Back Aa

Fly Leaves

Close

<h1>FLY LEAVES</h1> BY C. S. CALVERLEY, <h2>MORNING.</h2> ’Tis the hour when white-horsed Day Chases Night her mares away; When the Gates of Dawn (they say)    Ph&oelig;bus opes: And I gather that the Queen May be uniformly seen, Should the weather be serene,    On the slopes. When the ploughman, as he goes Leathern-gaitered o’er the snows, From his hat and from his nose    Knocks the ice; And the panes are frosted o’er, And the lawn is crisp and hoar, As has been observed before    Once or twice. When arrayed in breastplate red Sings the robin, for his bread, On the elmtree that hath shed    Every leaf; While, within, the frost benumbs The still sleepy schoolboy’s thumbs, And in consequence his sums    Come to grief. But when breakfast-time hath come, And he’s crunching crust and crumb, He’ll no longer look a glum    Little dunce; But be brisk as bees that settle On a summer rose’s petal: Wherefore, Polly, put the kettle    On at once. <h2>EVENING.</h2> Kate! if e’er thy light foot lingers    On the lawn, when up the fells Steals the Dark, and fairy fingers    Close unseen the pimpernels: When, his thighs with sweetness laden,    From the meadow comes the bee, And the lover and the maiden    Stand beneath the trysting tree:— Lingers on, till stars unnumber’d    Tremble in the breeze-swept tarn, And the bat that all day slumber’d    Flits about the lonely barn; And the shapes that shrink from garish    Noon are peopling cairn and lea; And thy sire is almost bearish    If kept waiting for his tea:— And the screech-owl scares the peasant    As he skirts some churchyard drear; And the goblins whisper pleasant    Tales in Miss Rossetti’s ear; Importuning her in strangest,    Sweetest tones to buy their fruits:— O be careful that thou changest,    On returning home, thy boots. <h2>SHELTER.</h2> By the wide lake’s margin I mark’d her lie—    The wide, weird lake where the alders sigh— A young fair thing, with a shy, soft eye;    And I deem’d that her thoughts had flown To her home, and her brethren, and sisters dear, As she lay there watching the dark, deep mere,    All motionless, all alone. Then I heard a noise, as of men and boys,    And a boisterous troop drew nigh. Whither now will retreat those fairy feet?    Where hide till the storm pass by? One glance—the wild glance of a hunted thing— She cast behind her; she gave one spring; And there follow’d a splash and a broadening ring    On the lake where the alders sigh. She had gone from the ken of ungentle men!    Yet scarce did I mourn for that; For I knew she was safe in her own home then, And, the danger past, would appear again,    For she was a water-rat. <h2>IN THE GLOAMING.</h2> In the Gloaming to be roaming, where the crested waves are foaming,    And the shy mermaidens combing locks that ripple to their feet; When the Gloaming is, I never made the ghost of an endeavour    To discover—but whatever were the hour, it would be sweet. “To their feet,” I say, for Leech’s sketch indisputably teaches    That the mermaids of our beaches do not end in ugly tails, Nor have homes among the corals; but are shod with neat balmorals,    An arrangement no one quarrels with, as many might with scales. Sweet to roam beneath a shady cliff, of course with some young lady,    Lalage, Neæra, Haidee, or Elaine, or Mary Ann: Love, you dear delusive dream, you!  Very sweet your victims deem you,    When, heard only by the seamew, they talk all the stuff one can. Sweet to haste, a licensed lover, to Miss Pinkerton the glover,    Having managed to discover what is dear Neæra’s “size”: p. 10P’raps to touch that wrist so slender, as your tiny gift you tender,    And to read you’re no offender, in those laughing hazel eyes. Then to hear her call you “Harry,” when she makes you fetch and carry—    O young men about to marry, what a blessed thing it is! To be photograph’d—together—cased in pretty Russia leather—    Hear her gravely doubting whether they have spoilt your honest phiz! Then to bring your plighted fair one first a ring—a rich and rare one—    Next a bracelet, if she’ll wear one, and a heap of things beside; And serenely bending o’er her, to inquire if it would bore her    To say when her own adorer may aspire to call her bride! Then, the days of courtship over, with your WIFE to start for Dover    Or Dieppe—and live in clover evermore, whate’er befalls: For I’ve read in many a novel that, unless they’ve souls that grovel,    Folks prefer in fact a hovel to your dreary marble halls: To sit, happy married lovers; Phillis trifling with a plover’s    Egg, while Corydon uncovers with a grace the Sally Lunn, Or dissects the lucky pheasant—that, I think, were passing pleasant;    As I sit alone at present, dreaming darkly of a Dun. <h2>THE PALACE.</h2> They come, they come, with fife and drum,    And gleaming pikes and glancing banners: Though the eyes flash, the lips are dumb;    To talk in rank would not be manners. Onward they stride, as Britons can; The ladies following in the Van. Who, who be these that tramp in threes    Through sumptuous Piccadilly, through The roaring Strand, and stand at ease    At last ’neath shadowy Waterloo? Some gallant Guild, I ween, are they; Taking their annual holiday. p. 14To catch the destin’d train—to pay    Their willing fares, and plunge within it— Is, as in old Romaunt they say,    With them the work of half-a-minute. Then off they’re whirl’d, with songs and shouting, To cedared Sydenham for their outing. I mark’d them light, with faces bright    As pansies or a new coin’d florin, And up the sunless stair take flight,    Close-pack’d as rabbits in a warren. Honour the Brave, who in that stress Still trod not upon Beauty’s dress! Kerchief in hand I saw them stand;    In every kerchief lurk’d a lunch; When they unfurl’d them, it was grand    To watch bronzed men and maidens crunch The sounding celery-stick, or ram The knife into the blushing ham. p. 15Dash’d the bold fork through pies of pork;    O’er hard-boil’d eggs the saltspoon shook; Leapt from its lair the playful cork:    Yet some there were, to whom the brook Seem’d sweetest beverage, and for meat They chose the red root of the beet. Then many a song, some rather long,    Came quivering up from girlish throats; And one young man he came out strong,    And gave “The Wolf” without his notes. While they who knew not song or ballad Still munch’d, approvingly, their salad. But ah! what bard could sing how hard,    The artless banquet o’er, they ran Down the soft slope with daisies starr’d    And kingcups! onward, maid with man, They flew, to scale the breezy swing, Or court frank kisses in the ring. p. 16Such are the sylvan scenes that thrill    This heart!  The lawns, the happy shade, Where matrons, whom the sunbeams grill,    Stir with slow spoon their lemonade; And maidens flirt (no extra charge) In comfort at the fountain’s marge! Others may praise the “grand displays”    Where “fiery arch,” “cascade,” and “comet,” Set the whole garden in a “blaze”!    Far, at such times, may I be from it; Though then the public may be “lost In wonder” at a trifling cost. Fann’d by the breeze, to puff at ease    My faithful pipe is all I crave: And if folks rave about the “trees    Lit up by fireworks,” let them rave. Your monster fêtes, I like not these; Though they bring grist to the lessees. <h2>PEACE. A STUDY.</h2> He stood, a worn-out City clerk—    Who’d toil’d, and seen no holiday, For forty years from dawn to dark—    Alone beside Caermarthen Bay. He felt the salt spray on his lips;    Heard children’s voices on the sands; Up the sun’s path he saw the ships    Sail on and on to other lands; And laugh’d aloud.  Each sight and sound    To him was joy too deep for tears; He sat him on the beach, and bound    A blue bandana round his ears: p. 18And thought how, posted near his door,    His own green door on Camden Hill, Two bands at least, most likely more,    Were mingling at their own sweet will Verdi with Vance.  And at the thought    He laugh’d again, and softly drew That Morning Herald that he’d bought    Forth from his breast, and read it through. <h2>THE ARAB.</h2>    On, on, my brown Arab, away, away! Thou hast trotted o’er many a mile to-day, And I trow right meagre hath been thy fare Since they roused thee at dawn from thy straw-piled lair, To tread with those echoless unshod feet Yon weltering flats in the noontide heat, Where no palmtree proffers a kindly shade And the eye never rests on a cool grass blade; And lank is thy flank, and thy frequent cough Oh! it goes to my heart—but away, friend, off!    And yet, ah! what sculptor who saw thee stand, As thou standest now, on thy Native Strand, With the wild wind ruffling thine uncomb’d hair, And thy nostril upturn’d to the od’rous air, Would not woo thee to pause till his skill might trace At leisure the lines of that eager face; The collarless neck and the coal-black paws And the bit grasp’d tight in the massive jaws; The delicate curve of the legs, that seem Too slight for their burden—and, O, the gleam Of that eye, so sombre and yet so gay! Still away, my lithe Arab, once more away!    Nay, tempt me not, Arab, again to stay; Since I crave neither Echo nor Fun to-day. For thy hand is not Echoless—there they are Fun, Glowworm, and Echo, and Evening Star: And thou hintest withal that thou fain would’st shine, As I con them, these bulgy old boots of mine. But I shrink from thee, Arab!  Thou eat’st eel-pie, Thou evermore hast at least one black eye; There is brass on thy brow, and thy swarthy hues Are due not to nature but handling shoes; And the hit in thy mouth, I regret to see, Is a bit of tobacco-pipe—Flee, child, flee! <h2>LINES ON HEARING THE ORGAN.</h2> Grinder, who serenely grindest    At my door the Hundredth Psalm, Till thou ultimately findest    Pence in thy unwashen palm: Grinder, jocund-hearted Grinder,    Near whom Barbary’s nimble son, Poised with skill upon his hinder    Paws, accepts the proffered bun: Dearly do I love thy grinding;    Joy to meet thee on thy road Where thou prowlest through the blinding    Dust with that stupendous load, p. 23’Neath the baleful star of Sirius,    When the postmen slowlier jog, And the ox becomes delirious,    And the muzzle decks the dog. Tell me by what art thou bindest    On thy feet those ancient shoon: Tell me, Grinder, if thou grindest    Always, always out of tune. Tell me if, as thou art buckling    On thy straps with eager claws, Thou forecastest, inly chuckling,    All the rage that thou wilt cause. Tell me if at all thou mindest    When folks flee, as if on wings, From thee as at ease thou grindest:    Tell me fifty thousand things. p. 24Grinder, gentle-hearted Grinder!    Ruffians who led evil lives, Soothed by thy sweet strains, are kinder    To their bullocks and their wives: Children, when they see thy supple    Form approach, are out like shots; Half-a-bar sets several couple    Waltzing in convenient spots; Not with clumsy Jacks or Georges:    Unprofaned by grasp of man Maidens speed those simple orgies,    Betsey Jane with Betsey Ann. As they love thee in St. Giles’s    Thou art loved in Grosvenor Square: None of those engaging smiles is    Unreciprocated there. p. 25Often, ere yet thou hast hammer’d    Through thy four delicious airs, Coins are flung thee by enamour’d    Housemaids upon area stairs: E’en the ambrosial-whisker’d flunkey    Eyes thy boots and thine unkempt Beard and melancholy monkey    More in pity than contempt. Far from England, in the sunny    South, where Anio leaps in foam, Thou wast rear’d, till lack of money    Drew thee from thy vineclad home: And thy mate, the sinewy Jocko,    From Brazil or Afric came, Land of simoom and sirocco—    And he seems extremely tame. p. 26There he quaff’d the undefilèd    Spring, or hung with apelike glee, By his teeth or tail or eyelid,    To the slippery mango-tree: There he woo’d and won a dusky    Bride, of instincts like his own; Talk’d of love till he was husky    In a tongue to us unknown: Side by side ’twas theirs to ravage    The potato ground, or cut Down the unsuspecting savage    With the well-aim’d cocoa-nut:— Till the miscreant Stranger tore him    Screaming from his blue-faced fair; And they flung strange raiment o’er him,    Raiment which he could not bear: p. 27Sever’d from the pure embraces    Of his children and his spouse, He must ride fantastic races    Mounted on reluctant sows: But the heart of wistful Jocko    Still was with his ancient flame In the nutgroves of Morocco;    Or if not it’s all the same. Grinder, winsome grinsome Grinder!    They who see thee and whose soul Melts not at thy charms, are blinder    Than a trebly-bandaged mole: They to whom thy curt (yet clever)    Talk, thy music and thine ape, Seem not to be joys for ever,    Are but brutes in human shape. p. 28’Tis not that thy mien is stately,    ’Tis not that thy tones are soft; ’Tis not that I care so greatly    For the same thing play’d so oft: But I’ve heard mankind abuse thee;    And perhaps it’s rather strange, But I thought that I would choose thee    For encomium, as a change. <h2>CHANGED.</h2> I know not why my soul is rack’d    Why I ne’er smile as was my wont: I only know that, as a fact,       I don’t. I used to roam o’er glen and glade    Buoyant and blithe as other folk: And not unfrequently I made       A joke. A minstrel’s fire within me burn’d,    I’d sing, as one whose heart must break, Lay upon lay: I nearly learn’d       To shake. All day I sang; of love, of fame,    Of fights our fathers fought of yore, Until the thing almost became       A bore. I cannot sing the old songs now!    It is not that I deem them low; ’Tis that I can’t remember how       They go. I could not range the hills till high    Above me stood the summer moon: And as to dancing, I could fly       As soon. The sports, to which with boyish glee    I sprang erewhile, attract no more; Although I am but sixty-three       Or four. Nay, worse than that, I’ve seem’d of late    To shrink from happy boyhood—boys Have grown so noisy, and I hate       A noise. They fright me, when the beech is green,    By swarming up its stem for eggs: They drive their horrid hoops between       My legs:— It’s idle to repine, I know;    I’ll tell you what I’ll do instead: I’ll drink my arrowroot, and go       To bed. <h2>FIRST LOVE.</h2> O my earliest love, who, ere I number’d    Ten sweet summers, made my bosom thrill! Will a swallow—or a swift, or some bird—    Fly to her and say, I love her still? Say my life’s a desert drear and arid,    To its one green spot I aye recur: Never, never—although three times married—    Have I cared a jot for aught but her. No, mine own! though early forced to leave you,    Still my heart was there where first we met; In those “Lodgings with an ample sea-view,”    Which were, forty years ago, “To Let.” p. 33There I saw her first, our landlord’s oldest    Little daughter.  On a thing so fair Thou, O Sun,—who (so they say) beholdest    Everything,—hast gazed, I tell thee, ne’er. There she sat—so near me, yet remoter    Than a star—a blue-eyed bashful imp: On her lap she held a happy bloater,    ’Twixt her lips a yet more happy shrimp. And I loved her, and our troth we plighted    On the morrow by the shingly shore: In a fortnight to be disunited    By a bitter fate for evermore. O my own, my beautiful, my blue eyed!    To be young once more, and bite my thumb At the world and all its cares with you, I’d    Give no inconsiderable sum. p. 34Hand in hand we tramp’d the golden seaweed,    Soon as o’er the gray cliff peep’d the dawn: Side by side, when came the hour for tea, we’d    Crunch the mottled shrimp and hairy prawn:— Has she wedded some gigantic shrimper,    That sweet mite with whom I loved to play? Is she girt with babes that whine and whimper,    That bright being who was always gay? Yes—she has at least a dozen wee things!    Yes—I see her darning corduroys, Scouring floors, and setting out the tea-things,    For a howling herd of hungry boys, In a home that reeks of tar and sperm-oil!    But at intervals she thinks, I know, Of those days which we, afar from turmoil,    Spent together forty years ago. p. 35O my earliest love, still unforgotten,    With your downcast eyes of dreamy blue! Never, somehow, could I seem to cotton    To another as I did to you! <h2>WANDERERS.</h2> As o’er the hill we roam’d at will,    My dog and I together, We mark’d a chaise, by two bright bays    Slow-moved along the heather: Two bays arch neck’d, with tails erect    And gold upon their blinkers; And by their side an ass I spied;    It was a travelling tinker’s. The chaise went by, nor aught cared I;    Such things are not in my way: I turn’d me to the tinker, who    Was loafing down a by-way: p. 37I ask’d him where he lived—a stare    Was all I got in answer, As on he trudged: I rightly judged    The stare said, “Where I can, sir.” I ask’d him if he’d take a whiff    Of ’bacco; he acceded; He grew communicative too,    (A pipe was all he needed,) Till of the tinker’s life, I think,    I knew as much as he did. “I loiter down by thorp and town;    For any job I’m willing; Take here and there a dusty brown,    And here and there a shilling. “I deal in every ware in turn,    I’ve rings for buddin’ Sally That sparkle like those eyes of her’n;    I’ve liquor for the valet. p. 38“I steal from th’ parson’s strawberry-plots,    I hide by th’ squire’s covers; I teach the sweet young housemaids what’s    The art of trapping lovers. “The things I’ve done ’neath moon and stars    Have got me into messes: I’ve seen the sky through prison bars.    I’ve torn up prison dresses. “I’ve sat, I’ve sigh’d, I’ve gloom’d, I’ve glanced    With envy at the swallows That through the window slid, and danced    (Quite happy) round the gallows; “But out again I come, and show    My face nor care a stiver For trades are brisk and trades are slow,    But mine goes on for ever.” Thus on he prattled like a babbling brook. Then I, “The sun hath slipt behind the hill, And my aunt Vivian dines at half-past six.” So in all love we parted; I to the Hall, They to the village.  It was noised next noon That chickens had been miss’d at Syllabub Farm. <h2>SAD MEMORIES.</h2> They tell me I am beautiful: they praise my silken hair, My little feet that silently slip on from stair to stair: They praise my pretty trustful face and innocent grey eye; Fond hands caress me oftentimes, yet would that I might die! Why was I born to be abhorr’d of man and bird and beast? The bulfinch marks me stealing by, and straight his song hath ceased; The shrewmouse eyes me shudderingly, then flees; and, worse than that, The housedog he flees after me—why was I born a cat? Men prize the heartless hound who quits dry-eyed his native land; Who wags a mercenary tail and licks a tyrant hand. The leal true cat they prize not, that if e’er compell’d to roam Still flies, when let out of the bag, precipitately home. They call me cruel.  Do I know if mouse or songbird feels? I only know they make me light and salutary meals: And if, as ’tis my nature to, ere I devour I tease ’em, Why should a low-bred gardener’s boy pursue me with a besom? Should china fall or chandeliers, or anything but stocks— Nay stocks, when they’re in flowerpots—the cat expects hard knocks: Should ever anything be missed—milk, coals, umbrellas, brandy— The cat’s pitch’d into with a boot or any thing that’s handy. “I remember, I remember,” how one night I “fleeted by,” And gain’d the blessed tiles and gazed into the cold clear sky. “I remember, I remember, how my little lovers came;” And there, beneath the crescent moon, play’d many a little game. They fought—by good St. Catharine, ’twas a fearsome sight to see The coal-black crest, the glowering orbs, of one gigantic He. Like bow by some tall bowman bent at Hastings or Poictiers, His huge back curved, till none observed a vestige of his ears: He stood, an ebon crescent, flouting that ivory moon; Then raised the pibroch of his race, the Song without a Tune; p. 43Gleam’d his white teeth, his mammoth tail waved darkly to and fro, As with one complex yell he burst, all claws, upon the foe. It thrills me now, that final Miaow—that weird unearthly din: Lone maidens heard it far away, and leap’d out of their skin. A potboy from his den o’erhead peep’d with a scared wan face; Then sent a random brickbat down, which knock’d me into space. Nine days I fell, or thereabouts: and, had we not nine lives, I wis I ne’er had seen again thy sausage-shop, St. Ives! Had I, as some cats have, nine tails, how gladly I would lick The hand, and person generally, of him who heaved that brick! For me they fill the milkbowl up, and cull the choice sardine: But ah! I nevermore shall be the cat I once have been! The memories of that fatal night they haunt me even now: In dreams I see that rampant He, and tremble at that Miaow. <h2>COMPANIONS. A TALE OF A GRANDFATHER. By the Author of “Dewy Memories,” &c.</h2>    I know not of what we ponder’d       Or made pretty pretence to talk,    As, her hand within mine, we wander’d       Tow’rd the pool by the limetree walk, While the dew fell in showers from the passion flowers    And the blush-rose bent on her stalk.    I cannot recall her figure:       Was it regal as Juno’s own?    Or only a trifle bigger       Than the elves who surround the throne Of the Faëry Queen, and are seen, I ween,    By mortals in dreams alone?    What her eyes were like, I know not:       Perhaps they were blurr’d with tears;    And perhaps in your skies there glow not       (On the contrary) clearer spheres. No! as to her eyes I am just as wise    As you or the cat, my dears.    Her teeth, I presume, were “pearly”:       But which was she, brunette or blonde?    Her hair, was it quaintly curly,       Or as straight as a beadle’s wand? That I fail’d to remark;—it was rather dark    And shadowy round the pond.    Then the hand that reposed so snugly       In mine—was it plump or spare?    Was the countenance fair or ugly?       Nay, children, you have me there! My eyes were p’raps blurr’d; and besides I’d heard    That it’s horribly rude to stare.    And I—was I brusque and surly?       Or oppressively bland and fond?    Was I partial to rising early?       Or why did we twain abscond, All breakfastless too, from the public view    To prowl by a misty pond?    What pass’d, what was felt or spoken—       Whether anything pass’d at all—    And whether the heart was broken       That beat under that shelt’ring shawl— (If shawl she had on, which I doubt)—has gone,    Yes, gone from me past recall.    Was I haply the lady’s suitor?       Or her uncle?  I can’t make out—    Ask your governess, dears, or tutor.       For myself, I’m in hopeless doubt As to why we were there, who on earth we were,    And what this is all about. <h2>BALLAD.</h2> The auld wife sat at her ivied door,    (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) A thing she had frequently done before;    And her spectacles lay on her apron’d knees. The piper he piped on the hill-top high,    (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) Till the cow said “I die,” and the goose ask’d “Why?”    And the dog said nothing, but search’d for fleas. The farmer he strode through the square farmyard;    (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) His last brew of ale was a trifle hard—    The connexion of which with the plot one sees. p. 49The farmer’s daughter hath frank blue eyes;    (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies,    As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas. The farmer’s daughter hath ripe red lips;    (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) If you try to approach her, away she skips    Over tables and chairs with apparent ease. The farmer’s daughter hath soft brown hair;    (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And I met with a ballad, I can’t say where,    Which wholly consisted of lines like these. <h3>Part II.</h3> She sat with her hands ’neath her dimpled cheeks,    (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And spake not a word.  While a lady speaks    There is hope, but she didn’t even sneeze. p. 50She sat, with her hands ’neath her crimson cheeks;    (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) She gave up mending her father’s breeks,    And let the cat roll in her new chemise. She sat, with her hands ’neath her burning cheeks,    (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks;    Then she follow’d him out o’er the misty leas. Her sheep follow’d her, as their tails did them.    (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And this song is consider’d a perfect gem,    And as to the meaning, it’s what you please. <h2>PRECIOUS STONES. AN INCIDENT IN MODERN HISTORY.</h2> My Cherrystones!  I prize them,    No tongue can tell how much! Each lady caller eyes them,    And madly longs to touch! At eve I lift them down, I look    Upon them, and I cry; Recalling how my Prince ‘partook’    (Sweet word!) of cherry-pie! To me it was an Era    In life, that Dejeuner! They ate, they sipp’d Madeira    Much in the usual way. Many a soft item there would be,    No doubt, upon the carte: But one made life a heaven to me:    It was the cherry-tart. Lightly the spoonfuls enter’d    That mouth on which the gaze Of ten fair girls was centred    In rapturous amaze. Soon that august assemblage clear’d    The dish; and—as they ate— The stones, all coyly, re-appear’d    On each illustrious plate. And when His Royal Highness    Withdrew to take the air, Waiving our natural shyness,    We swoop’d upon his chair. Policemen at our garments clutch’d:    We mock’d those feeble powers; And soon the treasures that had touch’d    Exalted lips were ours! One large one—at the moment    It seem’d almost divine— Was got by that Miss Beaumont:    And three, O three, are mine! Yes! the three stones that rest beneath    Glass, on that plain deal shelf, Stranger, once dallied with the teeth    Of Royalty itself. Let Parliament abolish    Churches and States and Thrones: With reverent hand I’ll polish    Still, still my Cherrystones! A clod—a piece of orange-peel    An end of a cigar— Once trod on by a Princely heel,    How beautiful they are! Years since, I climb’d Saint Michael    His Mount:—you’ll all go there Of course, and those who like’ll    Sit in Saint Michael’s Chair: For there I saw, within a frame,    The pen—O heavens! the pen— With which a Duke had sign’d his name,    And other gentlemen. “Great among geese,” I faltered,    “Is she who grew that quill!” And, Deathless Bird, unalter’d    Is mine opinion still. Yet sometimes, as I view my three    Stones with a thoughtful brow, I think there possibly might be    E’en greater geese than thou. <h2>DISASTER.</h2> ’Twas ever thus from childhood’s hour!    My fondest hopes would not decay: I never loved a tree or flower    Which was the first to fade away! The garden, where I used to delve    Short-frock’d, still yields me pinks in plenty: The peartree that I climb’d at twelve    I see still blossoming, at twenty. I never nursed a dear gazelle;    But I was given a parroquet— (How I did nurse him if unwell!)    He’s imbecile, but lingers yet. He’s green, with an enchanting tuft;    He melts me with his small black eye: He’d look inimitable stuff’d,    And knows it—but he will not die! I had a kitten—I was rich    In pets—but all too soon my kitten Became a full-sized cat, by which    I’ve more than once been scratch’d and bitten. And when for sleep her limbs she curl’d    One day beside her untouch’d plateful, And glided calmly from the world,    I freely own that I was grateful. And then I bought a dog—a queen!    Ah Tiny, dear departing pug! She lives, but she is past sixteen    And scarce can crawl across the rug. I loved her beautiful and kind;    Delighted in her pert Bow-wow: But now she snaps if you don’t mind;    ’Twere lunacy to love her now. I used to think, should e’er mishap    Betide my crumple visaged Ti, In shape of prowling thief, or trap,    Or coarse bull-terrier—I should die. But ah! disasters have their use;    And life might e’en be too sunshiny: Nor would I make myself a goose,    If some big dog should swallow Tiny. <h2>CONTENTMENT. AFTER THE MANNER OF HORACE.</h2> Friend, there be they on whom mishap    Or never or so rarely comes, That, when they think thereof, they snap       Derisive thumbs: And there be they who lightly lose    Their all, yet feel no aching void; Should aught annoy them, they refuse       To be annoy’d: And fain would I be e’en as these!    Life is with such all beer and skittles; They are not difficult to please       About their victuals: p. 60The trout, the grouse, the early pea,    By such, if there, are freely taken; If not, they munch with equal glee       Their bit of bacon: And when they wax a little gay    And chaff the public after luncheon, If they’re confronted with a stray       Policeman’s truncheon, They gaze thereat with outstretch’d necks,    And laughter which no threats can smother, And tell the horror-stricken X       That he’s another. In snowtime if they cross a spot    Where unsuspected boys have slid, They fall not down—though they would not       Mind if they did: p. 61When the spring rosebud which they wear    Breaks short and tumbles from its stem, No thought of being angry e’er       Dawns upon them; Though ’twas Jemima’s hand that placed,    (As well you ween) at evening’s hour, In the loved button-hole that chaste       And cherish’d flower. And when they travel, if they find    That they have left their pocket-compass Or Murray or thick boots behind,       They raise no rumpus, But plod serenely on without:    Knowing it’s better to endure The evil which beyond all doubt       You cannot cure. p. 62When for that early train they’re late,    They do not make their woes the text Of sermons in the Times, but wait       On for the next; And jump inside, and only grin    Should it appear that that dry wag, The guard, omitted to put in       Their carpet-bag. <h2>THE SCHOOLMASTER ABROAD WITH HIS SON.</h2> O what harper could worthily harp it,    Mine Edward! this wide-stretching wold (Look out wold) with its wonderful carpet    Of emerald, purple, and gold! Look well at it—also look sharp, it       Is getting so cold. The purple is heather (erica);    The yellow, gorse—call’d sometimes “whin.” Cruel boys on its prickles might spike a    Green beetle as if on a pin. You may roll in it, if you would like a       Few holes in your skin. p. 64You wouldn’t?  Then think of how kind you    Should be to the insects who crave Your compassion—and then, look behind you    At you barley-ears!  Don’t they look brave As they undulate—(undulate, mind you,       From unda, a wave). The noise of those sheep-bells, how faint it    Sounds here—(on account of our height)! And this hillock itself—who could paint it,    With its changes of shadow and light? Is it not—(never, Eddy, say “ain’t it”)—       A marvellous sight? Then yon desolate eerie morasses,    The haunts of the snipe and the hern— (I shall question the two upper classes    On aquatiles, when we return)— Why, I see on them absolute masses       Of filix or fern. p. 65How it interests e’en a beginner    (Or tiro) like dear little Ned! Is he listening?  As I am a sinner    He’s asleep—he is wagging his head. Wake up!  I’ll go home to my dinner,       And you to your bed. The boundless ineffable prairie;    The splendour of mountain and lake With their hues that seem ever to vary;    The mighty pine-forests which shake In the wind, and in which the unwary       May tread on a snake; And this wold with its heathery garment—    Are themes undeniably great. But—although there is not any harm in’t—    It’s perhaps little good to dilate On their charms to a dull little varmint       Of seven or eight. <h2>ARCADES AMBO.</h2>    Why are ye wandering aye ’twixt porch and porch,       Thou and thy fellow—when the pale stars fade    At dawn, and when the glowworm lights her torch,       O Beadle of the Burlington Arcade?       —Who asketh why the Beautiful was made?    A wan cloud drifting o’er the waste of blue,       The thistledown that floats above the glade,    The lilac-blooms of April—fair to view, And naught but fair are these; and such, I ween, are you.    Yes, ye are beautiful.  The young street boys       Joy in your beauty.  Are ye there to bar    Their pathway to that paradise of toys,       Ribbons and rings?  Who’ll blame ye if ye are?       Surely no shrill and clattering crowd should mar    The dim aisle’s stillness, where in noon’s mid-glow       Trip fair-hair’d girls to boot-shop or bazaar;    Where, at soft eve, serenely to and fro The sweet boy-graduates walk, nor deem the pastime slow.    And O! forgive me, Beadles, if I paid       Scant tribute to your worth, when first ye stood    Before me robed in broadcloth and brocade       And all the nameless grace of Beadlehood!       I would not smile at ye—if smile I could    Now as erewhile, ere I had learn’d to sigh:       Ah, no!  I know ye beautiful and good,    And evermore will pause as I pass by, And gaze, and gazing think, how base a thing am I. <h2>WAITING.</h2> “O come, O come,” the mother pray’d    And hush’d her babe: “let me behold Once more thy stately form array’d    Like autumn woods in green and gold! “I see thy brethren come and go;    Thy peers in stature, and in hue Thy rivals.  Same like monarchs glow    With richest purple: some are blue “As skies that tempt the swallow back;    Or red as, seen o’er wintry seas, The star of storm; or barr’d with black    And yellow, like the April bees. p. 70“Come they and go!  I heed not, I.    Yet others hail their advent, cling All trustful to their side, and fly    Safe in their gentle piloting “To happy homes on heath or hill,    By park or river.  Still I wait And peer into the darkness: still    Thou com’st not—I am desolate. “Hush! hark!  I see a towering form!    From the dim distance slowly roll’d It rocks like lilies in a storm,    And O, its hues are green and gold: “It comes, it comes!  Ah rest is sweet,    And there is rest, my babe, for us!” She ceased, as at her very feet    Stopp’d the St. John’s Wood omnibus. <h2>PLAY.</h2> Play, play, while as yet it is day: While the sweet sunlight is warm on the brae! Hark to the lark singing lay upon lay, While the brown squirrel eats nuts on the spray And in the apple-leaves chatters the jay! Play, play, even as they! What though the cowslips ye pluck will decay, What though the grass will be presently hay? What though the noise that ye make should dismay Old Mrs. Clutterbuck over the way? Play, play, for your locks will grow gray; Even the marbles ye sport with are clay.    Play, ay in the crowded highway: Was it not made for you?  Yea, my lad, yea. True that the babes you were bid to convey Home may fall out or be stolen or stray; True that the tip-cat you toss about may Strike an old gentleman, cause him to sway, Stumble, and p’raps be run o’er by a dray: Still why delay?  Play, my son, play! Barclay and Perkins, not you, have to pay.    Play, play, your sonatas in A, Heedless of what your next neighbour may say! Dance and be gay as a faun or a fay, Sing like the lad in the boat on the bay; Sing, play—if your neighbours inveigh Feebly against you, they’re lunatics, eh? Bang, twang, clatter and clang, Strum, thrum, upon fiddle and drum; Neigh, bray, simply obey All your sweet impulses, stop not or stay! Rattle the “bones,” hit a tinbottom’d tray Hard with the fireshovel, hammer away! Is not your neighbour your natural prey? Should he confound you, it’s only in play. <h2>LOVE.</h2> Canst thou love me, lady?    I’ve not learn’d to woo: Thou art on the shady    Side of sixty too. Still I love thee dearly!    Thou hast lands and pelf: But I love thee merely    Merely for thyself. Wilt thou love me, fairest?    Though thou art not fair; And I think thou wearest    Someone-else’s hair. Thou could’st love, though, dearly:    And, as I am told, Thou art very nearly    Worth thy weight, in gold. Dost thou love me, sweet one?    Tell me that thou dost! Women fairly beat one,    But I think thou must. Thou art loved so dearly:    I am plain, but then Thou (to speak sincerely)    Art as plain again. Love me, bashful fairy!    I’ve an empty purse: And I’ve “moods,” which vary;    Mostly for the worse. Still, I love thee dearly:    Though I make (I feel) Love a little queerly,    I’m as true as steel. Love me, swear to love me    (As, you know, they do) By yon heaven above me    And its changeless blue. Love me, lady, dearly,    If you’ll be so good; Though I don’t see clearly    On what ground you should. Love me—ah or love me    Not, but be my bride! Do not simply shove me    (So to speak) aside! p. 77P’raps it would be dearly    Purchased at the price; But a hundred yearly    Would be very nice. <h2>THOUGHTS AT A RAILWAY STATION.</h2> ’Tis but a box, of modest deal;    Directed to no matter where: Yet down my cheek the teardrops steal— Yes, I am blubbering like a seal; For on it is this mute appeal,       “With care.” I am a stern cold man, and range    Apart: but those vague words “With care” Wake yearnings in me sweet as strange: Drawn from my moral Moated Grange, I feel I rather like the change       Of air. p. 79Hast thou ne’er seen rough pointsmen spy    Some simple English phrase—“With care” Or “This side uppermost”—and cry Like children?  No?  No more have I. Yet deem not him whose eyes are dry       A bear. But ah! what treasure hides beneath    That lid so much the worse for wear? A ring perhaps—a rosy wreath— A photograph by Vernon Heath— Some matron’s temporary teeth       Or hair! Perhaps some seaman, in Peru    Or Ind, hath stow’d herein a rare Cargo of birds’ eggs for his Sue; With many a vow that he’ll be true, And many a hint that she is too,       Too fair. p. 80Perhaps—but wherefore vainly pry    Into the page that’s folded there? I shall be better by and by: The porters, as I sit and sigh, Pass and repass—I wonder why       They stare! <h2>ON THE BRINK.</h2> I watch’d her as she stoop’d to pluck    A wildflower in her hair to twine; And wish’d that it had been my luck       To call her mine. Anon I heard her rate with mad    Mad words her babe within its cot; And felt particularly glad       That it had not. I knew (such subtle brains have men)    That she was uttering what she shouldn’t; And thought that I would chide, and then       I thought I wouldn’t: p. 82Who could have gazed upon that face,    Those pouting coral lips, and chided? A Rhadamanthus, in my place,       Had done as I did: For ire wherewith our bosoms glow    Is chain’d there oft by Beauty’s spell; And, more than that, I did not know       The widow well. So the harsh phrase pass’d unreproved.    Still mute—(O brothers, was it sin?)— I drank, unutterably moved,       Her beauty in: And to myself I murmur’d low,    As on her upturn’d face and dress The moonlight fell, “Would she say No,       By chance, or Yes?” p. 83She stood so calm, so like a ghost    Betwixt me and that magic moon, That I already was almost       A finish’d coon. But when she caught adroitly up    And soothed with smiles her little daughter; And gave it, if I’m right, a sup       Of barley-water; And, crooning still the strange sweet lore    Which only mothers’ tongues can utter, Snow’d with deft hand the sugar o’er       Its bread and butter; And kiss’d it clingingly—(Ah, why    Don’t women do these things in private?)— I felt that if I lost her, I       Should not survive it: p. 84And from my mouth the words nigh flew—    The past, the future, I forgat ’em: “Oh! if you’d kiss me as you do       That thankless atom!” But this thought came ere yet I spake,    And froze the sentence on my lips: “They err, who marry wives that make       Those little slips.” It came like some familiar rhyme,    Some copy to my boyhood set; And that’s perhaps the reason I’m       Unmarried yet. Would she have own’d how pleased she was,    And told her love with widow’s pride? I never found out that, because       I never tried. p. 85Be kind to babes and beasts and birds:    Hearts may be hard, though lips are coral; And angry words are angry words:       And that’s the moral. <h2>“FOREVER.”</h2> Forever; ’tis a single word!    Our rude forefathers deem’d it two: Can you imagine so absurd       A view? Forever!  What abysms of woe    The word reveals, what frenzy, what Despair!  For ever (printed so)       Did not. It looks, ah me! how trite and tame!    It fails to sadden or appal Or solace—it is not the same       At all. p. 87O thou to whom it first occurr’d    To solder the disjoin’d, and dower Thy native language with a word       Of power: We bless thee!  Whether far or near    Thy dwelling, whether dark or fair Thy kingly brow, is neither here       Nor there. But in men’s hearts shall be thy throne,    While the great pulse of England beats: Thou coiner of a word unknown       To Keats! And nevermore must printer do    As men did long ago; but run “For” into “ever,” bidding two       Be one. p. 88Forever! passion-fraught, it throws    O’er the dim page a gloom, a glamour: It’s sweet, it’s strange; and I suppose       It’s grammar. Forever!  ’Tis a single word!    And yet our fathers deem’d it two: Nor am I confident they err’d;       Are you? <h2>UNDER THE TREES.</h2> “Under the trees!”  Who but agrees That there is magic in words such as these? Promptly one sees shake in the breeze Stately lime-avenues haunted of bees: Where, looking far over buttercupp’d leas, Lads and “fair shes” (that is Byron, and he’s An authority) lie very much at their ease; Taking their teas, or their duck and green peas, Or, if they prefer it, their plain bread and cheese: Not objecting at all though it’s rather a squeeze And the glass is, I daresay, at 80 degrees. Some get up glees, and are mad about Ries And Sainton, and Tamberlik’s thrilling high Cs; Or if painters, hold forth upon Hunt and Maclise, And the tone and the breadth of that landscape of Lee’s; Or if learned, on nodes and the moon’s apogees, Or, if serious, on something of AKHB’s, Or the latest attempt to convert the Chaldees; Or in short about all things, from earthquakes to fleas. Some sit in twos or (less frequently) threes, With their innocent lambswool or book on their knees, And talk, and enact, any nonsense you please, As they gaze into eyes that are blue as the seas; And you hear an occasional “Harry, don’t tease” From the sweetest of lips in the softest of keys, And other remarks, which to me are Chinese. And fast the time flees; till a ladylike sneeze, Or a portly papa’s more elaborate wheeze, Makes Miss Tabitha seize on her brown muffatees, And announce as a fact that it’s going to freeze, And that young people ought to attend to their Ps And their Qs, and not court every form of disease: Then Tommy eats up the three last ratafias, And pretty Louise wraps her robe de cerise Round a bosom as tender as Widow Machree’s, And (in spite of the pleas of her lorn vis-a-vis) Goes to wrap up her uncle—a patient of Skey’s, Who is prone to catch chills, like all old Bengalese:— But at bedtime I trust he’ll remember to grease The bridge of his nose, and preserve his rupees From the premature clutch of his fond legatees; Or at least have no fees to pay any M. D.s For the cold his niece caught, sitting under the Trees. <h2>MOTHERHOOD.</h2> She laid it where the sunbeams fall Unscann’d upon the broken wall. Without a tear, without a groan, She laid it near a mighty stone, Which some rude swain had haply cast Thither in sport, long ages past, And Time with mosses had o’erlaid, And fenced with many a tall grassblade, And all about bid roses bloom And violets shed their soft perfume. There, in its cool and quiet bed, She set her burden down and fled: Nor flung, all eager to escape, One glance upon the perfect shape That lay, still warm and fresh and fair, But motionless and soundless there.    No human eye had mark’d her pass Across the linden-shadow’d grass Ere yet the minster clock chimed seven: Only the innocent birds of heaven— The magpie, and the rook whose nest Swings as the elmtree waves his crest— And the lithe cricket, and the hoar And huge-limb’d hound that guards the door, Look’d on when, as a summer wind That, passing, leaves no trace behind, All unapparell’d, barefoot all, She ran to that old ruin’d wall, To leave upon the chill dank earth (For ah! she never knew its worth) ’Mid hemlock rank, and fern, and ling, And dews of night, that precious thing!    And there it might have lain forlorn From morn till eve, from eve to morn: But that, by some wild impulse led, The mother, ere she turn’d and fled, One moment stood erect and high; Then pour’d into the silent sky A cry so jubilant, so strange, That Alice—as she strove to range Her rebel ringlets at her glass— Sprang up and gazed across the grass; Shook back those curls so fair to see, Clapp’d her soft hands in childish glee; And shriek’d—her sweet face all aglow,    Her very limbs with rapture shaking— “My hen has laid an egg, I know;    “And only hear the noise she’s making!” <h2>MYSTERY.</h2> I know not if in others’ eyes    She seem’d almost divine; But far beyond a doubt it lies    That she did not in mine. Each common stone on which she trod    I did not deem a pearl: Nay it is not a little odd    How I abhorr’d that girl. We met at balls and picnics oft,    Or on a drawingroom stair; My aunt invariably cough’d    To warn me she was there: p. 96At croquet I was bid remark    How queenly was her pose, As with stern glee she drew the dark    Blue ball beneath her toes, And made the Red fly many a foot:    Then calmly she would stoop, Smiling an angel smile, to put    A partner through his hoop. At archery I was made observe    That others aim’d more near. But none so tenderly could curve    The elbow round the ear: Or if we rode, perhaps she did    Pull sharply at the curb; But then the way in which she slid    From horseback was superb! p. 97She’d throw off odes, again, whose flow    And fire were more than Sapphic; Her voice was sweet, and very low;    Her singing quite seraphic: She was a seraph, lacking wings.    That much I freely own. But, it is one of those queer things    Whose cause is all unknown— (Such are the wasp, the household fly,    The shapes that crawl and curl By men called centipedes)—that I    Simply abhorred that girl. * * * No doubt some mystery underlies    All things which are and which are not: And ’tis the function of the Wise    Not to expound to us what is what, p. 98But let his consciousness play round    The matter, and at ease evolve The problem, shallow or profound,    Which our poor wits have fail’d to solve, Then tell us blandly we are fools;    Whereof we were aware before: That truth they taught us at the schools,    And p’raps (who knows?) a little more. —But why did we two disagree?    Our tastes, it may be, did not dovetail: All I know is, we ne’er shall be    Hero and heroine of a love-tale. <h2>FLIGHT.</h2> O memory! that which I gave thee    To guard in thy garner yestreen— Little deeming thou e’er could’st behave thee    Thus basely—hath gone from thee clean! Gone, fled, as ere autumn is ended    The yellow leaves flee from the oak— I have lost it for ever, my splendid       Original joke. What was it?  I know I was brushing    My hair when the notion occurred: I know that I felt myself blushing    As I thought, “How supremely absurd! p. 100“How they’ll hammer on floor and on table    “As its drollery dawns on them—how They will quote it”—I wish I were able       To quote it just now. I had thought to lead up conversation    To the subject—it’s easily done— Then let off, as an airy creation    Of the moment, that masterly pun. Let it off, with a flash like a rocket’s;    In the midst of a dazzled conclave, Where I sat, with my hands in my pockets,       The only one grave. I had fancied young Titterton’s chuckles,    And old Bottleby’s hearty guffaws As he drove at my ribs with his knuckles,    His mode of expressing applause: While Jean Bottleby—queenly Miss Janet—    Drew her handkerchief hastily out, In fits at my slyness—what can it       Have all been about? I know ’twas the happiest, quaintest    Combination of pathos and fun: But I’ve got no idea—the faintest—    Of what was the actual pun. I think it was somehow connected    With something I’d recently read— Or heard—or perhaps recollected       On going to bed. What had I been reading?  The Standard:    “Double Bigamy;” “Speech of the Mayor.” And later—eh? yes!  I meandered    Through some chapters of Vanity Fair. How it fuses the grave with the festive!    Yet e’en there, there is nothing so fine— So playfully, subtly suggestive—       As that joke of mine. Did it hinge upon “parting asunder?”    No, I don’t part my hair with my brush. Was the point of it “hair?”  Now I wonder!    Stop a bit—I shall think of it—hush! There’s hare, a wild animal—Stuff!    It was something a deal more recondite: Of that I am certain enough;       And of nothing beyond it. Hair—locks!  There are probably many    Good things to be said about those. Give me time—that’s the best guess of any—    “Lock” has several meanings, one knows. Iron locks—iron-gray locks—a “deadlock”—    That would set up an everyday wit: Then of course there’s the obvious “wedlock;”       But that wasn’t it. No! mine was a joke for the ages;    Full of intricate meaning and pith; A feast for your scholars and sages—    How it would have rejoiced Sidney Smith! ’Tis such thoughts that ennoble a mortal;    And, singing him out from the herd, Fling wide immortality’s portal—       But what was the word? Ah me! ’tis a bootless endeavour.    As the flight of a bird of the air Is the flight of a joke—you will never    See the same one again, you may swear. ’Twas my firstborn, and O how I prized it!    My darling, my treasure, my own! This brain and none other devised it—       And now it has flown. <h2>ON THE BEACH. LINES BY A PRIVATE TUTOR.</h2>    When the young Augustus Edward    Has reluctantly gone bedward (He’s the urchin I am privileged to teach),    From my left-hand waistcoat pocket    I extract a batter’d locket And I commune with it, walking on the beach.    I had often yearn’d for something    That would love me, e’en a dumb thing; But such happiness seem’d always out of reach:    Little boys are off like arrows    With their little spades and barrows, When they see me bearing down upon the beach;    And although I’m rather handsome,    Tiny babes, when I would dance ’em On my arm, set up so horrible a screech    That I pitch them to their nurses    With (I fear me) mutter’d curses, And resume my lucubrations on the beach.    And the rabbits won’t come nigh me,    And the gulls observe and fly me, And I doubt, upon my honour, if a leech    Would stick on me as on others,    And I know if I had brothers They would cut me when we met upon the beach.    So at last I bought this trinket.    For (although I love to think it) ’Twasn’t given me, with a pretty little speech:    No!  I bought it of a pedlar,    Brown and wizen’d as a medlar, Who was hawking odds and ends about the beach.    But I’ve managed, very nearly,    To believe that I was dearly Loved by Somebody, who (blushing like a peach)    Flung it o’er me saying, “Wear it    For my sake”—and I declare, it Seldom strikes me that I bought it on the beach.    I can see myself revealing    Unsuspected depths of feeling, As, in tones that half upbraid and half beseech,    I aver with what delight I    Would give anything—my right eye— For a souvenir of our stroll upon the beach.    O! that eye that never glisten’d    And that voice to which I’ve listen’d But in fancy, how I dote upon them each!    How regardless what o’clock it    Is, I pore upon that locket Which does not contain her portrait, on the beach!    As if something were inside it    I laboriously hide it, And a rather pretty sermon you might preach    Upon Fantasy, selecting    For your “instance” the affecting Tale of me and my proceedings on the beach.    I depict her, ah, how charming!    I portray myself alarming Herby swearing I would “mount the deadly breach,”    Or engage in any scrimmage    For a glimpse of her sweet image, Or her shadow, or her footprint on the beach.    And I’m ever ever seeing    My imaginary Being, And I’d rather that my marrowbones should bleach    In the winds, than that a cruel    Fate should snatch from me the jewel Which I bought for one and sixpence on the beach. <h2>LOVERS, AND A REFLECTION.</h2> In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter    (And heaven it knoweth what that may mean: Meaning, however, is no great matter)    Where woods are a-tremble, with rifts atween; Thro’ God’s own heather we wonn’d together,    I and my Willie (O love my love): I need hardly remark it was glorious weather,    And flitterbats waver’d alow, above: Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing,    (Boats in that climate are so polite), And sands were a ribbon of green endowing,    And O the sundazzle on bark and bight! p. 109Thro’ the rare red heather we danced together,    (O love my Willie!) and smelt for flowers: I must mention again it was gorgeous weather,    Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:— By rises that flush’d with their purple favours,    Thro’ becks that brattled o’er grasses sheen, We walked and waded, we two young shavers,    Thanking our stars we were both so green. We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie,    In fortunate parallels!  Butterflies, Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly    Or marjoram, kept making peacock eyes: Songbirds darted about, some inky    As coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds; Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky—    They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds! p. 110But they skim over bents which the midstream washes,    Or hang in the lift ’neath a white cloud’s hem; They need no parasols, no goloshes;    And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them. Then we thrid God’s cowslips (as erst His heather)    That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms; And snapt—(it was perfectly charming weather)—    Our fingers at Fate and her goddess-glooms: And Willie ’gan sing (O, his notes were fluty;    Wafts fluttered them out to the white-wing’d sea)— Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty,    Rhymes (better to put it) of “ancientry:” p. 111Bowers of flowers encounter’d showers    In William’s carol—(O love my Willie!) Then he bade sorrow borrow from blithe to-morrow    I quite forget what—say a daffodilly: A nest in a hollow, “with buds to follow,”    I think occurred next in his nimble strain; And clay that was “kneaden” of course in Eden—    A rhyme most novel, I do maintain: Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories,    And all least furlable things got “furled;” Not with any design to conceal their “glories,”    But simply and solely to rhyme with “world.” * * * O if billows and pillows and hours and flowers,    And all the brave rhymes of an elder day, Could be furled together, this genial weather,    And carted, or carried on “wafts” away, Nor ever again trotted out—ah me! How much fewer volumes of verse there’d be! <h2>THE COCK AND THE BULL.</h2> You see this pebble-stone?  It’s a thing I bought Of a bit of a chit of a boy i’ the mid o’ the day— I like to dock the smaller parts-o’-speech, As we curtail the already cur-tail’d cur (You catch the paronomasia, play ’po’ words?) Did, rather, i’ the pre-Landseerian days. Well, to my muttons.  I purchased the concern, And clapt it i’ my poke, having given for same By way o’ chop, swop, barter or exchange— ‘Chop’ was my snickering dandiprat’s own term— One shilling and fourpence, current coin o’ the realm. O-n-e one and f-o-u-r four Pence, one and fourpence—you are with me, sir?— What hour it skills not: ten or eleven o’ the clock, One day (and what a roaring day it was Go shop or sight-see—bar a spit o’ rain!) In February, eighteen sixty nine, Alexandrina Victoria, Fidei Hm—hm—how runs the jargon? being on throne.    Such, sir, are all the facts, succinctly put, The basis or substratum—what you will— Of the impending eighty thousand lines. “Not much in ’em either,” quoth perhaps simple Hodge. But there’s a superstructure.  Wait a bit. Mark first the rationale of the thing: Hear logic rivel and levigate the deed. That shilling—and for matter o’ that, the pence— I had o’ course upo’ me—wi’ me say— (Mecum’s the Latin, make a note o’ that) When I popp’d pen i’ stand, scratch’d ear, wiped snout, (Let everybody wipe his own himself) Sniff’d—tch!—at snuffbox; tumbled up, he-heed, Haw-haw’d (not hee-haw’d, that’s another guess thing:) Then fumbled at, and stumbled out of, door, I shoved the timber ope wi’ my omoplat; And in vestibulo, i’ the lobby to-wit, (Iacobi Facciolati’s rendering, sir,) Donn’d galligaskins, antigropeloes, And so forth; and, complete with hat and gloves, One on and one a-dangle i’ my hand, And ombrifuge (Lord love you!), case o’ rain, I flopp’d forth, ’sbuddikins! on my own ten toes, (I do assure you there be ten of them), And went clump-clumping up hill and down dale To find myself o’ the sudden i’ front o’ the boy. Put case I hadn’t ’em on me, could I ha’ bought This sort-o’-kind-o’-what-you-might-call toy, This pebble-thing, o’ the boy-thing?  Q. E. D. That’s proven without aid from mumping Pope, Sleek porporate or bloated Cardinal. (Isn’t it, old Fatchaps?  You’re in Euclid now.) So, having the shilling—having i’ fact a lot— And pence and halfpence, ever so many o’ them, I purchased, as I think I said before, The pebble (lapis, lapidis, -di, -dem, -de— What nouns ’crease short i’ the genitive, Fatchaps, eh?) O’ the boy, a bare-legg’d beggarly son of a gun, For one-and-fourpence.  Here we are again.    Now Law steps in, bigwigg’d, voluminous-jaw’d; Investigates and re-investigates. Was the transaction illegal?  Law shakes head. Perpend, sir, all the bearings of the case.    At first the coin was mine, the chattel his. But now (by virtue of the said exchange And barter) vice versa all the coin, Per juris operationem, vests I’ the boy and his assigns till ding o’ doom; (In sæcula sæculo-o-o-orum; I think I hear the Abate mouth out that.) To have and hold the same to him and them . . . Confer some idiot on Conveyancing. Whereas the pebble and every part thereof, And all that appertaineth thereunto, Quodcunque pertinet ad eam rem, (I fancy, sir, my Latin’s rather pat) Or shall, will, may, might, can, could, would or should, (Subaudi cætera—clap we to the close— For what’s the good of law in a case o’ the kind) Is mine to all intents and purposes. This settled, I resume the thread o’ the tale.    Now for a touch o’ the vendor’s quality. He says a gen’lman bought a pebble of him, (This pebble i’ sooth, sir, which I hold i’ my hand)— And paid for’t, like a gen’lman, on the nail. “Did I o’ercharge him a ha’penny?  Devil a bit. Fiddlepin’s end!  Got out, you blazing ass! Gabble o’ the goose.  Don’t bugaboo-baby me! Go double or quits?  Yah! tittup! what’s the odds?”    There’s the transaction view’d i’ the vendor’s light.    Next ask that dumpled hag, stood snuffling by, With her three frowsy blowsy brats o’ babes, The scum o’ the kennel, cream o’ the filth-heap—Faugh! Aie, aie, aie, aie! oτοτοτοτοτoĩ, (’Stead which we blurt out Hoighty toighty now)— And the baker and candlestickmaker, and Jack and Gill, p. 119Blear’d Goody this and queasy Gaffer that. Ask the schoolmaster.  Take schoolmaster first.    He saw a gentleman purchase of a lad A stone, and pay for it rite, on the square, And carry it off per saltum, jauntily, Propria quæ maribus, gentleman’s property now (Agreeably to the law explain’d above), In proprium usum, for his private ends. The boy he chuck’d a brown i’ the air, and bit I’ the face the shilling: heaved a thumping stone At a lean hen that ran cluck clucking by, (And hit her, dead as nail i’ post o’ door,) Then abiit—what’s the Ciceronian phrase?— Excessit, evasit, erupit—off slogs boy; Off like bird, avi similis—(you observed The dative?  Pretty i’ the Mantuan!)—Anglice Off in three flea skips.  Hactenus, so far, So good, tam bene.  Bene, satis, male—, Where was I with my trope ’bout one in a quag? I did once hitch the syntax into verse: Verbum personale, a verb personal, Concordat—ay, “agrees,” old Fatchaps—cum Nominativo, with its nominative, Genere, i’ point o’ gender, numero, O’ number, et persona, and person.  Ut, Instance: Sol ruit, down flops sun, et and, Montes umbrantur, out flounce mountains.  Pah! Excuse me, sir, I think I’m going mad. You see the trick on’t though, and can yourself Continue the discourse ad libitum. It takes up about eighty thousand lines, A thing imagination boggles at: And might, odds-bobs, sir! in judicious hands, Extend from here to Mesopotamy. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2