Part 1

Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/breadcircuses00edeniala

Transcriber’s note:

Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

Small capitals have been converted to SOLID capitals.

BREAD AND CIRCUSES

by

HELEN PARRY EDEN

London: John Lane, The Bodley Head New York: John Lane Company Toronto: Bell & Cockburn MCMXIV

William Brendon and Son, Ltd., Printers, Plymouth

ERRATA Page 4, line 11, _for_ “about” _read_ “above.” ” 15, ” 5, _for_ “who” _read_ “Who.” ” 55, ” 11, _for_ “saw I” _read_ “saw that I.” ” 87, ” 15, _for_ “Close” _read_ “close.”

TO THE MEMORY OF MY SISTER JOAN ABBOTT PARRY

THESE, AND MUCH MORE

NOTE

Of the verses contained in this book, the greater part have already appeared, notably in the _Westminster Gazette_, _The Englishwoman_, _The Daily Chronicle_, _The Catholic Messenger_, _The Pall Mall Magazine_, _T.P.’s Magazine_, and _Punch_. To the proprietors of _Punch_ I am especially indebted for leave to reprint thirteen numbers of which they own the copyright.

H. P. E.

CONTENTS

PAGE THE BROOK ALONG THE ROMSEY ROAD 3 THE POET AND THE WOOD-LOUSE 5 “JAM HIEMS TRANSIIT” 7 “VOX CLAMANTIS” 8 SORROW 9 THE MULBERRY 10 THE WINDOW-SILL 11 THE ANGELUS-BELL 12 THE APPLE-MAN FROM AWBRIDGE 13 OF DULCIBEL 15 THE LADY PHEASANT 16 TIME’S TYRANNESS 17 THE GINGER CAT 19 Μονοχρόνος Ἡδόνη 21 A SONG IN A LANE 22 CRIES OF LONDON 23 THE THIRD BIRTHDAY 25 ONE-EYED JOCKO 26 A SUBURBAN NIGHT’S ENTERTAINMENT 27 “A PURPOSE OF AMENDMENT” 30 HELENA TO HERMIA 31 “EFFANY” 32 THE ARK 34 AN UPLAND STATION 36 THE WORSHIPPERS 38 LINES TO A JOURNALIST, ON HIS PRAISING A NOBLE LORD RECENTLY CREATED 39 THE BELGIAN PINAFORE 41 THE WIND 43 TO BETSEY-JANE, ON HER DESIRING TO GO INCONTINENTLY TO HEAVEN 45 IN BETHLEHEM TOWN 46 THE MOON 48 A LADY OF FASHION ON THE DEATH OF HER DOG 49 TO A LITTLE GIRL 51 LINES WRITTEN FOR D. E. IN A COPY OF “THE CHILD’S GARDEN OF VERSES” 52 EPISTLE TO THOMAS BLACK, CAT TO THE SOANE MUSEUM 53 FOR MY MOTHER, WITH A NEW BUTTON-BOX 56 A CHILD BEFORE THE CRIB 57 TO MASS AT DAWN 59 THE NUNS’ CHAPEL 60 THE SNARE 61 A HOUSE IN A WOOD 63 THE CONFESSIONAL 65 EPITAPH ON A CHILD, RUN OVER AND KILLED BY A MOTOR-CAR IN THE STREET 67 THE WATER-MEADS OF MOTTISFONT 70 THE SENIOR MISTRESS OF BLYTH 72 THE FIRST PARTY 75 SOUVENIR OF MICHAEL DRAYTON 77 “FOUR-PAWS” 79 “FOUR-PAWS” IN LONDON 81 TO MY SISTER DOROTHY, WITH A PASTE BROOCH 83 SESTINA, TO D. E. 84 LULLABY FOR A LITTLE GIRL 86 RONDEAU OF SARUM CLOSE 87 THE KNOBBY-GREEN 88 THE CARCANET 89 TO A TOWN CRIER 90 THE TALE OF JOCKO, A STORY FOR A CHILD 91 THE WAG-TAIL 98 HIGH TIDE AT BATTERSEA 100 TO MY DAUGHTER, WHO TELLS ME SHE CAN DRESS HERSELF 101 THE BABY GOAT 103 BOURNEMOUTH TO POOLE: (1) BOURNEMOUTH 105 (2) POOLE HARBOUR 105 THE JAPANESE DUCKLING 107 THE PRIVET HEDGE 108 THE VEGETARIAN’S DAUGHTER 109 HONEY MEADOW 110 AN ELEGY, FOR FATHER ANSELM, OF THE ORDER OF REFORMED CISTERCIANS, GUEST-MASTER AND PARISH PRIEST 112 THE REGRET 117 FIRST SNOW 118 TO A CHILD RETURNING HOME UPON A WINDY DAY 119 THE DEATH OF SIR MATHO 120 THE PETALS 124 POST-COMMUNION 126 INDEX TO FIRST LINES 127

THE BROOK ALONG THE ROMSEY ROAD

The brook along the Romsey road With cresses fringed about, Holds waving fins and streaming weeds And bubbles bright as crystal beads And root-bound reaches whither speeds Startled the shadowy trout.

As southward runs the Romsey road The sunny wind blows harsh With yellow shale and whirling sands That sting the faces and the hands Of us who leave the wooded lands Of pleasant Michelmarsh.

Where southward runs the Romsey road Southward lagged Betsey-Jane Clutching my hand, and still the grit Lay rough between our fingers, it Smarted on Betsey’s face and knit Her little brows with pain.

A bend was in the Romsey road, Shut off by elms the wind Was stilled, below a bridge the brook Came dimpling forth, and Betsey shook Her fingers free and ran to look,— I held her frock behind.

On the far shore a wag-tail dipped His beak,—we gazed below, And Betsey was content to stand And see the trout and hold my hand, And watch them wave above the sand Until we turned to go.

The brook along the Romsey road With cresses fringed about Ran all day long in Betsey’s head, She played at wag-tails while she fed, And even as she went to bed She babbled of the trout.

THE POET AND THE WOOD-LOUSE

A portly Wood-louse, full of cares, Transacted eminent affairs Along a parapet where pears Unripened fell And vines embellished the sweet airs With muscatel.

Day after day beheld him run His scales a-twinkle in the sun About his business never done; Night’s slender span he Spent in the home his wealth had won— A red-brick cranny.

Thus, as his Sense of Right directed, He lived both honoured and respected, Cherished his children and protected His duteous wife, And nought of diffidence deflected His useful life.

One mid-day, hastening to his Club, He spied beside a water-tub The owner of each plant and shrub A humble Bard Who turned upon the conscious grub A mild regard.

“Eh?” quoth the Wood-louse, “Can it be A Higher Power looks down to see My praiseworthy activity And notes me plying My Daily Task?—Not strange, dear me, But gratifying!”

To whom the Bard: “I still divest My orchard of the Insect Pest, That you are such is manifest, Prepare to die.— And yet, how sweetly does your crest Reflect the sky!

“Go then forgiven, (for what ails Your naughty life this fact avails To pardon) mirror in your scales Celestial blue, Till the sun sets and the light fails The skies and you.”

* * * * *

May all we proud and bustling parties Whose lot in forum, street and mart is Stand in conspectu Deitatis And save our face, Reflecting where our scaly heart is Some skyey grace.

“JAM HIEMS TRANSIIT”

When the wind blows without the garden walls Where from high vantage of the budding boughs The wanton starling claps his wing and brawls And finches to their half-erected house Trail silver straws; when on the sand-pit verges The young lambs leap, when clouds on sunny tiles Pass and re-pass, then the young Spring emerges From Winter’s fingers panoplied with smiles. So some bright demoiselle but late returning To her old home with new-acquirèd graces Learnt in some strait academy and burning To kindle wonderment in homely faces Smileth, while she who taught her all her arts, The dark duenna, with a sigh departs.

“VOX CLAMANTIS”

How late in the wet twilight doth that bird Prolong his ditty; from what darkling thorn, Dim elder wand or blackest box unstirred By drip of rain, is the dear descant borne? So late it is, two seeming candles shine Athwart blue panes in the extremest hedge, Ev’n the child’s bunch of daisies close their eyne In their horn goblet on the window ledge. Sad is the night, doth it so smell of spring And wake such ardours in thy pelted breast? Aye, thou wert ever one to stay and sing Of surgent East to the declining West:— And now thou’rt gone, the last of a bright breed, Draw-to the curtains, it is night indeed.

SORROW

Of Sorrow, ’tis as Saints have said— That his ill-savoured lamp shall shed A light to Heaven, when, blown about By the world’s vain and windy rout, The candles of delight burn out.

Then usher Sorrow to thy board, Give him such fare as may afford Thy single habitation—best To meet him half-way in his quest, The importunate and sad-eyed guest.

Yet somewhat should he give who took Thy hospitality, for look, His is no random vagrancy, Beneath his rags what hints there be Of a celestial livery.

Sweet Sorrow, play a grateful part, Break me the marble of my heart And of its fragments pave a street Where, to my bliss, myself may meet One hastening with piercèd feet.

THE MULBERRY

Within our garden walls you see A huge old-fashioned mulberry Whose purple fruit in summer falls Into the shade below the walls.

Its blackened trunk grows grim and hard From the harsh gravel of the yard, Its crest beholds the winds go by And scans the milky evening sky.

And like this tree my soul makes mirth, (Though rooted deep in blackened earth) For it shall grow till it hath sight (The walls o’er-topped) of endless light.

THE WINDOW-SILL

The fuchsias dangle on their stem, The baby girl looks up at them, The light comes through the muslin frill Upon the painted window-sill.

She cannot see the world outside Where men in snorting motors ride, Each speeding from his far abode To town, along the Fulham Road.

THE ANGELUS-BELL

My night-dress hangs on fire-guard rail And my cup of milk on the table stands, The day goes down like a distant sail And leaves me undressed in my Mother’s hands.

She has washed me clean of the long day’s grime And the pillow is cool for my sleepy head, For the Angelus-bell with its three-fold chime Has tolled the sun and myself to bed.

THE APPLE-MAN FROM AWBRIDGE

While I stand upon the pavement and I dress the dusty stall, Where they sell the travelled apples, I bethink me most of all How the Quarentines are ripening in Michelmarsh again And the Apple-man from Awbridge comes a-clinking up the lane.

Sweet and slim the Ladies’ Fingers fall around you as you pass, And the Hollycores are mellow by the pig-hole in the grass, ’Tis but green they look, you pluck them, and you list the ratt’ling core— And the Apple-man from Awbridge comes a-chaffering at the door.

Then the first baked batch of Profits, ’twas a treat my mother planned, Drew them foaming from the oven with the dishcloth round her hand, She who poured the amber cider to the pewter’s polished brink And the Apple-man from Awbridge wet the bargain with a drink.

For he buys them by the bushel and he buys them on the trees And he sends them from the orchard plot to places such as these; And there’s money in your pocket and a hollow at your heart When the Apple-man from Awbridge comes a-loading of his cart.

And maybe the nameless apples on the stall in Fulham Road Once were piled behind his pony in that fresh and fragrant load And maybe it was my mother pulled the Ladies’ Fingers down; And the Apple-man from Awbridge turned them over to the town.

OF DULCIBEL

When by the fire-light Dulcibel Stirs the red ash with lively grace, Is it the glow of Heaven or Hell That mantles in her rosy face?

They know, Who for despair and joy All fateful loveliness have blent, Who do both comfort and destroy With the indifferent element.

THE LADY PHEASANT

Whom meet we, Betsey, in the wood? The Lady Pheasant and her Brood; So stand we still, to let them pass On oak-leaves through the tasselled grass.

Down dappled aisles of hazel shade They disappear along the glade, My Lady in her rusty gown, Ten children clad in useful brown.

But one fledged laggard stops to eat The plantain seeds at Betsey’s feet, Who plucks my fingers: “Mother, come We’ll pick him up and take him home!”

The nestling joins the hidden nine Deep in the copse; and I lift mine And bear her home along the lane,— “I want him!” still pouts Betsey-Jane.

TIME’S TYRANNESS

How few alack, There be along the track Of life which hear not at their back

(Though small birds sing And blessèd belfries ring) The creaking of Time’s iron wing;

And, in mad flight From an untempted might, Trample the lovely fields of light,

Nor for a space Pause in their fearful race To look their tyrant in the face.—

In you alone, Dear child, there ever shone Divine deliberation.

And now in weed And grass you bid Time speed Away in dandelion seed,

Till your bright hair, For the down mingled there, His very greyness looks to wear.

Ah happy she Whose gentle hours be Told by such kind chronometry!

For now Time saith, Who smiling listeneth, “Lo, a child flouts me with a breath!”

And so, to assuage Sweetly a feignèd rage, He dims your hair with mimic age.

THE GINGER CAT

’Tis the old wife at Rickling, she Has lost her ginger cat, ’twas he Who used to share the Master’s tea Beside the settle, Or on his corduroy-clad knee Out-purr the kettle;

Who followed when she pinned a-row Her flapping gowns of indigo And watched the apple-petals blow, With stealthy rapture Rehearsing in a mimic show Some mouse’s capture.

At dew-fall, with uncovered head, What tidings have the old wife led Hither where oak and hazel shed Their shadow deeper? —They say the ginger cat is dead, Shot by the Keeper.

Through coverts dim her searches lie (Howe’er so hardly sorrows try The burden of uncertainty To bear were harder) To where things dangle when they die— The Keeper’s larder.

A bough the larder hangs upon— Rats, and decaying hedge-hogs grown Shapeless, and owls their features gone,— A grisly freight, And many a weasel skeleton With hairless pate,

And trophy of cats’ tails arrayed, Tabby and white and black displayed, The adornment of the still green glade— More gay for that Of him who in the morning strayed, The ginger cat.

She knows it, and she cuts it down; Then warm beneath her folded gown Bestows the severed brush’s brown And orange bands— So soft of fur, the tears fall down Upon her hands.

The copse-wood parts, ’tis she who goes, Whom shades obscure and star-light shows, Treading between the hazel rows The fallen sticks, Home, where the careless fire-light glows Along the bricks.

Μονοχρόνος Ἡδόνη.

Pull out my couch across the fire, Let the flames warm me through, Though the pain gnaw my back away There shall be pleasure too!

Search out the desolate garden walks— What though the year be spent— There shall be marigolds enough For the bowl we bought in Ghent:

Fire shall bring out their acrid scents For a walled garden’s sweets, With the melody of Flemish bells And the angles of Flemish streets.

Fire and blossom and dreamful shapes And I, while the long pain stays, Ward off the shot of the savage hours On my rampart of yesterdays.

A SONG IN A LANE

When the Wind comes up the lane And you go down— The elms their spacious branches swing, The hidden hedgelings sing and sing, The nettle draws aside his sting And kindly weeds their shadows fling Across your sunny gown;— When the Wind comes up the lane And you go down.

When the Wind comes up the lane And you go down— Your tresses, for a gusty space, Discover all your merry face And the Wind drops with pinioned grace To kiss the small white forehead place Above your summer brown;— When the Wind comes up the lane And you go down.

CRIES OF LONDON

What dusky branches fret the yellow sky, Betsey, beyond our urban balcony How darkly looms the street; And from below how many a note assails Your unaccustomed ears where London wails About your little feet.

Here, princess of a sombre citadel, You stand, the muffin-man with twilight bell Preludes your early tea And where the milk-man on melodious ways Slowly meanders, you incline to praise His clear delivery;

How pitiful you scan the vagabond Who cries his ferns as though each arid frond Sprang from his arid heart, And list the lamentable sweep complain Urging in wrath against the slanting rain The sable of his cart.

These for your little ears, so lately blest With cluck of painted poultry on the nest And rooks’ loquacious flight, Who, when the pear-blossom was hardly blown, Answered the cuckoo’s folly with your own And chid the owls at night.

Dear, I could thank you for your brave content— But, ah, beware, when spring is gone and spent, Lest summer’s dusty stir Lead gypsies Londonwards from scented loam Of Mitcham and the furrows nearer home With song of “Lavender!”

Then close your casement, shun the outer air, Let no sublime virago mount the stair And bring the rustic South, Lest some quick memory of all before And the great silver bush beside the door, Deject your happy mouth.

THE THIRD BIRTHDAY

Three candles had her cake, Which now are burnt away; We wreathed it for her sake With currant-leaves and bay And the last graces Of Michaelmas Daisies Pluckt on a misty day.

Curled (as she cut her cake) In mine her fingers lay; Purple the petals brake, Bruised was the scented bay; Like a yellow moth On the white white cloth One currant-leaf flew away.

Three candles lit her state; Dimmed is their golden reign— Leaves on an empty plate, Petals and tallow-stain; Nor will she Nor the candles three Ever be three again.

ONE-EYED JOCKO

The Baby slumbers through the night With One-eyed Jocko close to her, She clasps his fluffy limbs so tight Beside her cheek, her breathings stir His agèd fur.

When Mother, with the shaded light Held from the sleepy pillow, stays To smooth the counterpane, this sight Of Friendship’s sweet nocturnal ways Arrests her gaze.

Yet in the nursery by day Jocko doth all neglected lie Prone on the hearth-rug, while away The Baby stalks, unheeded by His vacant eye.

A SUBURBAN NIGHT’S ENTERTAINMENT