Part 13
I’ve wander’d the wild waste of slaughter, I’ve sniffed up the sepulchre’s scent, I’ve doated on devilry’s daughter, And murmur’d much more than I meant; I’ve paused at Penelope’s portal, So strange are the sights that I’ve seen, And mighty’s the mind of the mortal Who knows what I mean. _Walter Parke._
A SONG OF RENUNCIATION
IN the days of my season of salad, When the down was as dew on my cheek, And for French I was bred on the ballad, For Greek on the writers of Greek,— Then I sang of the rose that is ruddy, Of “pleasure that winces and stings,” Of white women, and wine that is bloody, And similar things.
Of Delight that is dear as Desi-er, And Desire that is dear as Delight; Of the fangs of the flame that is fi-er, Of the bruises of kisses that bite; Of embraces that clasp and that sever, Of blushes that flutter and flee Round the limbs of Dolores, whoever Dolores may be.
I sang of false faith that is fleeting As froth of the swallowing seas, Time’s curse that is fatal as Keating Is fatal to amorous fleas; Of the wanness of woe that is whelp of The lust that is blind as a bat— By the help of my Muse and the help of The relative THAT.
Panatheist, bruiser and breaker Of kings and the creatures of kings, I shouted on Freedom to shake her Feet loose of the fetter that clings; Far rolling my ravenous red eye, And lifting a mutinous lid, To all monarchs and matrons I said I Would shock them—and did.
Thee I sang, and thy loves, O Thalassian, O “noble and nude and antique!” Unashamed in the “fearless old fashion,” Ere washing was done by the week; When the “roses and rapture” that girt you Were visions of delicate vice, And the “lilies and languors of virtue” Not nearly so nice.
O delights of the time of my teething, Felise, Fragoletta, Yolande! Foam-yeast of a youth in its seething On blasted and blithering sand! Snake-crowned on your tresses and belted With blossoms that coil and decay, Ye are gone; ye are lost; ye are melted Like ices in May.
Hushed now is the bibulous bubble Of “lithe and lascivious” throats; Long stript and extinct is the stubble Of hoary and harvested oats; From the sweets that are sour as the sorrel’s The bees have abortively swarmed; And Algernon’s earlier morals Are fairly reformed.
I have written a loyal Armada, And posed in a Jubilee pose; I have babbled of babies and played a New tune on the turn of their toes; Washed white from the stain of Astarte, My books any virgin may buy; And I hear I am praised by a party Called Something Mackay!
When erased are the records, and rotten The meshes of memory’s net; When the grace that forgives has forgotten The things that are good to forget; When the trill of my juvenile trumpet Is dead and its echoes are dead; Then the laurel shall lie on the crumpet And crown of my head! _Owen Seaman._
NEPHELIDIA
FROM the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous moonshine, Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float, Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine, These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat? Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor’s appalled agitation, Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past; Flushed with the famishing fulness of fever that reddens with radiance of rathe recreation, Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast? Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror, Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death; Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error, Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by beatitude’s breath. Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses Sweetens the stress of surprising suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh; Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and triangular tenses,— “Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die.” Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it may be, While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men’s rapiers, resigned to the rod; Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats bound with the bliss-bringing bulk of a balm-breathing baby, As they grope through the grave-yard of creeds, under skies growing green at a groan for the grimness of God. Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, and its binding is blacker than bluer: Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dews are the wine of the bloodshed of things; Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her, Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from the hunt that has harried the kennel of kings. _Algernon Charles Swinburne._
THE LAY OF MACARONI
AS a wave that steals when the winds are stormy From creek to cove of the curving shore, Buffeted, blown, and broken before me, Scattered and spread to its sunlit core: As a dove that dips in the dark of maples To sip the sweetness of shelter and shade, I kneel in thy nimbus, O noon of Naples, I bathe in thy beauty, by thee embayed.
What is it ails me that I should sing of her? The queen of the flashes and flames that were! Yea, I have felt the shuddering sting of her, The flower-sweet throat and the hands of her! I have swayed and sung to the sound of her psalters, I have danced her dances of dizzy delight, I have hallowed mine hair to the horns of her altars, Between the nightingale’s song and the night!
What is it, Queen, that now I should do for thee? What is it now I should ask at thine hands? Blow of the trumpets thine children once blew for thee? Break from thine feet and thine bosom the bands? Nay, as sweet as the songs of Leone Leoni, And gay as her garments of gem-sprinkled gold, She gives me mellifluous, mild macaroni, The choice of her children when cheeses are old!
And over me hover, as if by the wings of it, Frayed in the furnace by flame that is fleet, The curious coils and the strenuous strings of it, Dropping, diminishing down, as I eat; Lo! and the beautiful Queen, as she brings of it, Lifts me the links of the limitless chain, Bidding mine mouth chant the splendidest things of it, Out of the wealth of my wonderful brain!
Behold! I have done it: my stomach is smitten With sweets of the surfeit her hands have unrolled. Italia, mine cheeks with thine kisses are bitten, I am broken with beauty, stabbed, slaughtered, and sold! No man of thy millions is more macaronied, Save mighty Mazzini, than musical Me; The souls of the Ages shall stand as astonied, And faint in the flame I am fanning for thee! _Bayard Taylor._
AFTER BRET HARTE
THE HEATHEN PASS-EE
_By Bred Hard_
Which I wish to remark, And my language is plain, That for plots that are dark And not always in vain The heathen Pass-ee is peculiar, And the same I would rise to explain.
I would also premise That the term of Pass-ee Most fitly applies, As you probably see, To one whose vocation is passing The ordinary B. A. degree.
Tom Crib was his name, And I shall not deny In regard to the same What that name might imply; But his face it was trustful and childlike, And he had a most innocent eye.
Upon April the First The Little-Go fell, And that was the worst Of the gentleman’s sell, For he fooled the Examining Body In a way I’m reluctant to tell.
The candidates came, And Tom Crib soon appeared; It was Euclid. The same Was “the subject he feared;” But he smiled as he sat by the table, With a smile that was wary and weird.
Yet he did what he could, And the papers he showed Were remarkably good, And his countenance glowed With pride when I met him soon after As he walked down the Trumpington Road.
We did not find him out, Which I bitterly grieve, For I’ve not the least doubt That he’d placed up his sleeve Mr. Todhunter’s excellent Euclid, The same with intent to deceive.
But I shall not forget How the next day at two A stiff paper was set By Examiner U., On Euripides’ tragedy, Bacchae, A subject Tom partially knew.
But the knowledge displayed By that heathen Pass-ee, And the answers he made, Were quite frightful to see, For he rapidly floored the whole paper By about twenty minutes to three.
Then I looked up at U., And he gazed upon me; I observed “This won’t do;” He replied, “Goodness me; We are fooled by this artless young person,” And he sent for that heathen Pass-ee.
The scene that ensued Was disgraceful to view, For the floor it was strewed With a tolerable few Of the “tips” that Tom Crib had been hiding For the subject he “partially knew.”
On the cuff of his shirt He had managed to get What we hoped had been dirt, But which proved, I regret, To be notes on the rise of the Drama, A question invariably set.
In his various coats We proceeded to seek, Where we found sundry notes And—with sorrow I speak speak— One of Bohn’s publications, so useful To the student in Latin or Greek.
In the crown of his cap Were the Furies and Fates, And a delicate map Of the Dorian States; And we found in his palms, which were hollow, What are frequent in palms,—that is dates.
Which I wish to remark, And my language is plain, That for plots that are dark And not always in vain The heathen Pass-ee is peculiar, Which the same I am free to maintain. _A. C. Hilton._
DE TEA FABULA
_Plain Language from Truthful James_
DO I sleep? Do I dream? Am I hoaxed by a scout? Are things what they seem, Or is Sophists about? Is our το τι ηυ ειναι a failure, or is Robert Browning played out?
Which expressions like these May be fairly applied By a party who sees A Society skied Upon tea that the Warden of Keble had biled with legitimate pride.
’Twas November the third, And I says to Bill Nye, “Which it’s true what I’ve heard: If you’re, so to speak, fly, There’s a chance of some tea and cheap culture, the sort recommended as High.”
Which I mentioned its name, And he ups and remarks: “If dress-coats is the game And pow-wow in the Parks, Then I’m nuts on Sordello and Hohenstiel-Schwangau and similar Snarks.”
Now the pride of Bill Nye Cannot well be express’d; For he wore a white tie And a cut-away vest: Says I, “Solomon’s lilies ain’t in it, and they was reputed well dress’d.”
But not far did we wend, When we saw Pippa pass On the arm of a friend —Dr. Furnivall ’twas, And he wore in his hat two half-tickets for London, return, second-class.
“Well,” I thought, “this is odd.” But we came pretty quick To a sort of a quad That was all of red brick, And I says to the porter,—“R. Browning: free passes; and kindly look slick.”
But says he, dripping tears In his check handkerchief, “That symposium’s career’s Been regrettably brief, For it went all its pile upon crumpets and busted on gunpowder leaf!”
Then we tucked up the sleeves Of our shirts (that were biled), Which the reader perceives That our feelings were riled, And we went for that man till his mother had doubted the traits of her child.
Which emotions like these Must be freely indulged By a party who sees A Society bulged On a reef the existence of which its prospectus had never divulged.
But I ask,—Do I dream? Has it gone up the spout? Are things what they seem, Or is Sophists about? Is our το τι ηυ ειναι a failure, or is Robert Browning played out? _A. T. Quiller-Couch._
AFTER AUSTIN DOBSON
THE PRODIGALS
(_Dedicated to Mr. Chaplin, M.P., and Mr. Richard Power, M.P., and 223 who followed him_)
MINISTERS! you, most serious, Critics and statesmen of all degrees, Hearken awhile to the motion of us— Senators keen for the Epsom breeze! Nothing we ask of poets or fees; Worry us not with objections, pray! Lo, for the speaker’s wig we seize— Give us, ah! give us the Derby Day.
Scots most prudent, penurious! Irishmen busy as bumblebees! Hearken awhile to the motion of us— Senators keen for the Epsom breeze! For Sir Joseph’s sake, and his owner’s, please! (Solomon raced like fun, they say.) Lo, for we beg on our bended knees— Give us, ah! give us the Derby Day.
Campbell—Asheton be generous! (But they voted such things were not the cheese.) Sullivan, hear us, magnanimous! (But Sullivan thought with their enemies.) And shortly they got both of help and ease, For a mad majority crowded to say, “Debate we’ve drunk to the dregs and lees: Give us, ah! give us the Derby Day.”
ENVOI:
Prince, most just was the motion of these, And many were seen by the dusty way, Shouting glad to the Epsom breeze Give us, ah! give us the Derby Day. _Anonymous._
AFTER ANDREW LANG
BO-PEEP
UNHAPPY is Bo-Peep, Her tears profusely flow, Because her precious sheep Have wandered to and fro, Have chosen far to go, For “pastures new” inclined, (See Lycidas)—and lo! Their tails are still behind!
How catch them while asleep? (I think Gaboriau For machinations deep Beats Conan Doyle and Co.) But none a hint bestow Save this, on how to find The flocks she misses so— “Their tails are still behind!”
This simple faith to keep Will mitigate her woe, She is not Joan, to leap To arms against the foe Or conjugate τὑρτω; Nay, peacefully resigned She waits, till time shall show Their tails are still behind!
Bo-Peep, rejoice! Although Your sheep appear unkind, Rejoice at last to know Their tails are still behind! _Anthony C. Deane._
AFTER W. E. HENLEY
IMITATION
CALM and implacable, Eying disdainfully the world beneath, Sat Humpty-Dumpty on his mural eminence In solemn state: And I relate his story In verse unfettered by the bothering restrictions of rhyme or metre, In verse (or “rhythm,” as I prefer to call it) Which, consequently, is far from difficult to write.
He sat. And at his feet The world passed on—the surging crowd Of men and women, passionate, turgid, dense, Keenly alert, lethargic, or obese. (Those two lines scan!)
Among the rest He noted Jones; Jones with his Roman nose, His eyebrows—the left one streaked with a dash of gray— And yellow boots. Not that Jones Has anything in particular to do with the story; But a descriptive phrase Like the above shows that the writer is A Master of Realism.
Let us proceed. Suddenly from his seat Did Humpty-Dumpty slip. Vainly he clutched The impalpable air. Down and down, Right to the foot of the wall, Right on to the horribly hard pavement that ran beneath it, Humpty-Dumpty, the unfortunate Humpty-Dumpty, Fell.
And him, alas! no equine agency, Him no power of regal battalions— Resourceful, eager, strenuous— Could ever restore to the lofty eminence Which once was his. Still he lies on the very identical Spot where he fell—lies, as I said on the ground, Shamefully and conspicuously abased! _Anthony C. Deane._
AFTER R. L. STEVENSON
BED DURING EXAMS
I USED to go to bed at night, And only worked when day was light. But now ’tis quite the other way, I never get to bed till day.
I look up from my work and see The morning light shine in on me, And listen to the warning knell— The tinkle of the rising bell.
And does there not seem cause to weep, When I should like so much to sleep, I have to sing this mournful lay, I cannot get to bed till day? _Clara Warren Vail._
AFTER OSCAR WILDE
MORE IMPRESSIONS
(_La Fuite des Oies_)
TO outer senses they are geese, Dull drowsing by a weedy pool; But try the impression trick. Cool! Cool! Snow-slumbering sentinels of Peace!
Deep silence on the shadowy flood, Save rare sharp stridence (that means “quack”), Low amber light in Ariel track Athwart the dun (that means the mud).
And suddenly subsides the sun, Bulks mystic, ghostly, thrid the gloom (That means the white geese waddling home), And darkness reigns! (See how it’s done?) _Oscuro Wildgoose._
NURSERY RHYMES À LA MODE
(_Our nurseries will soon be too cultured to admit the old rhymes in their Philistine and unæsthetic garb. They may be redressed somewhat on this model_)
OH, but she was dark and shrill, (Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!) The cat that (on the first April) Played the fiddle on the lea. Oh, and the moon was wan and bright, (Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!) The Cow she looked nor left nor right, But took it straight at a jump, pardie! The hound did laugh to see this thing, (Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!) As it was parlous wantoning, (Ah, good my gentles, laugh not ye,) And underneath a dreesome moon Two lovers fled right piteouslie; A spooney plate with a plated spoon, (Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!)
POSTSCRIPT
Then blame me not, altho’ my verse Sounds like an echo of C. S. C. Since still they make ballads that worse and worse Savor of diddle and hey-de-dee. _Anonymous._
A MAUDLE-IN BALLAD
(_To his Lily_)
MY lank limp lily, my long lithe lily, My languid lily-love fragile and thin, With dank leaves dangling and flower-flap chilly, That shines like the shin of a Highland gilly! Mottled and moist as a cold toad’s skin! Lustrous and leper-white, splendid and splay! Art thou not Utter and wholly akin To my own wan soul and my own wan chin, And my own wan nose-tip, tilted to sway The peacock’s feather, _sweeter than sin_, That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday?
My long lithe lily, my languid lily, My lank limp lily-love, how shall I win— Woo thee to wink at me? Silver lily, How shall I sing to thee, softly or shrilly? What shall I weave for thee—what shall I spin— Rondel, or rondeau, or virelai? Shall I buzz like a bee with my face thrust in Thy choice, chaste chalice, or choose me a tin Trumpet, or touchingly, tenderly play On the weird bird-whistle, _sweeter than sin_, That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday.
My languid lily, my lank limp lily, My long lithe lily-love, men may grin— Say that I’m soft and supremely silly— What care I while you whisper stilly; What care I while you smile? Not a pin! While you smile, you whisper—’Tis sweet to decay?
I have watered with chlorodine, tears of chagrin, The churchyard mould I have planted thee in, Upside down in an intense way, In a rough red flower-pot, _sweeter than sin_, That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday. _Punch._
QUITE THE CHEESE
(_By a Wilde Æsthete_)
THERE was once a maiden who loved a cheese; _Sing, hey! potatoes and paint!_ She could eat a pound and a half with ease _Oh, the odorous air was faint!_
What was the cheese that she loved the best? _Sing, hey, red pepper and rags!_ You will find it out if you read the rest; _Oh, the horrors of frowning crags!_
Came lovers to woo her from every land— _Sing, hey! fried bacon and files!_ They asked for her heart, but they meant her hand, _Oh, the joy of the Happy Isles._
A haughty old Don from Oporto came; _Sing, hey! new carrots and nails!_ The Duke of GORGONZOLA, his famous name, _Oh, the lusciously-scented gales!_
Lord STILTON belonged to a mighty line! _Sing, hey! salt herrings and stones!_ He was “Blue” as chine—his taste divine! _Oh, the sweetness of dulcet tones._
Came stout DOUBLE GLO’STER—a man and wife, _Sing, hey! post pillars and pies!_ And the son was SINGLE, and fair as fate; _Oh, the purple of sunset skies!_
DE CAMEMBERT came from his sunny France, _Sing, hey! pork cutlets and pearls!_ He would talk sweet nothings, and sing and dance, _Oh, the sighs of the soft sweet girls._
Came GRUYÈRE so pale! a most hole-y man! _Sing, hey! red sandstone and rice!_ But the world saw through him as worldings can, _Oh, the breezes from Isles of Spice._
But the maiden fair loved no cheese but one! _Sing, hey! acrostics and ale!_ Save for SINGLE GLO’STER she love had none! _Oh, the roses on fair cheeks pale!_
He was fair and single—and so was she! _Sing, hey! tomatoes and tar!_ And so now you know which it is to be! _Oh, the aid of a lucky star!_
They toasted the couple the livelong night, _Sing, hey! cast iron and carp!_ And engaged a poet this song to write. _Oh, the breathing Æolian harp!_
So he wrote this ballad at vast expense! _Sing, hey! pump-handles and peas!_ And, though you may think it devoid of sense, _Oh, he_ fancies it QUITE THE CHEESE! _H. C. Waring._
AFTER WILLIAM WATSON
THE THREE MICE
THREE mice—three sightless mice—averse from strife, Peaceful descendants of the Armenian race, Intent on finding some secluded place Wherein to pass their inoffensive life; How little dreamt they of that farmer’s wife— The Porte’s malicious minion—giving chase, And in a moment—ah, the foul disgrace!— Shearing their tails off with a carving-knife!