Chapter 592

Now, giving and taking's a proper exchange, Like question and answer: you're both content. But buying and selling seems always strange; You're hostile, and that's the thing that's meant. It's man against man--you're almost brutes; There's here no thanks, and there's there no pride. If Charity's Christian, don't blame my pursuits, I carry a touchstone by which you're tried.

XII

- 'Take it,' says she, 'it's all I've got': I remember a girl in London streets: She stood by a coffee-stall, nice and hot, My belly was like a lamb that bleats. Says I to myself, as her shilling I seized, You haven't a character here, my dear! But for making a rascal like me so pleased, I'll give you one, in a better sphere!

XIII

And that's where it is--she made me feel I was a rascal: but people who scorn, And tell a poor patch-breech he isn't genteel, Why, they make him kick up--and he treads on a corn. It isn't liking, it's curst ill-luck, Drives half of us into the begging-trade: If for taking to water you praise a duck, For taking to beer why a man upbraid?

XIV

The sermon's over: they're out of the porch, And it's time for me to move a leg; But in general people who come from church, And have called themselves sinners, hate chaps to beg. I'll wager they'll all of 'em dine to-day! I was easy half a minute ago. If that isn't pig that's baking away, May I perish!--we're never contented--heigho!

BY THE ROSANNA--TO F. M. STANZER THAL, TYROL

The old grey Alp has caught the cloud, And the torrent river sings aloud; The glacier-green Rosanna sings An organ song of its upper springs. Foaming under the tiers of pine, I see it dash down the dark ravine, And it tumbles the rocks in boisterous play, With an earnest will to find its way. Sharp it throws out an emerald shoulder, And, thundering ever of the mountain, Slaps in sport some giant boulder, And tops it in a silver fountain. A chain of foam from end to end, And a solitude so deep, my friend, You may forget that man abides Beyond the great mute mountain-sides. Yet to me, in this high-walled solitude Of river and rock and forest rude, The roaring voice through the long white chain Is the voice of the world of bubble and brain.

PHANTASY

I

Within a Temple of the Toes, Where twirled the passionate Wili, I saw full many a market rose, And sighed for my village lily.

II

With cynical Adrian then I took flight To that old dead city whose carol Bursts out like a reveller's loud in the night, As he sits astride his barrel.

III

We two were bound the Alps to scale, Up the rock-reflecting river; Old times blew thro' me like a gale, And kept my thoughts in a quiver.

IV

Hawking ruin, wood-slope, and vine Reeled silver-laced under my vision, And into me passed, with the green-eyed wine Knocking hard at my head for admission.

V

I held the village lily cheap, And the dream around her idle: Lo, quietly as I lay to sleep, The bells led me off to a bridal.

VI

My bride wore the hood of a Beguine, And mine was the foot to falter; Three cowled monks, rat-eyed, were seen; The Cross was of bones o'er the altar.

VII

The Cross was of bones; the priest that read, A spectacled necromancer: But at the fourth word, the bride I led Changed to an Opera dancer.

VIII

A young ballet-beauty, who perked in her place, A darling of pink and spangles; One fair foot level with her face, And the hearts of men at her ankles.

IX

She whirled, she twirled, the mock-priest grinned, And quickly his mask unriddled; 'Twas Adrian! loud his old laughter dinned; Then he seized a fiddle, and fiddled.

X

He fiddled, he glowed with the bottomless fire, Like Sathanas in feature: All through me he fiddled a wolfish desire To dance with that bright creature.

XI

And gathering courage I said to my soul, Throttle the thing that hinders! When the three cowled monks, from black as coal, Waxed hot as furnace-cinders.

XII

They caught her up, twirling: they leapt between-whiles: The fiddler flickered with laughter: Profanely they flew down the awful aisles, Where I went sliding after.

XIII

Down the awful aisles, by the fretted walls, Beneath the Gothic arches:- King Skull in the black confessionals Sat rub-a-dub-dubbing his marches.

XIV

Then the silent cold stone warriors frowned, The pictured saints strode forward: A whirlwind swept them from holy ground; A tempest puffed them nor'ward.

XV

They shot through the great cathedral door; Like mallards they traversed ocean: And gazing below, on its boiling floor, I marked a horrid commotion.

XVI

Down a forest's long alleys they spun like tops: It seemed that for ages and ages, Thro' the Book of Life bereft of stops, They waltzed continuous pages.

XVII

And ages after, scarce awake, And my blood with the fever fretting, I stood alone by a forest-lake, Whose shadows the moon were netting.

XVIII

Lilies, golden and white, by the curls Of their broad flat leaves hung swaying. A wreath of languid twining girls Streamed upward, long locks disarraying.

XIX

Their cheeks had the satin frost-glow of the moon; Their eyes the fire of Sirius. They circled, and droned a monotonous tune, Abandoned to love delirious.

XX

Like lengths of convolvulus torn from the hedge, And trailing the highway over, The dreamy-eyed mistresses circled the sedge, And called for a lover, a lover!

XXI

I sank, I rose through seas of eyes, In odorous swathes delicious: They fanned me with impetuous sighs, They hit me with kisses vicious.

XXII

My ears were spelled, my neck was coiled, And I with their fury was glowing, When the marbly waters bubbled and boiled At a watery noise of crowing.

XXIII

They dragged me low and low to the lake: Their kisses more stormily showered; On the emerald brink, in the white moon's wake, An earthly damsel cowered.

XXIV

Fresh heart-sobs shook her knitted hands Beneath a tiny suckling, As one by one of the doleful bands Dived like a fairy duckling.

XXV

And now my turn had come--O me! What wisdom was mine that second! I dropped on the adorer's knee; To that sweet figure I beckoned.

XXVI

Save me! save me! for now I know The powers that Nature gave me, And the value of honest love I know:- My village lily! save me!

XXVII

Come 'twixt me and the sisterhood, While the passion-born phantoms are fleeing! Oh, he that is true to flesh and blood Is true to his own being!

XXVIII

And he that is false to flesh and blood Is false to the star within him: And the mad and hungry sisterhood All under the tides shall win him!

XXIX

My village lily! save me! save! For strength is with the holy:- Already I shuddered to feel the wave, As I kept sinking slowly:-

XXX

I felt the cold wave and the under-tug Of the Brides, when--starting and shrinking - Lo, Adrian tilts the water-jug! And Bruges with morn is blinking.

XXXI

Merrily sparkles sunny prime On gabled peak and arbour: Merrily rattles belfry-chime The song of Sevilla's Barber.

THE OLD CHARTIST

Whate'er I be, old England is my dam! So there's my answer to the judges, clear. I'm nothing of a fox, nor of a lamb; I don't know how to bleat nor how to leer: I'm for the nation! That's why you see me by the wayside here, Returning home from transportation.

II

It's Summer in her bath this morn, I think. I'm fresh as dew, and chirpy as the birds: And just for joy to see old England wink Thro' leaves again, I could harangue the herds: Isn't it something To speak out like a man when you've got words, And prove you're not a stupid dumb thing?

III

They shipp'd me of for it; I'm here again. Old England is my dam, whate'er I be! Says I, I'll tramp it home, and see the grain: If you see well, you're king of what you see: Eyesight is having, If you're not given, I said, to gluttony. Such talk to ignorance sounds as raving.

IV

You dear old brook, that from his Grace's park Come bounding! on you run near my old town: My lord can't lock the water; nor the lark, Unless he kills him, can my lord keep down. Up, is the song-note! I've tried it, too:- for comfort and renown, I rather pitch'd upon the wrong note.

V

I'm not ashamed: Not beaten's still my boast: Again I'll rouse the people up to strike. But home's where different politics jar most. Respectability the women like. This form, or that form, - The Government may be hungry pike, But don't you mount a Chartist platform!

VI

Well, well! Not beaten--spite of them, I shout; And my estate is suffering for the Cause. - No,--what is yon brown water-rat about, Who washes his old poll with busy paws? What does he mean by't? It's like defying all our natural laws, For him to hope that he'll get clean by't.

VII

His seat is on a mud-bank, and his trade Is dirt:- he's quite contemptible; and yet The fellow's all as anxious as a maid To show a decent dress, and dry the wet. Now it's his whisker, And now his nose, and ear: he seems to get Each moment at the motion brisker!

VIII

To see him squat like little chaps at school, I could let fly a laugh with all my might. He peers, hangs both his fore-paws:- bless that fool, He's bobbing at his frill now!--what a sight! Licking the dish up, As if he thought to pass from black to white, Like parson into lawny bishop.

IX

The elms and yellow reed-flags in the sun, Look on quite grave:- the sunlight flecks his side; And links of bindweed-flowers round him run, And shine up doubled with him in the tide. I'M nearly splitting, But nature seems like seconding his pride, And thinks that his behaviour's fitting.

X

That isle o' mud looks baking dry with gold. His needle-muzzle still works out and in. It really is a wonder to behold, And makes me feel the bristles of my chin. Judged by appearance, I fancy of the two I'm nearer Sin, And might as well commence a clearance.

XI

And that's what my fine daughter said:- she meant: Pray, hold your tongue, and wear a Sunday face. Her husband, the young linendraper, spent Much argument thereon:- I'm their disgrace. Bother the couple! I feel superior to a chap whose place Commands him to be neat and supple.

XII

But if I go and say to my old hen: I'll mend the gentry's boots, and keep discreet, Until they grow TOO violent,--why, then, A warmer welcome I might chance to meet: Warmer and better. And if she fancies her old cock is beat, And drops upon her knees--so let her!

XIII

She suffered for me:- women, you'll observe, Don't suffer for a Cause, but for a man. When I was in the dock she show'd her nerve: I saw beneath her shawl my old tea-can Trembling . . . she brought it To screw me for my work: she loath'd my plan, And therefore doubly kind I thought it.

XIV

I've never lost the taste of that same tea: That liquor on my logic floats like oil, When I state facts, and fellows disagree. For human creatures all are in a coil; All may want pardon. I see a day when every pot will boil Harmonious in one great Tea-garden!

XV

We wait the setting of the Dandy's day, Before that time!--He's furbishing his dress, - He WILL be ready for it!--and I say, That yon old dandy rat amid the cress, - Thanks to hard labour! - If cleanliness is next to godliness, The old fat fellow's heaven's neighbour!

XVI

You teach me a fine lesson, my old boy! I've looked on my superiors far too long, And small has been my profit as my joy. You've done the right while I've denounced the wrong. Prosper me later! Like you I will despise the sniggering throng, And please myself and my Creator.

XVII

I'll bring the linendraper and his wife Some day to see you; taking off my hat. Should they ask why, I'll answer: in my life I never found so true a democrat. Base occupation Can't rob you of your own esteem, old rat! I'll preach you to the British nation.

SONG

Should thy love die; O bury it not under ice-blue eyes! And lips that deny, With a scornful surprise, The life it once lived in thy breast when it wore no disguise.

Should thy love die; O bury it where the sweet wild-flowers blow! And breezes go by, With no whisper of woe; And strange feet cannot guess of the anguish that slumbers below.

Should thy love die; O wander once more to the haunt of the bee! Where the foliaged sky Is most sacred to see, And thy being first felt its wild birth like a wind-wakened tree.

Should thy love die; O dissemble it! smile! let the rose hide the thorn! While the lark sings on high, And no thing looks forlorn, Bury it, bury it, bury it where it was born.

TO ALEX. SMITH, THE 'GLASGOW POET,' ON HIS SONNET TO 'FAME'

Not vainly doth the earnest voice of man Call for the thing that is his pure desire! Fame is the birthright of the living lyre! To noble impulse Nature puts no ban. Nor vainly to the Sphinx thy voice was raised! Tho' all thy great emotions like a sea, Against her stony immortality, Shatter themselves unheeded and amazed. Time moves behind her in a blind eclipse: Yet if in her cold eyes the end of all Be visible, as on her large closed lips Hangs dumb the awful riddle of the earth; - She sees, and she might speak, since that wild call, The mighty warning of a Poet's birth.

GRANDFATHER BRIDGEMAN

I

'Heigh, boys!' cried Grandfather Bridgeman, 'it's time before dinner to-day.' He lifted the crumpled letter, and thumped a surprising 'Hurrah!' Up jumped all the echoing young ones, but John, with the starch in his throat, Said, 'Father, before we make noises, let's see the contents of the note.' The old man glared at him harshly, and twinkling made answer: 'Too bad! John Bridgeman, I'm always the whisky, and you are the water, my lad!'

II

But soon it was known thro' the house, and the house ran over for joy, That news, good news, great marvels, had come from the soldier boy; Young Tom, the luckless scapegrace, offshoot of Methodist John; His grandfather's evening tale, whom the old man hailed as his son. And the old man's shout of pride was a shout of his victory, too; For he called his affection a method: the neighbours' opinions he knew.

III

Meantime, from the morning table removing the stout breakfast cheer, The drink of the three generations, the milk, the tea, and the beer (Alone in its generous reading of pints stood the Grandfather's jug), The women for sight of the missive came pressing to coax and to hug. He scattered them quick, with a buss and a smack; thereupon he began Diversions with John's little Sarah: on Sunday, the naughty old man!

IV

Then messengers sped to the maltster, the auctioneer, miller, and all The seven sons of the farmer who housed in the range of his call. Likewise the married daughters, three plentiful ladies, prime cooks, Who bowed to him while they condemned, in meek hope to stand high in his books. 'John's wife is a fool at a pudding,' they said, and the light carts up hill Went merrily, flouting the Sabbath: for puddings well made mend a will.

V

The day was a van-bird of summer: the robin still piped, but the blue, As a warm and dreamy palace with voices of larks ringing thro', Looked down as if wistfully eyeing the blossoms that fell from its lap: A day to sweeten the juices: a day to quicken the sap. All round the shadowy orchard sloped meadows in gold, and the dear Shy violets breathed their hearts out: the maiden breath of the year!

VI

Full time there was before dinner to bring fifteen of his blood, To sit at the old man's table: they found that the dinner was good. But who was she by the lilacs and pouring laburnums concealed, When under the blossoming apple the chair of the Grandfather wheeled? She heard one little child crying, 'Dear brave Cousin Tom!' as it leapt; Then murmured she: 'Let me spare them!' and passed round the walnuts, and wept.

VII

Yet not from sight had she slipped ere feminine eyes could detect The figure of Mary Charlworth. 'It's just what we all might expect,' Was uttered: and: 'Didn't I tell you?' Of Mary the rumour resounds, That she is now her own mistress, and mistress of five thousand pounds. 'Twas she, they say, who cruelly sent young Tom to the war. Miss Mary, we thank you now! If you knew what we're thanking you for!

VIII

But, 'Have her in: let her hear it,' called Grandfather Bridgeman, elate, While Mary's black-gloved fingers hung trembling with flight on the gate. Despite the women's remonstrance, two little ones, lighter than deer, Were loosed, and Mary, imprisoned, her whole face white as a tear, Came forward with culprit footsteps. Her punishment was to commence: The pity in her pale visage they read in a different sense.

IX

'You perhaps may remember a fellow, Miss Charlworth, a sort of black sheep,' The old man turned his tongue to ironical utterance deep: 'He came of a Methodist dad, so it wasn't his fault if he kicked. He earned a sad reputation, but Methodists are mortal strict. His name was Tom, and, dash me! but Bridgeman! I think you might add: Whatever he was, bear in mind that he came of a Methodist dad.'

X

This prelude dismally lengthened, till Mary, starting, exclaimed, 'A letter, Sir, from your grandson?' 'Tom Bridgeman that rascal is named,' The old man answered, and further, the words that sent Tom to the ranks Repeated as words of a person to whom they all owed mighty thanks. But Mary never blushed: with her eyes on the letter, she sate, And twice interrupting him faltered, 'The date, may I ask, Sir, the date?'

XI

'Why, that's what I never look at in a letter,' the farmer replied: 'Facts first! and now I'll be parson.' The Bridgeman women descried A quiver on Mary's eyebrows. One turned, and while shifting her comb, Said low to a sister: 'I'm certain she knows more than we about Tom. She wants him now he's a hero!' The same, resuming her place, Begged Mary to check them the moment she found it a tedious case.

XII

Then as a mastiff swallows the snarling noises of cats, The voice of the farmer opened. '"Three cheers, and off with your hats!" - That's Tom. "We've beaten them, Daddy, and tough work it was, to be sure! A regular stand-up combat: eight hours smelling powder and gore. I entered it Serjeant-Major,"--and now he commands a salute, And carries the flag of old England! Heigh! see him lift foes on his foot!

XIII

'--An officer! ay, Miss Charlworth, he is, or he is so to be; You'll own war isn't such humbug: and Glory means something, you see. "But don't say a word," he continues, "against the brave French any more." - That stopt me: we'll now march together. I couldn't read further before. That "brave French" I couldn't stomach. He can't see their cunning to get Us Britons to fight their battles, while best half the winnings they net!'

XIV

The old man sneered, and read forward. It was of that desperate fight; - The Muscovite stole thro' the mist-wreaths that wrapped the chill Inkermann height, Where stood our silent outposts: old England was in them that day! O sharp worked his ruddy wrinkles, as if to the breath of the fray They moved! He sat bareheaded: his long hair over him slow Swung white as the silky bog-flowers in purple heath-hollows that grow.

XV

And louder at Tom's first person: acute and in thunder the 'I' Invaded the ear with a whinny of triumph, that seem'd to defy The hosts of the world. All heated, what wonder he little could brook To catch the sight of Mary's demure puritanical look? And still as he led the onslaught, his treacherous side-shots he sent At her who was fighting a battle as fierce, and who sat there unbent.

XVI

'"We stood in line, and like hedgehogs the Russians rolled under us thick. They frightened me there."--He's no coward; for when, Miss, they came at the quick, The sight, he swears, was a breakfast.--"My stomach felt tight: in a glimpse I saw you snoring at home with the dear cuddled-up little imps. And then like the winter brickfields at midnight, hot fire lengthened out. Our fellows were just leashed bloodhounds: no heart of the lot faced about.

XVII

'"And only that grumbler, Bob Harris, remarked that we stood one to ten: 'Ye fool,' says Mick Grady, 'just tell 'em they know to compliment men!' And I sang out your old words: 'If the opposite side isn't God's, Heigh! after you've counted a dozen, the pluckiest lads have the odds.' Ping-ping flew the enemies' pepper: the Colonel roared, Forward, and we Went at them. 'Twas first like a blanket: and then a long plunge in the sea.

XVIII

'"Well, now about me and the Frenchman: it happened I can't tell you how: And, Grandfather, hear, if you love me, and put aside prejudice now": He never says "Grandfather"--Tom don't--save it's a serious thing. "Well, there were some pits for the rifles, just dug on our French- leaning wing: And backwards, and forwards, and backwards we went, and at last I was vexed, And swore I would never surrender a foot when the Russians charged next.

XIX

'"I know that life's worth keeping."--Ay, so it is, lad; so it is! - "But my life belongs to a woman."--Does that mean Her Majesty, Miss? - "These Russians came lumping and grinning: they're fierce at it, though they are blocks. Our fellows were pretty well pumped, and looked sharp for the little French cocks. Lord, didn't we pray for their crowing! when over us, on the hill- top, Behold the first line of them skipping, like kangaroos seen on the hop.

XX

'"That sent me into a passion, to think of them spying our flight!" Heigh, Tom! you've Bridgeman blood, boy! And, "'Face them!' I shouted: 'All right; Sure, Serjeant, we'll take their shot dacent, like gentlemen,' Grady replied. A ball in his mouth, and the noble old Irishman dropped by my side. Then there was just an instant to save myself, when a short wheeze Of bloody lungs under the smoke, and a red-coat crawled up on his knees.

XXI