouds that brood with rain, Dumbly I lie all shadowed, I lie all shadowed, And dumbly wait for you to shine again.

Mary, Pity Women!

Rudyard Kipling

You call yourself a man, For all you used to swear, An' Leave me, as you can, My certain shame to bear? I'ear! You do not care, You done the worst you know. I 'ate you, grinnin' there.... Ah, Gawd, I love you so! Nice while it lasted, an' now it is over, Tear out your 'eart an' good-bye to you lover! What's the use o' grievin', when the mother that bore you (Mary, pity women!) knew it all before you? It aren't no false alarm, The finish to your fun; You, you 'ave brung the 'arm, An' I'm the ruined one! An' now you'll off an' run With some new fool in tow. Your 'eart? You 'aven't none... Ah, Gawd, I love you so! When a man is tired there is naught will bind 'im All 'e solemn promised 'e will shove be'ind 'im. What's the good o' prayin' for The Wrath to strike 'im (Mary, pity women!), when the rest are like 'im? What 'ope for me or, it? What's left for us to do? I've walked with men a bit, But this, but this is you. So 'elp me, Christ, it's true! Where can I 'de or go? You coward through and through!... Ah, Gawd, I love you so! All the more you give 'em the less are they for givin', Love lies dead, an' you cannot kiss 'im livin'. Down the road 'e led you there is no returnin' (Mary, pity women!), but you're late in learnin'! You'd like to treat me fair? You can't, because we're pore? We'd starve? What do I care! We might, but this is shore! I want the name, no more, The name, an' lines to show, An' not to be an 'ore.... Ah, Gawd, I love you so! What the good o' pleadin', when the mother that bore you (Mary, pity women!) knew it all before you? Sleep on 'is promises an' wake to your sorrow (Mary, pity women!), for we sail to-morrow!

Arcades Ambo

Robert Browning

A. You blame me that I ran away? Why, Sir, the enemy advanced: Balls flew about, and who can say But one, if I stood firm, had glanced In my direction? Cowardice? I only know we don't live twice, Therefore, shun death, is my advice. B. Shun death at all risks? Well, at some True, I myself, Sir, though I scold The cowardly, by no means come Under reproof as overbold I, who would have no end of brutes Cut up alive to guess what suits My case and saves my toe from shoots.

Wrecked Illusions

Victor James Daley

Dedicated to Louis Becke You are now in London town, Louis Becke, Keeping up your old renown, Writing yarns of women brown, Getting yellow money down, Or a cheque. That is right enough, maybe, You are wise; But your Isles of the South Sea, Where the life is bold and free, You may have them all for me, Dash your eyes! I armful of you, I am, To the neck; And I cannot think with a calm Of your tales "By Reef and Palm" But I have to mutter    "D----n Louis Becke!" You have lined, the press records (Not in joke), At the hospitable boards Of a lot of dukes and lords, And beguiled them with you words, Simple folk! Yet I would not envy you, Be it said, if the tales you told were true As they were unique and new, But you made them all up, Loo, In your head. Never, as in days of yore, (You will see) On your pages shall I pore, With their yarns of love and gore, Never, Louis, anymore Becke for me. I'd rejoice to have you here (You might grieve!) With your pen behind your ear, In this clammy atmosphere, Where it rains all round the year, I believe. O, you made a fine renown! Mr. B., With your yarns of women brown, And the red hibiscus crown On the black hair hanging down To the knee. I have seen in Santa Cruz, (Bet your life!) Women browner than tan shoes, And I'd rather die than choose Any on of them as Muse, Or as wife. They had hair limed freely, but Wore no wreath; They (a) mouths of comic cut, Mounts that hardly ever shut, Red with chewing betel-nut, And black teeth. And their tank ears hung in loops, And were well Loaded down with rings in groups, Blocks of wood, and things like scoops, and their noses shone with hoops Made of shell. They exhales a perfume rare (Potent yet, Even in this strong sea-air) Of its name I'm not aware, But it was not, I can swear, Mignonette. Could Romance live there? Alas, It took wings! Louis, you can take the class, You can have the lot, I pass, With their petticoats of grass, And nose-rings And your traders, Grand old Drunks, Where are they? I have seen some queer quidnuncs Who go sober to their bunks, And are temperate as monks, Sad to say. They were clothed in suits of white, Fresh and neat; And no marks of recent fight Marred their countenances bright, And they spoke in words polite, Clean and sweet. If this Reehabitish crew, This tame lot, Are indeed the models true Of the Traders bold you drew, Then I really think that you Should be shot. You may say in weak excuse, Being gnawed By your conscience, that the loose Stories that you did produce Dealt with other isles. No use! You're a Fraud! Well, my Last Illusion so Come to wreck. 'Tis your fault, as well you know, Yet I would not wish you woe, But you know where liars go, Louis Becke!

PAIN.

Margaret Steele Anderson

You eat the heart of life like some great beast, You blacken the sweet sky, that God made blue! You are the death's-head set amid the feast, The desert breath, that drinks up every dew! And no man lives that doth not fear you, Pain! And no man lives that learns to love your rod; The white lip smiles, but ever and again God's image cries your horror unto God! And yet, 0, Terrible! men grant you this: You work a mystery; when you are done, Lo! common living changes into bliss, Lo! the mere light is as the noonday sun!

The Lily In A Crystal.

Robert Herrick

You have beheld a smiling rose When virgins' hands have drawn O'er it a cobweb-lawn; And here you see this lily shows, Tomb'd in a crystal stone, More fair in this transparent case Than when it grew alone And had but single grace. You see how cream but naked is Nor dances in the eye Without a strawberry, Or some fine tincture like to this, Which draws the sight thereto More by that wantoning with it Than when the paler hue No mixture did admit. You see how amber through the streams More gently strokes the sight With some conceal'd delight Than when he darts his radiant beams Into the boundless air; Where either too much light his worth Doth all at once impair, Or set it little forth. Put purple grapes or cherries in- To glass, and they will send More beauty to commend Them from that clean and subtle skin Than if they naked stood, And had no other pride at all But their own flesh and blood And tinctures natural. Thus lily, rose, grape, cherry, cream, And strawberry do stir More love when they transfer A weak, a soft, a broken beam, Than if they should discover At full their proper excellence; Without some scene cast over To juggle with the sense. Thus let this crystal'd lily be A rule how far to teach Your nakedness must reach; And that no further than we see Those glaring colours laid By art's wise hand, but to this end They should obey a shade, Lest they too far extend. So though you're white as swan or snow, And have the power to move A world of men to love, Yet when your lawns and silks shall flow, And that white cloud divide Into a doubtful twilight, then, Then will your hidden pride Raise greater fires in men.

A Chapter Of Froissart.

Henry Austin Dobson

(Grandpapa Loquitur.) You don't know Froissart now, young folks. This age, I think, prefers recitals Of high-spiced crime, with "slang" for jokes, And startling titles; But, in my time, when still some few Loved "old Montaigne," and praised Pope's Homer (Nay, thought to style him "poet" too, Were scarce misnomer), Sir John was less ignored. Indeed, I can re-call how Some-one present (Who spoils her grandson, Frank!) would read And find him pleasant; For,--by this copy,--hangs a Tale. Long since, in an old house in Surrey, Where men knew more of "morning ale" Than "Lindley Murray," In a dim-lighted, whip-hung hall, 'Neath Hogarth's "Midnight Conversation," It stood; and oft 'twixt spring and fall, With fond elation, I turned the brown old leaves. For there All through one hopeful happy summer, At such a page (I well knew where), Some secret comer, Whom I can picture, 'Trix, like you (Though scarcely such a colt unbroken), Would sometimes place for private view A certain token;-- A rose-leaf meaning "Garden Wall," An ivy-leaf for "Orchard corner," A thorn to say "Don't come at all,"-- Unwelcome warner!-- Not that, in truth, our friends gainsaid; But then Romance required dissembling, (Ann Radcliffe taught us that!) which bred Some genuine trembling; Though, as a rule, all used to end In such kind confidential parley As may to you kind Fortune send, You long-legged Charlie, When your time comes. How years slip on! We had our crosses like our betters; Fate sometimes looked askance upon Those floral letters; And once, for three long days disdained, The dust upon the folio settled; For some-one, in the right, was pained, And some-one nettled, That sure was in the wrong, but spake Of fixed intent and purpose stony To serve King George, enlist and make Minced-meat of "Boney," Who yet survived--ten years at least. And so, when she I mean came hither, One day that need for letters ceased, She brought this with her! Here is the leaf-stained Chapter:--How The English King laid Siege to Calais; I think Gran. knows it even now,-- Go ask her, Alice.

At Half-Mast

Emily Pauline Johnson

You didn't know Billy, did you? Well, Bill was one of the boys, The greatest fellow you ever seen to racket an' raise a noise, - An' sing! say, you never heard singing 'nless you heard Billy sing. I used to say to him, "Billy, that voice that you've got there'd bring A mighty sight more bank-notes to tuck away in your vest, If only you'd go on the concert stage instead of a-ranchin' West." An' Billy he'd jist go laughin', and say as I didn't know A robin's whistle in springtime from a barnyard rooster's crow. But Billy could sing, an' I sometimes think that voice lives anyhow, - That perhaps Bill helps with the music in the place he's gone to now. The last time that I seen him was the day he rode away; He was goin' acrost the plain to catch the train for the East next day. 'Twas the only time I ever seen poor Bill that he didn't laugh Or sing, an' kick up a rumpus an' racket around, and chaff, For he'd got a letter from his folks that said for to hurry home, For his mother was dyin' away down East an' she wanted Bill to come. Say, but the feller took it hard, but he saddled up right away, An' started across the plains to take the train for the East, next day. Sometimes I lie awake a-nights jist a-thinkin' of the rest, For that was the great big blizzard day, when the wind come down from west, An' the snow piled up like mountains an' we couldn't put foot outside, But jist set into the shack an' talked of Bill on his lonely ride. We talked of the laugh he threw us as he went at the break o' day, An' we talked of the poor old woman dyin' a thousand mile away. Well, Dan O'Connell an' I went out to search at the end of the week, Fer all of us fellers thought a lot, - a lot that we darsn't speak. We'd been up the trail about forty mile, an' was talkin' of turnin' back, But Dan, well, he wouldn't give in, so we kep' right on to the railroad track. As soon as we sighted them telegraph wires says Dan, "Say, bless my soul! Ain't that there Bill's red handkerchief tied half way up that pole?" Yes, sir, there she was, with her ends a-flippin' an' flyin' in the wind, An' underneath was the envelope of Bill's letter tightly pinned. "Why, he must a-boarded the train right here," says Dan, but I kinder knew That underneath them snowdrifts we would find a thing or two; Fer he'd writ on that there paper, "Been lost fer hours, - all hope is past. You'll find me, boys, where my handkerchief is flyin' at half-mast."

His Favorite Role

Ringgold Wilmer Lardner

You could be president as well as not, Since all you'd have to do is think you were, With that imagination that you've got; Or multimillionaire if you prefer, Or you could be some famous football star, Or Tyrus Cobb, admired by ev'ry fan; Instead of that, you tell me that you are The Garbage Man. Why pick him out, when you can take your choice? Is his so charming, nice, and sweet a role That acting it should make you to rejoice And be a source of comfort to your soul? Is there some hidden happiness that he Uncovers in his march from can to can That you above all else should want to be The Garbage Man?

Bendy's Sermon

Arthur Conan Doyle

[Bendigo, the well-known Nottingham prize fighter, became converted to religion, and preached at revival meetings throughout the country.] You didn't know of Bendigo! Well, that knocks me out! Who's your board school teacher? What's he been about? Chock-a-block with fairy-tales full of useless cram, And never heard o' Bendigo, the pride of Nottingham! Bendy's short for Bendigo. You should see him peel! Half of him was whalebone, half of him was steel, Fightin' weight eleven ten, five foot nine in height, Always ready to oblige if you want a fight. I could talk of Bendigo from here to king- dom come, I guess before I ended you would wish your dad was dumb. I'd tell you how he fought Ben Caunt, and how the deaf 'un fell, But the game is done, and the men are gone and maybe it's as well. Bendy he turned Methodist—he said he felt a call, He stumped the country preachin' and you bet he filled the hall, If you seed him in the pulpit, a-bleatin' like a lamb, You'd never know bold Bendigo, the pride of Nottingham. His hat was like a funeral, he'd got a waiter's coat, With a hallelujah collar and a choker round his throat, His pals would laugh and say in chaff that Bendigo was right, In takin' on the devil, since he'd no one else to fight. But he was very earnest, improvin' day by day, A-workin' and a-preachin' just as his duty lay, But the devil he was waitin', and in the final bout, He hit him hard below his guard and knocked poor Bendy out. Now I'll tell you how it happened. He was preachin' down at Brum, He was billed just like a circus, you should see the people come, The chapel it was crowded, and in the fore- most row, There was half a dozen bruisers who'd a grudge at Bendigo. There was Tommy Piatt of Bradford, Solly Jones of Perry Bar, Long Connor from the Bull Ring, the same wot drew with Carr, Jack Ball the fightin gunsmith, Joe Mur- phy from the Mews, And Iky Moss, the bettin' boss, the Champion of the Jews. A very pretty handful a-sittin' in a string, Full of beer and impudence, ripe for any- thing, Sittin' in a string there, right under Bendy's nose, If his message was for sinners, he could make a start on those. Soon he heard them chaflin'; "Hi, Bendy! Here's a go!" "How much are you coppin' by this Jump to Glory show?" "Stow it, Bendy! Left the ring! Mighty spry of you! Didn't everybody know the ring was leavin' you." Bendy fairly sweated as he stood above and prayed, "Look down, O Lord, and grip me with a strangle hold!" he said. "Fix me with a strangle hold! Put a stop on me! I'm slippin', Lord, I'm slippin' and I'm clingin' hard to Thee!" But the roughs they kept on chaffin' and the uproar it was such That the preacher in the pulpit might be talkin' double Dutch, Till a workin' man he shouted out, a- jumpin' to his feet, "Give us a lead, your reverence, and heave 'em in the street." Then Bendy said, "Good Lord, since first I left my sinful ways, Thou knowest that to Thee alone I've given up my days, But now, dear Lord"—and here he laid his Bible on the shelf— "I'll take, with your permission, just five minutes for myself." He vaulted from the pulpit like a tiger from a den, They say it was a lovely sight to see him floor his men; Right and left, and left and right, straight and true and hard, Till the Ebenezer Chapel looked more like a knacker's yard. Platt was standin' on his back and lookup at his toes, Solly Jones of Perry Bar was feelin' for his nose, Connor of the Bull Ring had all that he could do Rakin' for his ivories that lay about the pew. Jack Ball the fightin' gunsmith was in a peaceful sleep, Joe Murphy lay across him, all tied up in a heap, Five of them was twisted in a tangle on the floor, And Iky Moss, the bettin' boss, had sprinted for the door. Five repentant fightin' men, sitting in a row, Listenin' to words of grace from Mister Bendigo, Listenin' to his reverence all as good as gold, Pretty little baa-lambs, gathered to the fold. So that's the way that Bendy ran his mission in the slum, And preached the Holy Gospel to the fightin' men of Brum, "The Lord," said he, "has given me His message from on high, And if you interrupt Him, I will know the reason why." But to think of all your schooling clean wasted, thrown away, Darned if I can make out what you're learnin' all the day, Grubbin' up old fairy-tales, fillin' up with cram, And didn't know of Bendigo, the pride of Nottingham.

Victor Rafolski On Art

Edgar Lee Masters

You dull Goliaths clothed in coats of blue, Strained and half bursted by the swell of flesh, Topped by Gorilla heads. You Marmoset, Trained scoundrel, taught to question and ensnare, I hate you, hate your laws and hate your courts. Hands off, give me a chair, now let me be. I'll tell you more than you can think to ask me. I love this woman, but what is love to you? What is it to your laws or courts? I love her. She loves me, if you'd know. I entered her room - She stood before me naked, shrank a little, Cried out a little, calmed her sudden cry When she saw amiable passion in my eyes - She loves me, if you'd know. I saw in her eyes More in those moments than whole hours of talk From witness stands exculpate could make clear My innocence. But if I did a crime My excuse is hunger, hunger for more life. Oh what a world, where beauty, rapture, love Are walled in and locked up like coal or food And only may he had by purchasers From whose fat fingers slip the unheeded gold. Oh what a world where beauty lies in waste, While power and freedom skulk with famished lips Too tightly pressed for curses. So do men, Save for the thousandth man, deny themselves And live in meagreness to make sure a life Of meagreness by hearth stones long since stale; And live in ways, companionships as fixed As the geared figures of the Strassburg clock. You wonder at war? Why war lets loose desires, Emotions long repressed. Would you stop war? Then let men live. The moral equivalent Of war is freedom. Art does not suffice - Religion is not life, but life is living. And painted cherries to the hungry thrush Is art to life. The artist lived his work. You cannot live his life who love his work. You are the thrush that pecks at painted cherries Who hope to live through art. Beer-soaked Goliaths, The story's coming of her nakedness Be patient for a time. All this I learned While painting pictures no one ever bought, Till hunger drove me to this servile work As butler in her father's house, with time On certain days to walk the galleries And look at pictures, marbles. For I saw I was not living while I painted pictures. I was not living working for a crust, I was not living walking galleries: All this was but vicarious life which felt Through gazing at the thing the artist made, In memory of the life he lived himself: As we preserve the fragrance of a flower By drawing off its essence in a bottle, Where color, fluttering leaves, are thrown away To get the inner passion of the flower Extracted to a bottle that a queen May act the flower's part. Say what you will, Make laws to strangle life, shout from your pulpits, Your desks of editors, your woolsack benches Where judges sit, that this dull hypocrite, You call the State, has fashioned life aright - The secret is abroad, from eye to eye The secret passes from poor eyes that wink In boredom, in fatigue, in furious strength Roped down or barred, that what the human heart Dreams of and hopes for till the aspiring flame Flaps in the guttered candle and goes out, Is love for body and for spirit, love To satisfy their hunger. Yet what is it, This earth, this life, what is it but a meadow Where spirits are left free a little while Within a little space, so long as strength, Flesh, blood increases to the day of use As roasts or stews wherewith this witless beast, Society may feed himself and keep His olden shape and power? Fools go crop The herbs they turn you to, and starve yourself For what you want, and count it righteousness, No less you covet love. Poor shadows sighing, Across the curtain racing! Mangled souls Pecking so feebly at the painted cherries, Inhaling from a bottle what was lived These summers gone! You know, and scarce deny That what we men desire are horses, dogs, Loves, women, insurrections, travel, change, Thrill in the wreck and rapture for the change, And re-adjusted order. As I turned From painting and from art, yet found myself Full of all lusts while bound to menial work Where my eyes daily rested on this woman A thought came to me like a little spark One sees far down the darkness of a cave, Which grows into a flame, a blinding light As one approaches it, so did this thought Both burn and blind me: For I loved this woman, I wanted her, why should I lose this woman? What was there to oppose possession? Will? Her will, you say? I am not sure, but then Which will is better, mine or hers? Which will Deserves achievement? Which has rights above The other? I desire her, her desire Is not toward me, which of these two desires Shall triumph? Why not mine for me and hers For her, at least the stronger must prevail, And wreck itself or bend all else before it. That millionaire who wooed her, tried in vain To overwhelm her will with gold, and I With passion, boldness would have overwhelmed it, And what's the difference? But as I said I walked the galleries. When I stood in the yard Bare armed, bare throated at my work, she came And gazed upon me from her window. I Could feel the exhausting influence of her eyes. Then in a concentration which was blindness To all else, so bewilderment of mind, I'd go to see Watteau's Antiope Where he sketched Zeus in hunger, drawing back The veil that hid her sleeping nakedness. There was Correggio's too, on whom a satyr Smiled for his amorous wonder. A Semele, Done by an unknown hand, a thing of lightning Moved through by Zeus who seized her as the flames Consumed her ravished beauty. So I looked, And trembled, then returned perhaps to find Her eyes upon me conscious, calm, elate, And radiate with lashes of surprise, Delight as when a star is still but shines. And on this night somehow our natures worked To climaxes. For first she dressed for dinner To show more back and bosom than before. And as I served her, her down-looking eyes Were more than glances. Then she dropped her napkin. Before I could begin to bend she leaned And let me see - oh yes, she let me see The white foam of her little breasts caressing The scarlet flame of silk, a swooning shore Of bright carnations. It was from such foam That Venus rose. And as I stooped and gave The napkin to her she pushed out a foot, And then I coughed for breath grown short, and she Concealed a smile - and you, you jailers laugh Coarse-mouthed, and mock my hunger. I go on, Observe how courage, boldness mark my steps! At nine o'clock she climbs to her boudoir. I finding errands in the hallway hear The desultory taking up of books, And through her open door, see her at last Cast off her dinner gown and to the bath Step like a ray of moonlight. Then she snaps The light on where the onyx tub and walls Dazzle the air. I enter then her room And stand against the closed door, do not pry Upon her in the bath. Give her the chance To fly me, fight me standing face to face. I hear her flounder in the water, hear Hands slap and slip with water breast and arms; Hear little sighs and shudders and the roughness Of crash towels on her back, when in a minute She stands with back toward me in the doorway, A sea-shell glory, pink and white to hair Sun-lit, a lily crowned with powdered gold. She turned toward her dresser then and shook White dust of talcum on her arms, and looked So lovingly upon her tense straight breasts, Touching them under with soft tapering hands To blue eyes deepening like a brazier flame Turned by a sudden gust. Who gives her these, The thought ran through me, for her joy alone And not for mine? So I stood there like Zeus Coming in thunder to Semele, like The diety of Watteau. Correggio Had never painted me a satyr there Drinking her beauty in, so worshipful, My will subdued in worship of her beauty To obey her will. And then she turned and saw me, And faced me in her nakedness, nor tried To hide it from me, faced me immovable A Mona Lisa smile upon her lips. And let me plead my cause, make known my love, Speak out my torture, wearing still the smile. Let me approach her till I almost touched The whiteness of her bosom. Then it seemed That smile of hers not wilting me she clapped Hands over eyes and said: "I am afraid - Oh no, it cannot be - what would they say?" Then rushing in the bathroom, quick she slammed The door and shrieked: "You scoundrel, go - you beast." My dream went up like paper charred and whirled Above a hearth. Thrilling I stood alone Amid her room and saw my life, our life Embodied in this woman lately there Lying and cowardly. And as I turned To leave the room, her father and the gardener Pounced on me, threw me down a flight of stairs And turned me over, stunned, to you the law Here with these others who have stolen coal To keep them warm, as I have stolen beauty To keep from freezing in this arid country Of winter winds on which the dust of custom Rides like a fog. Now do your worst to me!

Woman To Man

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Woman is man's enemy, rival, and competitor. - JOHN. J. INGALLS. You do but jest, sir, and you jest not well, How could the hand be enemy of the arm, Or seed and sod be rivals!    How could light Feel jealousy of heat, plant of the leaf, Or competition dwell 'twixt lip and smile? Are we not part and parcel of yourselves? Like strands in one great braid we entertwine And make the perfect whole.    You could not be, Unless we gave you birth; we are the soil From which you sprang, yet sterile were that soil Save as you planted.    (Though in the Book we read One woman bore a child with no man's aid, We find no record of a man-child born Without the aid of woman!    Fatherhood Is but a small achievement at the best, While motherhood comprises heaven and hell.) This ever-growing argument of sex Is most unseemly, and devoid of sense. Why waste more time in controversy, when There is not time enough for all of love, Our rightful occupation in this life? Why prate of our defects, of where we fail, When just the story of our worth would need Eternity for telling, and our best Development comes ever through your praise, As through our praise you reach your highest self? Oh! had you not been miser of your praise And let our virtues be their own reward, The old-established order of the world Would never have been changed.    Small blame is ours For this unsexing of ourselves, and worse. Effeminising of the male.    We were Content, sir, till you starved us, heart and brain. All we have done, or wise, or otherwise, Traced to the root, was done for love of you. Let us taboo all vain comparisons, And go forth as God meant us, hand in hand, Companions, mates, and comrades evermore; Two parts of one divinely ordained whole.