Chapter 6

"Billow, billow, breaking, Land us low on the lee! For sleeping or waking, Sweet love, I am coming to thee!

"High, high, o'er the breakers, Low, low, on the lee, Sing ho! The billow That brings me back to thee!"

AFLOAT AND ASHORE

"Tumble and rumble, and grumble and snort, Like a whale to starboard, a whale to port; Tumble and rumble, and grumble and snort, And the steamer steams thro' the sea, love!"

"I see the ship on the sea, love; I stand alone On this rock; The sea does not shock The stone; The waters around it are swirled, But under my feet I feel it go down To where the hemispheres meet At the adamant heart of the world. Oh that the rock would move! Oh that the rock would roll To meet thee over the sea, love! Surely my mighty love Should fill it like a soul, And it should bear me to thee, love; Like a ship on the sea, love, Bear me, bear me, to thee, love!"

"Guns are thundering, seas are sundering, crowds are wondering, Low on our lee, love. Over and over the cannon-clouds cover brother and lover, but over and over The whirl-wheels trundle the sea, love; And on through the loud pealing pomp of her cloud The great ship is going to thee, love, Blind to her mark, like a world through the dark, Thundering, sundering, to the crowds wondering, Thundering over to thee, love."

"I have come down to thee coming to me, love; I stand, I stand On the solid sand; I see thee coming to me, love; The sea runs up to me on the sand: I start--'tis as if thou hadst stretched thine hand And touched me through the sea, love. I feel as if I must die, For there's something longs to fly, Fly and fly, to thee, love.

As the blood of the flower ere she blows Is beating up to the sun, And her roots do hold her down, And it blushes and breaks undone In a rose, So my blood is beating in me, love! I see thee nigh and nigher; And my soul leaps up like sudden fire, My life's in the air To meet thee there, To meet thee coming to me, love! Over the sea, Coming to me, Coming, and coming to me, love!"

"The boats are lowered: I leap in first, Pull, boys, pull! or my heart will burst! More! more!--lend me an oar!-- I'm thro' the breakers! I'm on the shore! I see thee waiting for me, love!"

"A sudden storm Of sighs and tears, A clenching arm, A look of years. In my bosom a thousand cries, A flash like light before my eyes, And I am lost in thee, love!"

THE SOUL

From 'Balder'

And as the mounting and descending bark, Borne on exulting by the under deep, Gains of the wild wave something not the wave, Catches a joy of going and a will Resistless, and upon the last lee foam Leaps into air beyond it,--so the soul Upon the Alpine ocean mountain-tossed, Incessant carried up to heaven, and plunged To darkness, and, still wet with drops of death, Held into light eternal, and again Cast down, to be again uplift in vast And infinite succession, cannot stay The mad momentum.

ENGLAND

From 'Balder'

This dear English land! This happy England, loud with brooks and birds, Shining with harvests, cool with dewy trees, And bloomed from hill to dell: but whose best flowers Are daughters, and Ophelia still more fair Than any rose she weaves; whose noblest floods The pulsing torrent of a nation's heart; Whose forests stronger than her native oaks Are living men; and whose unfathomed lakes, Forever calm, the unforgotten dead In quiet grave-yards willowed seemly round, O'er which To-day bends sad, and sees his face. Whose rocks are rights, consolidate of old Through unremembered years, around whose base The ever-surging peoples roll and roar Perpetual, as around her cliffs the seas That only wash them whiter; and whose mountains, Souls that from this mere footing of the earth Lift their great virtues through all clouds of Fate Up to the very heavens, and make them rise To keep the gods above us!

AMERICA

Nor force nor fraud shall sunder us! O ye Who north or south, or east or western land, Native to noble sounds, say truth for truth, Freedom for freedom, love for love, and God For God; O ye who in eternal youth Speak with a living and creative flood This universal English, and do stand Its breathing book; live worthy of that grand Heroic utterance--parted, yet a whole, Far, yet unsevered,--children brave and free Of the great Mother tongue, and ye shall be Lords of an empire wide as Shakespeare's soul, Sublime as Milton's immemorial theme, And rich as Chaucer's speech, and fair as Spenser's dream.

AMY'S SONG OF THE WILLOW

From 'Balder'

The years they come, and the years they go, Like winds that blow from sea to sea; From dark to dark they come and go, All in the dew-fall and the rain. Down by the stream there be two sweet willows, --Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow,-- One hale, one blighted, two wedded willows, All in the dew-fall and the rain.

She is blighted, the fair young willow; --Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow,-- She hears the spring-blood beat in the bark; She hears the spring-leaf bud on the bough; But she bends blighted, the wan weeping willow, All in the dew-fall and the rain.

The stream runs sparkling under the willow, --Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow,-- The summer rose-leaves drop in the stream; The winter oak-leaves drop in the stream; But she bends blighted, the wan weeping willow, All in the dew-fall and the rain.

Sometimes the wind lifts the bright stream to her, --Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow,-- The false stream sinks, and her tears fall faster; Because she touched it her tears fall faster; Over the stream her tears fall faster, All in the sunshine or the rain.

The years they come, and the years they go; Sing well-away, sing well-away! And under mine eyes shines the bright life-river; Sing well-away, sing well-away! Sweet sounds the spring in the hale green willow, The goodly green willow, the green waving willow, Sweet in the willow, the wind-whispering willow; Sing well-away, sing well-away! But I bend blighted, the wan weeping willow, All in the sun, and the dew, and the rain.

AUSTIN DOBSON

(1840-)

BY ESTHER SINGLETON

At first thought it seems difficult to consider Austin Dobson as belonging to the Victorian period, so entirely is he saturated with the spirit of the eighteenth century. A careful study of his verse reveals the fact that the Georgian era, seen through the vista of his poetic imagination, is divested of all that is coarse, dark, gross, and prosaic. The mental atmosphere and the types and characters that he gives, express only beauty and charm.

One approaches the poems of Austin Dobson as one stands before a rare collection of enamels, fan-mounts, jeweled snuff-boxes, and delicate carvings in ivory and silver; and after delighting in the beauty and finish of these graceful curios, passes into a gallery of paintings and water-colors, suggesting Watteau, Fragonard, Boucher, Meissonier, and Greuze. We also wander among trim box-hedges and quaint gardens of roses and bright hollyhocks; lean by sun-dials to watch the shadow of Time; and enjoy the sight of gay belles, patched and powdered and dressed in brocaded gowns and gypsy hats. Gallant beaux, such as are associated with Reynolds's portraits, appear, and hand them into sedan-chairs or lead them through stately minuets to the notes of Rameau, Couperin, and Arne.

Just as the scent of rose-leaves, lavender, and musk rises from antique Chinese jars, so Dobson's delicate verse reconstructs a life

"Of fashion gone, and half-forgotten ways."

He is equally at home in France. Nothing could be more sympathetic and exquisite than 'A Revolutionary Relic,' 'The Curé's Progress,' 'Une Marquise,' and the 'Proverbs in Porcelain,' one of which is cited below.

In the 'Vers de Société,' as well as his other poetry, Dobson fulfills all the requirements of light verse--charm, mockery, pathos, banter, and, while apparently skimming the surface, often shows us the strange depths of the human heart. He blends so many qualities that he deserves the praise of T.B. Aldrich, who says, "Austin Dobson has the grace of Suckling and the finish of Herrick, and is easily master of both in metrical art."

Henry Austin Dobson, the son of Mr. George Clarisse Dobson, a civil engineer, was born in Plymouth, England, January 18th 1840. His early years were spent in Anglesea, and after receiving his education in Beaumaris, Coventry, and Strasburg, he returned to England to become a civil engineer. In 1856 he entered the civil service of Great Britain, and ever since that date he has held offices in the Board of Trade. His leisure was devoted to literature, and when Anthony Trollope first issued his magazine St. Paul's in 1868, he introduced to the public the verse of Austin Dobson. In 1873 his fugitive poems were published in a small volume entitled 'Vignettes in Rhyme' and 'Vers de Société.' This was followed in 1877 by 'Proverbs in Porcelain,' and both books, with additional poems, were printed again in two volumes: 'Old World Idylls' (1883), and 'At the Sign of the Lyre' (1885). Mr. Dobson's original essays are contained in three volumes: 'Four Frenchwomen,' studies of Charlotte Corday, Madame Roland, the Princess de Lamballe, and Madame de Genlis (1890), and 'Eighteenth-Century Vignettes' (first series 1892, second series 1894), which touch upon a host of picturesque and fascinating themes. He has written also several biographies: of Hogarth, of Fielding, of Steele (1886), of Goldsmith (1888), and a 'Memoir of Horace Walpole' (1890). He has also written felicitous critical introductions to many new editions of the eighteenth-century classics.

Austin Dobson has been most happy in breathing English life into the old poems of French verse, such as ballades, villanelles, roundels, and rondeaux; and he has also written clever and satirical fables, cast in the form and temper of Gay and Prior, with quaint obsolete affectations, redolent of the classic age of Anne.

So serious is his attitude towards art, and so large his audience, that the hope expressed in the following rondeau will certainly be realized:--

In after days, when grasses high O'er-top the stone where I shall lie, Though ill or well the world adjust My slender claim to honored dust, I shall not question nor reply.

I shall not see the morning sky, I shall not hear the night-wind sigh; I shall be mute, as all men must, In after days.

But yet, now living, fain were I That some one then should testify, Saying--_He held his pen in trust_ _To Art, not serving shame or lust._ Will none?--Then let my memory die In after days!

ON A NANKIN PLATE

VILLANELLE

"Ah me, but it might have been! Was there ever so dismal a fate?" Quoth the little blue mandarin.

"Such a maid as was never seen: She passed, tho' I cried to her, 'Wait,'-- Ah me, but it might have been!

"I cried, 'O my Flower, my Queen, Be mine!'--'Twas precipitate," Quoth the little blue mandarin.

"But then ... she was just sixteen,-- Long-eyed, as a lily straight,-- Ah me, but it might have been!

"As it was, from her palankeen She laughed--'You're a week too late!'" (Quoth the little blue mandarin.)

"That is why, in a mist of spleen I mourn on this Nankin Plate. Ah me, but it might have been!" Quoth the little blue mandarin.

THE OLD SEDAN-CHAIR

"What's not destroyed by Time's devouring Hand? Where's Troy,--and where's the May-Pole in the Strand?" --BRAMSTON'S 'ART OF POLITICKS.'

It stands in the stable-yard, under the eaves, Propped up by a broomstick and covered with leaves; It once was the pride of the gay and the fair, But now 'tis a ruin,--that old Sedan-chair!

It is battered and tattered,--it little avails That once it was lacquered, and glistened with nails; For its leather is cracked into lozenge and square Like a canvas by Wilkie,--that old Sedan-chair.

See, here come the bearing-straps; here were the holes For the poles of the bearers--when once there were poles; It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded with hair, As the birds have discovered,--that old Sedan-chair.

"Where's Troy?" says the poet! Look; under the seat Is a nest with four eggs; 'tis a favored retreat Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear, Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan-chair.

And yet--Can't you fancy a face in the frame Of the window,--some high-headed damsel or dame, Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by the stair, While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan-chair?

Can't you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he stands, With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands, With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire, As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan-chair?

Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many a league It has trotted 'twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague; Stout fellows!--but prone, on a question of fare, To brandish the poles of that old Sedan-chair!

It has waited by portals where Garrick has played; It has waited by Heidegger's "Grand Masquerade"; For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair, It has waited--and waited, that old Sedan-chair!

Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales it could tell Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle,-- Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare!) Of Fête-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan-chair!

"_Heu! quantum mutata_," I say as I go. It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though! We must furbish it up, and dispatch it,--"With Care,"-- To a Fine-Art Museum--that old Sedan-chair.

THE BALLAD OF PROSE AND RHYME

When the ways are heavy with mire and rut, In November fogs, in December snows, When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut,-- There is place and enough for the pains of prose; But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows, And the jasmine-stars at the casement climb, And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows, Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

When the brain gets dry as an empty nut, When the reason stands on its squarest toes, When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut,"-- There is place and enough for the pains of prose; But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows, And the young year draws to the "golden prime," And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,-- Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant-strut, In a changing quarrel of "Ayes" and "Noes," In a starched procession of "If" and "But,"-- There is place and enough for the pains of prose; But whenever a soft glance softer grows And the light hours dance to the trysting-time, And the secret is told "that no one knows,"-- Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

ENVOY

In the work-a-day world,--for its needs and woes, There is place and enough for the pains of prose; But whenever the May-bells clash and chime, Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

THE CURÉ'S PROGRESS

Monsieur The Curé down the street Comes with his kind old face,-- With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, And his green umbrella-case.

You may see him pass by the little "_Grande Place_," And the tiny "_Hôtel-de-Ville_"; He smiles as he goes, to the _fleuriste_ Rose, And the _pompier_ Théophile.

He turns as a rule through the "_Marché_" cool, Where the noisy fishwives call; And his compliment pays to the "_belle Thérèse_," As she knits in her dusky stall.

There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop, And Toto, the locksmith's niece, Has jubilant hopes, for the Curé gropes In his tails for a _pain d'épice_.

There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit Who is said to be heterodox, That will ended be with a "_Ma foi, oui!_" And a pinch from the Curé's box.

There is also a word that no one heard To the furrier's daughter Lou; And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red, And a "_Bon Dieu garde M'sieu!_"

But a grander way for the _Sous-Préfet_, And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne; And a mock "off-hat" to the Notary's cat, And a nod to the Sacristan:--

For ever through life the Curé goes With a smile on his kind old face-- With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair. And his green umbrella-case.

"GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTE"

"Si vieillesse pouvait!"

SCENE.--_A small neat room. In a high Voltaire chair sits a white-haired old gentleman._

M. VIEUXBOIS [_turning querulously_]

Day of my life! Where _can_ she get? BABETTE! I Say! BABETTE!--BABETTE!

BABETTE [_entering hurriedly_]

Coming, M'sieu'! If M'sieu' speaks So loud, he won't be well for weeks!

M. VIEUXBOIS

Where have you been?

BABETTE

Why, M'sieu' knows:-- April!... Ville-d' Avray!... Ma'm'selle ROSE!

M. VIEUXBOIS

Ah! I am old,--and I forget. Was the place growing green, BABETTE?

BABETTE

But of a greenness!--Yes, M'sieu'! And then the sky so blue!--so blue! And when I dropped my _immortelle_, How the birds sang! [_Lifting her apron to her eyes._] This poor Ma'm'selle!

M. VIEUXBOIS

You're a good girl, BABETTE, but she,-- She was an angel, verily. Sometimes I think I see her yet Stand smiling by the cabinet; And once, I know, she peeped and laughed Betwixt the curtains.... Where's the draught? [_She gives him a cup._] Now I shall sleep, I think, BABETTE;-- Sing me your Norman _chansonnette_.

BABETTE [_sings_]

"_Once at the Angelus (Ere I was dead), Angels all glorious Came to my bed;-- Angels in blue and white, Crowned on the head._"

M. VIEUXBOIS [_drowsily_]

"She was an Angel" ... "Once she laughed" ... What! was I dreaming? Where's the draught?

BABETTE [_showing the empty cup_]

The draught, M'sieu'?

M. VIEUXBOIS

How I forget! I am so old! But sing, BABETTE!

BABETTE [_sings_]

"_One was the Friend I left Stark in the Snow; One was the Wife that died Long,--long ago; One was the Love I lost-- How could she know?_"

M. VIEUXBOIS [_murmuring_]

Ah PAUL! ... old PAUL! ... EULALIE, too! And ROSE ... And O! "the sky so blue!"

BABETTE [_sings_]

"_One had my Mother's eyes, Wistful and mild; One had my Father's face; One was a Child: All of them bent to me,-- Bent down and smiled!_" [He is asleep!]

M. VIEUXBOIS [_almost inaudibly_]

How I forget! I am so old! ... Good-night, BABETTE!

THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S

A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN

"Phyllida amo ante alias."--VIRGIL.

The ladies of St. James's Go swinging to the play; Their footmen run before them With a "Stand by! Clear the way!" But Phyllida, my Phyllida! She takes her buckled shoon, When we go out a-courting Beneath the harvest moon.

The ladies of St. James's Wear satin on their backs; They sit all night at _Ombre_, With candles all of wax: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! She dons her russet gown, And runs to gather May-dew Before the world is down.

The ladies of St. James's! They are so fine and fair, You'd think a box of essences Was broken in the air: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! The breath of heath and furze, When breezes blow at morning, Is not so fresh as hers.

The ladies of St. James's! They're painted to the eyes; Their white it stays forever, Their red it never dies: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Her color comes and goes; It trembles to a lily,-- It wavers like a rose,

The ladies of St. James's! You scarce can understand The half of all their speeches, Their phrases are so grand: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Her shy and simple words Are clear as after rain-drops The music of the birds.

The ladies of St. James's! They have their fits and freaks; They smile on you--for seconds; They frown on you--for weeks: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Come either storm or shine, From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide, Is always true--and mine.

My Phyllida! my Phyllida! I care not though they heap The hearts of all St. James's, And give me all to keep; I care not whose the beauties Of all the world may be,-- For Phyllida, my Phyllida, Is all the world to me.

DORA _VERSUS_ ROSE

"The Case is Proceeding"

From the tragic-est novels at Mudie's-- At least on a practical plan-- To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys, One love is enough for a man. But no case that I ever yet met is Like mine: I am equally fond Of Rose, who a charming brunette is, And Dora, a blonde.

Each rivals the other in powers-- Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints-- Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers; Miss Do., perpendicular saints. In short, to distinguish is folly; 'Twixt the pair I am come to the pass Of Macheath, between Lucy and Polly,-- Or Buridan's ass.

If it happens that Rosa I've singled For a soft celebration in rhyme, Then the ringlets of Dora get mingled Somehow with the tune and the time; Or I painfully pen me a sonnet To an eyebrow intended for Do.'s, And behold I am writing upon it The legend, "To Rose."

Or I try to draw Dora (my blotter Is all over scrawled with her head), If I fancy at last that I've got her, It turns to her rival instead; Or I find myself placidly adding To the rapturous tresses of Rose Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding, Ineffable nose.

Was there ever so sad a dilemma? For Rose I would perish (_pro tem._); For Dora I'd willingly stem a-- (Whatever might offer to stem); But to make the invidious election,-- To declare that on either one's side I've a scruple,--a grain,--more affection, I _cannot_ decide.

And as either so hopelessly nice is, My sole and my final resource Is to wait some indefinite crisis,-- Some feat of molecular force, To solve me this riddle conducive By no means to peace or repose, Since the issue can scarce be inclusive Of Dora _and_ Rose.

(AFTER-THOUGHT)

But perhaps if a third (say, a Norah), Not quite so delightful as Rose, Nor wholly so charming as Dora, Should appear, is it wrong to suppose,-- As the claims of the others are equal,-- And flight--in the main--is the best,-- That I might ... But no matter,--the sequel Is easily guessed.

UNE MARQUISE

A RHYMED MONOLOGUE IN THE LOUVRE