Part 11
Three mothers waited outside the gate. Three little fishers, tired, sunburnt, and worn, Came into sight as the evening grew late, Their chubby feet bleeding, their clothing all torn, For “boys will be boys”—have a keen eye for fun, While mothers fret, fume, scold, and—succumb, And welcome them home in the gloaming.
Three little fishers were called to explain— Each stood condemned, with his thumb in his eye, They promised never to do so again, And were hung up in the pantry to dry. Three mothers heaved great sighs of relief, An end had been put to their magnified grief, When the boys came home in the gloaming. _Frank H. Stauffer._
THE THREE POETS
THREE poets went sailing down Boston Bay, All into the East as the sun went down. Each felt that the editors loved him best, And would welcome spring poetry in Boston town. For poets must dream, though the editors frown; Their revel in visions will not be turned down, Though the general reader is moaning!
Three editors climbed to the loftiest tower That they could find in all Boston town. And they planned to conceal themselves, hour after hour, Till the Sun—and the poets—had both gone down. For spring poets must write, though the editors rage. The artistic nature must thus be engaged, Though the publishers all are groaning!
Three corpses lay out on the Back Bay sand Just after the first Spring Sun went down, And the Press sat down to a banquet grand In honor of poets no more in the town. For poets will write while the editors sleep, Though they’ve little to earn and nothing to keep, And the populace all are moaning! _Lilian Whiting._
AFTER MRS. R. H. STODDARD
THE NETTLE
IF days were nights, I could their weight endure, This darkness cannot hide from me the plant I seek; I know it by the rasping touch. The moon is wrapped in bombazine of cloud; The capes project like crooked lobster-shears Into the bobbery of the waves; the marsh, At ebb, has now a miserable smell. I will not be delayed nor hustled back, Though every wind should muss my outspread hair. I snatch the plant that seems my coming fate; I pass the crinkled satin of the rose, The violets, frightened out of all their wits, And other flowers, to me so commonplace, And cursed with showy mediocrity, To cull the foliage which repels and stings. Weak hands may bleed; but mine are tough with pride, And I but smile where others sob and screech. The draggled flounces of the willow lash My neck; I tread upon the bouncing rake, Which bangs me sorely, but I hasten on, With teeth firm-set as biting on a wire, And feet and fingers clinched in bitter pain. This, few would comprehend; but, if they did, I should despise myself and merit scorn. We all are riddles which we cannot guess; Each has his gimcracks and his thingumbobs, And mine are night and nettles, mud and mist, Since others hate them, cowardly avoid. Things are mysterious when you make them so, And the slow-pacing days are mighty queer; But Fate is at the bottom of it all, And something somehow turns up in the end. _Bayard Taylor._
AFTER BAYARD TAYLOR
HADRAMAUT
THE grand conglomerate hills of Araby, That stand empanoplied in utmost thought, With dazzling ramparts front the Indian sea, Down there in Hadramaut.
The sunshine smashes in the doors of morn And leaves them open; there the vibrant calm Of life magniloquent pervades forlorn The giant fronds of palm.
The cockatoo upon the upas screams; The armadillo fluctuates o’er the hill; And like a flag, incarnadined in dreams, All crimsonly I thrill!
There have iconoclasts no power to harm, So, folded grandly in translucent mist, I let the lights stream down my jasper arm, And o’er my opal fist.
An Adamite of old, primeval Earth, I see the Sphinx upon the porphyry shore, Deprived of utterance ages ere her birth, As I am,—only more!
Who shall ensnare me with invested gold, Or prayer symbols, backed like malachite? Let gaunt reformers objurgate and scold, I gorge me with delight.
I do not yearn for what I covet most; I give the winds the passionate gifts I sought; And slumber fiercely on the torrid coast, Down there in Hadramaut! _Bayard Taylor._
AFTER WILLIAM MORRIS
ESTUNT THE GRIFF
(_Argument: Showing how a man of England, hearing from certain Easterlings of the glories of their land, set sail to rule it_)
AND so unto the End of Graves came he, Where nigh the staging, ready for the sea, Oarless and sailless lay the galley’s bulk, Albeit smoke did issue from the hulk And fell away, across the marshes dun, Into the visage of the wan-white sun. And seaward ran the river, cold and gray, Bearing the brown-sailed Eastland boats away ’Twixt the low shore and shallow sandy spit. Yet he, being sad, took little heed of it, But straightly fled toward the misty beach, And hailed in choked and swiftly spoken speech A shallop, that for men’s conveyance lay Hard by the margin of that watery way. Then many that were in like evil plight— Sad folk, with drawn, dumb lips and faces white, That writhed themselves into a hopeless smile— Crowded the shallop, making feint the while Of merriment and pleasure at that tide, Though oft upon the laughers’ lips there died The jest, and in its place there came a sigh, So that men gat but little good thereby, And, shivering, clad themselves about with furs. Strange faces of the swarthy outlanders Looked down upon the shallop as she threw The sullen waters backward from her screw And, running forward for some little space, Stayed featly at the galley’s mounting-place, Where slowly these sad-faced landsmen went Crabwise and evil-mouthed with discontent, Holding to sodden rope and rusty chain And bulwark that was wetted with the rain: For ’neath their feet the black bows rose and fell, Nor might a man walk steadfastly or well Who had not hand upon a rail or rope; And Estunt turned him landward, and wan hope Grew on his spirit as an evil mist, Thinking of loving lips his lips had kissed An hour since, and how those lips were sweet An hour since, far off in Fenchurch Street. Then, with a deep-drawn breath most like a sigh, He watched the empty shallop shoreward hie; Then turned him round the driving rain to face, And saw men heave the anchor from its place; Whereat, when by the river-mouth, the ship Began, amid the waters’ strife to dip, His soul was heaved between his jaws that day, And to the East the good ship took her way. _Rudyard Kipling._
AFTER ALFRED AUSTIN
AN ODE
I SING a song of sixpence, and of rye A pocketful—recalling, sad to state, The niggardly emoluments which I Receive as Laureate!
Also I sing of blackbirds—in the mart At four-a-penny. Thus, in other words, The sixpence which I mentioned at the start Purchased two dozen birds.
So four-and-twenty birds were deftly hid— Or shall we say, were skilfully concealed?— Within the pie-dish. When they raised the lid, What melody forth pealed!
Now I like four-and-twenty blackbirds sing, With all their sweetness, all their rapture keen; And isn’t this a pretty little thing To set before the Queen?
The money-counting monarch—sordid man!— His wife, who robbed the little busy bees, I disregard. In fact a poet can But pity folks like these.
The maid was in the garden. Happy maid! Her choice entitles her to rank above Master and Mistress. Gladly she surveyed The Garden That I Love!
—Where grow my daffodils, anemones, Tulips, auriculas, chrysanthemums, Cabbages, asparagus, sweet peas, With apples, pears, and plums—
(That’s a parenthesis. The very name Of garden really carries one astray!) But suddenly a feathered ruffian came, And stole her nose away.
Eight stanzas finished! So my Court costume I lay aside: the Laureate, I suppose, Has done his part; the man may now resume His journalistic prose. _Anthony C. Deane._
AFTER W. S. GILBERT
ODE TO A LONDON FOG
ROLL on, thick haze, roll on! Through each familiar way Roll on! What though I must go out to-day? What though my lungs are rather queer? What though asthmatic ills I fear? What though my wheeziness is clear? Never you mind! Roll on!
Roll on, thick haze, roll on! Through street and square and lane Roll on! It’s true I cough and cough again; It’s true I gasp and puff and blow; It’s true my trip may lay me low— But that’s not your affair, you know. Never you mind! Roll on! _Anonymous._
PRESIDENT GARFIELD
WHEN he was a lad he served a term On a big canal with a boatman’s firm; With a heart so free and a will so strong, On the towpath drove two mules along. And he drove those mules so carefullee He’s a candidate now for the Presidencee.
As a driver boy he made such a mark He came to the deck of the inland barque And all of the perils to boat and crew. He stood at the helm and guided thro’. He stood at the helm so manfullee He’s a candidate now for the Presidencee.
He did so well with the helm and mules, They made him a teacher of district schools; And when from college in a bran new suit, A Greek Professor at the Institute, Where Greek and Latin he taught so free He’s a candidate now for the Presidencee.
Now boys who cherish ambitious schemes, Though now you may be but drivers of teams, Look well to the work you may chance to do, And do it with a hand that is kind and true. Whatever you do, do it faithfullee, And you may aspire to the Presidencee. _Anonymous._
PROPINQUITY NEEDED
CELESTINE Silvousplait Justine de Mouton Rosalie, A coryphée who lived and danced in naughty, gay Paree, Was every bit as pretty as a French girl e’er can be (Which isn’t saying much).
Maurice Boulanger (there’s a name that would adorn a king), But Morris Baker was the name they called the man I sing. He lived in New York City in the Street that’s labeled Spring (Chosen because it rhymed).
Now Baker was a lonesome youth and wanted to be wed, And for a wife, all over town he hunted, it is said; And up and down Fifth Avenue he ofttimes wanderéd (He was a peripatetic Baker, he was).
And had he met Celestine, not a doubt but Cupid’s darts Would in a trice have wounded both of their fond, loving hearts; But he has never left New York to stray in foreign parts (Because he hasn’t the price).
And she has never left Paree and so, of course, you see There’s not the slightest chance at all she’ll marry Morris B. For love to get well started, really needs propinquity (Hence my title). _Charles Battell Loomis._
AFTER R. H. STODDARD
THE CANTELOPE
SIDE by side in the crowded streets, Amid its ebb and flow, We walked together one autumn morn; (’Twas many years ago!)
The markets blushed with fruits and flowers; (Both Memory and Hope!) You stopped and bought me at the stall, A spicy cantelope.
We drained together its honeyed wine, We cast the seeds away; I slipped and fell on the moony rinds, And you took me home on a dray!
The honeyed wine of your love is drained; I limp from the fall I had; The snow-flakes muffle the empty stall, And everything is sad.
The sky is an inkstand, upside down, It splashes the world with gloom; The earth is full of skeleton bones, And the sea is a wobbling tomb! _Bayard Taylor._
AFTER A. A. PROCTOR
THE LOST VOICE
SEATED at Church in the winter I was frozen in every limb; And the village choir shrieked wildly Over a noisy hymn.
I do not know what they were singing, For while I was watching them Our Curate began his sermon With the sound of a slight “Ahem!”
It frightened the female portion, Like the storm which succeeds a calm, Both maidens and matrons heard it With a touch of inane alarm.
It told them of pain and sorrow, Cold, cough, and neuralgic strife, Bronchitis, and influenza All aimed at our Curate’s life.
It linked all perplex’d diseases Into one precious frame; They trembled with rage if a sceptic Attempted to ask its name.
They have wrapped him in mustard plasters, Stuffed him with food and wine, They have fondled, caressed, and nursed him, With sympathy divine.
It may be that other Curates Will preach in that Church to them, Will there be every time, Good Heavens! Such a fuss for a slight—Ahem! _A. H. S._
THE LOST APE
SEATED one day on an organ, A monkey was ill at ease, When his fingers wandered idly, In search of the busy fleas. I knew not what he was slaying, Or what he was dreaming then, But a sound burst forth from that organ, Not at all like a grand Amen.
It came through the evening twilight Like the close of the feline psalm, But the melody raised by their voices Compared to this noise was balm! It was worse than Salvation’s Sorrow, With their band of drum and fife, And cut, like an evening “Echo,” The Tit-Bits out of “Life.”
I upset my table and tea things, And left not one perfect piece; I gazed at the wreck in silence, Not loth, but unable to speak! Then I sought him, alas! all vainly, The source of that terrible whine, With his cracked and tuneless organ, And its melodies undivine.
Of course there was no policeman To move him away,—and men Who grind organs smile demurely At your curses, and smile again. It may be that I could choke him— Could kill him—but organ men, If you kill a dozen to-day, To-morrow will come again! _J. W. G. W._
THE LOST WORD
SEATED one day at the typewriter, I was weary of a’s and e’s, And my fingers wandered wildly Over the consonant keys.
I know not what I was writing, With that thing so like a pen; But I struck one word astounding— Unknown to the speech of men.
It flooded the sense of my verses, Like the break of a tinker’s dam, And I felt as one feels when the printer Of your “infinite calm” makes clam.
It mixed up s’s and x’s Like an alphabet coming to strife. It seemed the discordant echo Of a row between husband and wife.
It brought a perplexed meaning Into my perfect piece, And set the machinery creaking As though it were scant of grease.
I have tried, but I try it vainly, The one last word to divine Which came from the keys of my typewriter And so would pass as mine.
It may be some other typewriter Will produce that word again, It may be, but only for others— _I_ shall write henceforth with a pen. _C. H. Webb._
AFTER GEORGE MEREDITH
AT THE SIGN OF THE COCK
(FRENCH STYLE, 1898)
(_Being an Ode in further “Contribution to the Song of French History,” dedicated, without malice or permission, to Mr. George Meredith_)
I
ROOSTER her sign, Rooster her pugnant note, she struts Evocative, amazon spurs aprick at heel; Nid-nod the authentic stump Of the once ensanguined comb vermeil as wine; With conspuent doodle-doo Hails breach o’ the hectic dawn of yon New Year, Last issue up to date Of quiverful Fate Evolved spontaneous; hails with tonant trump The spiriting prime o’ the clashed carillon-peal; Ruffling her caudal plumes derisive of scuts; Inconscient how she stalks an immarcessibly absurd Bird.
II
Mark where her Equatorial Pioneer Delirant on the tramp goes littoralwise. His Flag at furl, portmanteaued; drains to the dregs The penultimate brandy-bottle, coal-on-the-headpiece gift Of who avenged the Old Sea-Rover’s smirch. Marchant he treads the all-along of inarable drift On dubiously connivent legs, The facile prey of predatory flies; Panting for further; sworn to lurch Empirical on to the Menelik-buffered, enhavened blue, Rhyming—see Cantique I.—with doodle-doo.
III
Infuriate she kicked against Imperial fact; Vulnant she felt What pin-stab should have stained Another’s pelt Puncture her own Colonial lung-balloon, Volant to nigh meridian. Whence rebuffed, The perjured Scythian she lacked At need’s pinch, sick with spleen of the rudely cuffed Below her breath she cursed; she cursed the hour When on her spring for him the young Tyrannical broke Amid the unhallowed wedlock’s vodka-shower, She passionate, he dispassionate; tricked Her wits to eye-blind; borrowed the ready as for dower; Till from the trance of that Hymettus-moon She woke, A nuptial-knotted derelict; Pensioned with Rescripts other aid declined By the plumped leech saturate urging Peace In guise of heavy-armed Gospeller to men, Tyrannical unto fraternal equal liberal, her. Not she; Not till Alsace her consanguineous find What red deteutonising artillery Shall shatter her beer-reek alien police The just-now pluripollent; not till then.
IV
More pungent yet the esoteric pain Squeezing her pliable vitals nourishes feud Insanely grumous, grumously insane. For lo! Past common balmly on the Bordereau, Churns she the skim o’ the gutter’s crust With Anti-Judaic various carmagnole, Whooped praise of the Anti-Just; Her boulevard brood Gyratory in convolvements militant-mad; Theatrical of faith in the Belliform, Her Og, Her Monstrous. Fled what force she had To buckle the jaw-gape, wide agog For the Preconcerted One, The Anticipated, ripe to clinch the whole; Queen-bee to hive the hither and thither volant swarm.
Bides she his coming; adumbrates the new Expurgatorial Divine, Her final effulgent Avatar, Postured outside a trampling mastodon Black as her Baker’s charger; towering; visibly gorged With blood of traitors. Knee-grip stiff, Spine straightened, on he rides; Embossed the Patriot’s brow with hieroglyph Of martial _dossiers_, nothing forged About him save his armour. So she bides Voicing his advent indeterminably far, Rooster her sign, Rooster her conspuent doodle-doo.
V
Behold her, pranked with spurs for bloody sport, How she acclaims, A crapulous chanticleer, Breach of the hectic dawn of yon New Year. Not yet her fill of rumours sucked; Inebriate of honour; blushfully wroth; Tireless to play her old primeval games; Her plumage preened the yet unplucked Like sails of a galleon, rudder hard amort With crepitant mast Fronting the hazard to dare of a dual blast The intern and the extern, blizzards both. _Owen Seaman._
AFTER DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI
A CHRISTMAS WAIL
(_Not by Dante Gabriel Rossetti_)
ON Christmas day I dined with Brown. (_Oh the dinner was fine to see!_) I drove to his house, right merrily down, To a western square of London town. (_And I moan and I cry, Woe’s me!_)
We dined off turkey and Christmas beef: (_Oh the dinner was fine to see!_) My anguish is sore and my comfort’s brief, And nought but blue pills can ease my grief, (_As I moan and I cry, Woe’s me!_)
We gorged plum-pudding and hot mince pies, (_Oh the dinner was fine to see!_) And other nameless atrocities, The weight of which on my—bosom lies. (_And I moan and I cry, Woe’s me!_)
We drank dry Clicquot and rare old port, (_Oh the dinner was fine to see!_) And I pledged my host for a right good sort In bumpers of both, for I never thought (_I should moan and cry, Woe’s me!_)
But I woke next day with a fearful head, (_Oh that dinner was fine to see!_) And on my chest is a weight like lead, And I frequently wish that I were dead, (_And I moan and I cry, Woe’s me!_)
And as for Brown—why the truth to tell— (_Oh that dinner was fine to see!_) I hate him now with the hate of hell, Though before I loved him passing well, (_And I moan and I cry, Woe’s me!_) _Anonymous._
BALLAD
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 connection of which with the plot one sees.
The farmer’s daughter had 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.
PART II
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.
She 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. _Charles S. Calverley._
CIMABUELLA
FAIR-TINTED cheeks, clear eyelids drawn In crescent curves above the light Of eyes, whose dim, uncertain dawn Becomes not day: a forehead white Beneath long yellow heaps of hair: She is so strange she must be fair.
Had she sharp, slant-wise wings outspread, She were an angel; but she stands With flat dead gold behind her head, And lilies in her long thin hands: Her folded mantle, gathered in, Falls to her feet as it were tin.