Part 2

‘Ho!’ roar’d the Monarch, ‘call the Court! With this black ruffian I’ll be short. How often have I giv’n command The young shall not be taken’—and His thunder rang across the land, Until the forest flowers for fear Shut up their petals not to hear.

Then his gay Herald, the Macaw, Screams out the hest from hill to haugh, And from a thousand delled dens Run forth his frighten’d denizens, To share the Council, or to know What makes the Monarch bellow so. And, as they gather, to and fro He paces, and his red eyes flash Enough to turn them all to ash. Arranged before him in a row They take their places, high and low. The Wicked Wolf between his guards, Two grave and stalwart Leopards, Stands tip-toe, snarling, and repeating It was not he who did the eating; And, with his tail between his legs, For justice, justice only, begs. ‘You or another,’ roar’d the King, ‘I’ll find the one who did the thing— But first, Sir Premier, please reply (A Constitutional Monarch I) Why do you let my people die?’ At this, with deference, said the Bear, ’Twas not his fault—he was not there. Still lab’ring in affairs of state To make the kingdom good and great (Altho’ the wicked Opposition Did ever thwart him in his mission), A sleepless eye he always cast Upon the future and the past To frustrate—hard for anyone— What the Last Government had done. At present he’d in contemplation Some mighty measures for the nation— To bring the Butterflies to terms By giving franchise to the Worms; To teach the Gnats to carry logs; To give self-government to Hogs Because they had resolved to shirk, With noble Scorn, ignoble Work; To succour Wildcats, and to keep The Wolves secure against the Sheep. And here he thought he smelt a plot: This trivial matter, was it not A little juggle to discredit This last great measure?—There, he’d said it. But still his heart bled at the woe Occasion’d by his Party’s foe.

At this the Tiger shriek’d with rage (The while his Secret’ry the Fox, Took papers from his office box), ‘Unhappy land! accursed age!’ He cried, ‘You seek to murder me With weight of brute Majority; And me not only, but the cause Of Pity, Justice, and the Laws! Take back the charges you impute; It is not me but you who do’t. When we controll’d the Sov’reign’s land The sun was bright, the breeze was bland. The roving Heifer, free from care, Scarce needed sniff th’ untainted air For danger, and the young Gazelle Drank heedless at the hidden well; And even I with happy smile Would lay me down to slumber, while The careless Lambkins gambol’d round, And Peace and Plenty blest the ground!

With this fine eloquence inflamed The rival factions loudly named Each other Brute, and (it is said) Would soon have killed each other dead: But now the Boar with growl and grunt And bristling juba leapt to front. ‘Accursed both!’ he cried. ‘What, what! Think you, ye fools, we know you not? Each canting, lying partisan, Who prates of Mercy and the Law With merciless and murd’rous maw, Will always eat us when he can— Us, who with boon and bloodless toil Seek but the acorns for our spoil— Were not our eyes and tushes bright To quell such bandits of the night. Why, e’en the Monarch—’ Here a roar From all the Council check’d the Boar; And soon the King with pensive mien Said, ‘This is not the way, I ween To reach the truth—more difficult Than we supposed. Let us consult Our learned Judge, Lord Elephant.’

So he advances, complaisant With rocky brow, and at his ear A pen as long as any spear; Small eyes that saw behind the Truth Convenience; and, as if to soothe Dissention, with a swaying motion From side to side. ‘Sire, I’ve a notion,’ He said, ‘there is no case at all. The plaintiff can no witness call, And hers the only evidence, Which, rightly sifted, has no sense. For in the night she says he took Her first, her second in the brook. How could she see him in the dark? And for the second, pray you mark, Perhaps it was more likely drown’d. As for the third, when she look’d round, He’d gone: how did she know him then? This is of fancy, not of ken. Moreover, in th’ alternative, Sir Wolf can plead he could not live Because the din the lambkins made About him slumb’ring in the shade. As for the much-bereaved Dame, With whom I deeply sympathise— Such sorrow wets my foolish eyes— I fear she may be thought to blame Because she troubled Majesty Before she had instructed me (Of course I ridicule the fee); And I should be prepared, in short, To hear it argued in the Court Whether she did not bring the charge In order merely to discharge An ancient grudge against her foe—’ ‘Enough! and let the prisoner go!’ The Sov’reign said. ‘And as for you, Dishonest and malignant Ewe, We do not order you to death (Whate’er your conduct meriteth) Only because it pleaseth us To show we are magnanimous.’ (He was indeed much praised for that, And more because the Sheep was fat). ‘Break up the Court. Enough of worry, It’s time to dine, so let’s be merry.’

With that they shifted in a hurry; But in the scramble no one knew (So says the Saga that is true) What happen’d to the Piteous Ewe.

_The Contest of Birds_

_Dedicated to all the Excellent_

The Eagle which at Jove’s right hand Was wont to take imperial stand, Proud of his perch, and with fond beak The Thund’rer’s fondling finger tweak, Or blinking in sage thought t’ assume Half sov’reignty and weigh the doom, Was sick; for the World he sigh’d, His Mountains and his Forests wide; So true it is, not Jove’s right hand Is worth to us our Native Land, And that the Little we have not Can make the Much we have forgot.

Therefore to earth with arching vans, Released a while, the sky he spans In flight; sinks thro’ the tempest; takes The feather-fretting aid of wind; And now, new born with pleasure, breaks Upon a beauteous Vale confined.

Now it is said that on that day All Birds that are had ceased their play, And question’d, each with heat and brawl, Which was the noblest of them all: Who when they saw the Eagle stand Amidst them (now unused to stand Upon the dull, flat, level earth) Burst into loud contemptuous mirth. ‘It seems,’ exclaimed a civil Crow, ‘You come here, friend, quite apropos. For we discuss’d the noblest here, And you are truly the most queer. Your wings and tail, excuse me friend, Seem too long for your other end. Pray change your—if I may suggest— Your tailor and be better dress’d. Look at myself how neat I go, And in the latest fashion too.’ ‘Or were your plumes, my friend, more bright We could excuse your homely plight,’ The Peacock said: ‘pray just admire My plumes of azure, gold and fire. My dames about me ever move In wonder, and confess their love. Whene’er I show myself,’ said he, ‘The Gods look down from Heaven to see.’ ‘Base virtues of the body!’ cried The Parrot. ‘Is the soul denied? Know friend that beauteous words are worth More than these qualities of earth. How wise I am admire, and know It is by study I am so. Still lost in contemplation I Quite understand the earth and sky; Can talk of wonders without end, More e’en than I can comprehend; Or say the wisest words, I ween, Although I don’t know what they mean.’ ‘Pshaw!’ said the Vulture, ‘fair or wise, You shall some day become my prize. Your merits shall be mine, ’od shake ’em, Whenever I may choose to take ’em; And when I have digested you Your virtues shall become mine too. As for our friend the new arrival, If he contend to be my rival, Let’s fight it out in heaven’s name!’ ‘What base arbitrement! for shame!’ Exclaimed the mincing Nightingale. ‘If he aspire let him prevail Against me in the test of song Where he who triumphs is most strong.’ ‘Beware of pride,’ the Dodo said; ‘I see that all of you are led Astray by arrogance. For me, I glory in humility. I am so humble I confess My utter wicked worthlessness. I say with tears’—and here he blows The part that should have been his nose— ‘I say with tears I dote upon Being beaten, bruised and trampled on. I love to be reminded still Of all my faults and treated ill. So ’tis, I think, confess’d by all My virtue’s not equivocal.’ ‘To me,’ the lofty Stork aver’d, ‘This seems a most plebeian bird. With nails so long and legs so short, He cannot be of noble sort; Tho’ in his nose, I must confess, I see some sign of gentleness. I cannot really stoop so far (Whom all the Frogs and Mice in war Already have confess’d their king) As rival this uncrowned thing. My subjects would at once repine Nor let me eat ’em, I opine, As all contented subjects should, Did I disgrace my royal blood.’

Which heard, the fiery Eagle’s eyes With noble anger and surprise Flash’d out. ‘Still dear what is most cheap Ye little woodland creatures keep,’ He cried; and flung aloft his head, Gazed up to heaven, his pinions spread (The wind of which made timorous stir Among the things that round him were) And leaping on the air begun Ascent, and vanish’d in the sun.

_Alastor_

’Tis said that a noble Youth of old Was to his native village lost And to his home and aged sire; For he had wander’d (it is told) Where, pinnacled in eternal Frost, Apollo leads his awful Choir.

Awful, for nought of human warms The agony of Their Song sublime, Which like the breath of Ice is given, Ascending in vapour from all forms, Where Gods in clear alternate chime Reveal Their mystery-thoughts to Heaven.

Nor in those regions of windless Cold Is fiery the Sun tho’ fierce in light; But frozen-pale the numbed Moon Wanders along the ridges that fold Enormous Peaks, what time the Night Rivals with all her stars the Noon.

For there, not dimly as here, the Stars, But globed and azure and crimson tinct, Climb up the windless wastes of Snow, Gold-footed, or thro’ the long-drawn bars Of mountain Mist with eyes unblink’d And scorn, gaze down on the world below;

Or high on the topmost Peak and end Of ranges stand with sudden blaze, Like Angels born in spontaneous birth; Or wrap themselves in flame and descend Between black foreheads of Rock in haze, Slowly like grieved gods to earth.

And there for ever the patient Wind Rakes up the crystals of dry Snow, And mourns for ever her work undone; And there for ever, like Titans blind Their countenance lifting to Heaven’s glow, The sightless Mountains yearn for the Sun.

There nightly the numbed Eagle quells (Full-feathered to his feet of horn) His swooning eye, his eyrie won, And slumbers, frozen by frosty spells Fast to the pinnacle; but at Morn Unfettered, leaps toward the Sun.

* * * * *

He heard, he saw. Not to the air Dared breathe a breath; but with his sight Wreak’d on Immortals mortal wrong, And dared to see them as they were— The black Peaks blacken’d in Their light, The white Stars flashing with Their song.

So fled. But when revealing Morn Show’d him descended, Giant grown, Men ant-like, petty, mean and weak, He rush’d returning. Then in scorn Th’ Immortals smote him to a Stone That aches for ever on the Peak.

_Ocean and the Rock_

_The Rock._ Cease, O rude and raging Sea, Thus to waste thy war on me. Hast thou not enough assail’d All these ages, Fool, and fail’d?

_The Ocean._ Gaunt and ghastly Skeleton, Remnant of a time that’s gone, Tott’ring in thy last decay Durst thou still to darken day?

_The Rock._ Empty Brawler brawl no more; Cease to waste thy watery war On my bastion’d Bases broad, Sanctified by Time and God.

_The Ocean._ Thou that beëst but to be, Scornest thou my Energy? Not much longer lasts the strife. I am Labour, I am Life.

_The Rock._ Roar then, roar, and vent thy Surge; Thou not now shalt drone my dirge. Dost imagine to dismay This my iron breast with Spray?

_The Ocean._ Relic of primaeval slime, I shall whelm thee in my time. Changeless thou dost ever die; Changing but immortal, I.

_Death and Love_

Death, pacing between a ghastly Moon Dying low down on the western Hills And the Star, bright usher of the Morn, The clear Dawn cryophor,

Trod frosty footprints in the dew Upon a ridge; and beholding there A lovely Lady lain below His tingling Arrow sped—

A Barb with a burning icicle tip’d, Torn from the frore beard of the Northern Star That stares on the shuddering pyramids Of crumbling Arctic ice.

With his Arrow he smote her and cried, ‘Come not here! Not here will I bear thee. This is My world— The world of Death where Beauty dies, And I, I Death am god.’

She sobbing arose, and sobbing sank; And would have perish’d, but Love that way Fell like a flame, and supported her And warm’d her dying hands;

And said to him, ‘Fool, the touch of thy barb Is poison that I can poison with Love; For as thou art Death unto all the world, Even so am I Death to thee.’

_Calypso to Ulysses_

’ ’’’ ’’’ ’’’ ’ ’’’ ’’’ ’’

Go, go from me sorrowful Wanderer— Go, go from me, tho’ no Man dearer Than thou art. The Stars will revisit me, And Thou not forget me O Ocean.

Alone here, alone in my Solitude I’ll sit by the Ocean for ever, And mourn for the Hero so lost to me— So loved by me, Lost, and no omen.

Monotonous Waters shall sing to me; Shall sigh to me, sing of my Hero. Immortal like me is my Misery, And when will my Sorrow grow older.

Immortal like me is my Love for thee; But mortal like thee, alas, thine is. I have no enchantment to quicken thee, Nor thou to console me with Death.

_The Star and the Sun_

In Darkness and pacing the thunder-beat Shore By many Waves, No sound being near to me there but the hoarse Cicala’s cry, While that unseen Sword, the Zodiacal Light, Falchion of Dawn, Made clear all the Orient and wanner the Silvery Stars,

I heard the fine flute of the Fast Fading Fire, The Morning Star, Pipe thus to the Glimmering Glories of Night, And sing, ‘O World, If I even leave thee then Who can remain?’ But from the Deep The Thundering Sun upsprang, and replied, ‘Even I.’

_The Poet’s Retirement_

Down from that blithe Idalian Hill Where Violets drink of dew their fill, And wading thro’ wet eastern Flowers With wash’d feet Eos and the Hours Come laughing down, I laughing came.

The Morn had now her threads of flame Inlaid to Earth’s green tapestries, Gold-inwoven; and to their knees In chilly baths of thridding rills At tremble stood luce Daffodils; When lo I mark’d toward me move Those Maidens Three whom poets love. ‘O whither away, rash Youth,’ they cried, ‘Singing thro’ daffodils dost thou stride?’ ‘Ladies, I wander for a while’— And here I duck’d and doff’d in style— ‘I wander by Bourn, I wander by Byre, By Cape and Cote and Castle Spire, And sometime stick in puddled Mire; Or where the shrieking moon-drawn Tides Drench dripping jags on Mountain sides; Or twanging strings sound gay reprieve To smoky Villages at eve, The while toward their wattled home The baaing Sheep do go, I roam, And when the paddock’d Ass careers Mirthful, with high prick’d tail and ears. And I have left behind me there My Hippocrate teaching the air; And Learning prim; and Venus too Now whipping Cupid with her shoe.’ Then, of those slipper’d Maidens, She Robed in flush rose red answer’d me, Who brightly gazing with mild look Held still a finger-parted book. ‘Come then,’ she cried, ‘with me and dwell In my Valley of Asphodel, Which is a land of laughing rills And hung about with dazzling hills, Where oft the Swain with garter’d legs Piping for love in music begs Nor Thisbe turns her petulant ear. There large-eyed Plato thou may’st here Persuade, or, if not idly awed, Masters a Master’s theme applaud. Or if the Thunder more invite Than silver-threaded rain’s delight And sloping seats of knolled moss, Come where some thwarted Torrent toss Thro’ his black gorges, mad to break The shining levels of the Lake. Or, if engross’d with human Fate, On ranged boards mark Love and Hate Egg on to midnight-living crime, And glaring Horrors of dead time Creep in behind. Or, restive still, Unlock’d from Hell soar Heaven’s hill Thro’ sun-outstaring Cherubim.’

‘Not so,’ cried one, a Virgin slim, Plumed, wrap’d and robed in such gold-green As thro’ woods sunset-dazed is seen, Who half upon her dinted breast Apollo sculpt in little press’d. ‘Come to my House of all delights, Whose marble Stairs with merged flights Are shallow’d in the viewless Lake; Whose overpeering Turrets take The peep of Dawn, or flashing turn To Eve departing golden scorn. There fairy-fluted pillars soar To cloudy Roofs of limned lore, And Walls are window’d with rare scapes And rich designs: of blazon’d Capes Pawing the sunset-burnish’d flood; Of rib-railed reaches of Solitude; Of rounded World and globed Skies, And Stars between, and faint Moonrise; Of black Tarns set mid mountain peaks And spouting silver-foamed leaks; Of Gods reclined, and Maids who move, Unlidding lustrous eyes of love; Of War; of Wisdom with a skull. And in the high aisles Fountains full Disperse a stream of coolness there For frosted fern and maidenhair, And sculptured beauty hold the way. So thither go with me to-day.’

Then She who all in purple dight, Brow-starr’d with orbed ruby light, Lifted from under rich deep locks Looks wrapt on Heaven, to earthly shocks Descending, thus replied: ‘Not these Flat hapless lands of Towers and Trees May past the morn your spirit please. But to some cold Crag, doffing drifts, His cleared brow that Heavenward lifts, And turns beneath the mistless Stars, Come. There no dew distilled mars The many hued Sidereal blaze, And mooned Venus in white rage Stares down the Dawn. Come; for that Glow There solves to unpolluted flow The crumbling crystals of the Snow; And windworn Cataracts wavering plunge To lightless pine-valleys. Come, O come! Lest those faint Harmonies be unheard Which, as from silver and gold strings stir’d By the light fingers of the Wind, Run from the poised orbs swiftly spin’d.’ She ceased, and with her finger tip Made sound the lyre upon her hip, And would have sung; but I replied, ‘To be unchosen is descried; And we shall be made mad in Heaven By need of choice of good things given. I love all Three so passing well Which I love best I cannot tell. Alas!’—I cried, but checked the word, For close behind a footstep heard Compel’d me turn; when lo that Maid, Dress’d in black velvet, who bewray’d Plump Popes and Pastors once to fear, Came up and took me by the ear. ‘Is this the way,’ she cried, ‘you waste Time should be spent in huddling haste To harry Ignorance to her den, Or pink fat Folly with the pen? Small unobserved things to use, Each with its little mite of news, To build that sheer hypothesis Whose base on righteous Reason is, Whose point among the Stars. For shame! Enough the seeming-serious game. But search the Depths; and for thy meed, A place among the men indeed.’

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