OLD-WORLD IDYLLS NINTH EDITION. Old-World IDYLLS AND OTHER VERSES By AUSTIN DOBSON Apollinece belht:n puerile pharcirce ALIFO'r" LONDON KEG AN PAUL, TRENCH & CO MDCCCLXXXIX To you I sing, whom towns immure, A nd bonds of toil holdfast and sure ; To you across whose aching sight Come -woodlands bathed in April light^ And dreams of pastime premature. And you, O Sad, who still endure Some wound tJtat only Time can cure, To you, in watches of the night,-~ To you I sing! But most to you with eyelids pure, Scarce witting yet of love or lure; To you, with bird-like glances bright, Half -paused to speak, half -poised inflight; O English Girl, divine, demure, To YOU I sing I CONTENTS. PAGE OLD-WORLD IDYLLS: A Dead Letter 3 A Gentleman of the Old School .J/". 9 A Gentlewoman of the Old School M The Ballad of Beau Brocade 19 v Une Marquise . ^. . 3 The Story of Rosina 3 6 PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN : The Ballad a-la-Mod 51 The Metamorphosis 55 The Song out of Season 59 The Cap that Fits , . * 63 The Secrets of the Heart * ^ ...... 67 ^"Good-Night, Babette I". ^ 7 2 VIGNETTES IN RHYME : The Drama of the Doctor's Window 79 An Autumn Idyll ^- 88 A Garden Idyll 95 b CONTENTS. PAGE VIGNETTES IN RHYME (continwd). Tu Quoque pX- - r *.' 100 A Dialogue from Plato ... ,.,.,,,.,. 103 The Romaimt of the Rose . . . . . 106 Love in Whiter 108 Pot-Pourri no Dorothy 113 Avice 116 The Love-Letter 120 The Misogynist 123 A Virtuoso 127 Laissez Faire 131 ToQ. H. F. {/ . . . I33 To " Lydia Languish " 136 A Gage d' Amour . . 139 Cupid's Alley 142 The Idyll of the Carp 14^ The Sundial !5 2 An Unfinished Song jc^ The Child-Musician . ^ I5 8 -The Cradle ; '. . . . . I59 Before Sedan . . j/^ J^Q ^The Forgotten Grave 162 My Landlady ^ -Before the Curtain . . .--^ . . - m ,%,'. ,* . r fy A Nightingale in Kensington Garden* l6g CONTENTS. PAGE MISCELLANEOUS PIECES : A Song of the Four Seasons ...,<,........ 173 The Paradox of Time tei*l *-.*/.tf , . 175 To a Greek Girl i 77 The Death of Procris .... 179 The Prayer of the Swine to Circe . . . , 181 A Case of Cameos ...... r 186 The Sick Man and the Birds . . . 4 189 A Flower Song of Angiola 192 A Song of Angiola in Heaven 195 The Dying of Tanneguy du Bois 199 The Mosque of the Caliph 201 In the Belfry 205 Ars Victrix 206 ISSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS : / Rose Leaves (Triolets) 211 " Persicos Odi " . . .,->' 213 The Wanderer (Rondel) . . ' . ^ 214 " Vitas Hinnuleo " 215 " On London Stones " (Rondeau) 216 " Farewell, Renown " ,, 217 " More Poets Yet " . , . 218 "With Pipe and Flute" . ....,..'. . . .219 To Ethel ' ' ^ ., , 220 "O Fons Bandusiae" ,, 221 "Vixi Puellis" . 222 CONTENTS. PAGE ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS (continued). "When I saw you last, Rose" (Villanelle) 223 On a Nankin Plate 225 For a Copy of Theocritus ,, 227 "Tu ne Quaesieris" ,, 229 The Prodigals (Ballade: Irregular} 231 On a Fan (Ballade) 233 The Ballad of the Armada (Ballade) 235 ^~ The Ballad of Imitation 237 ^^The Ballad of Prose and Rhyme 239 "O Navis" 241 The Dance of Death (Chant Royat) ......... 243 OLD-WORLD IDYLLS. A DEAD LETTER. 11 A coeitr blessS F ombre et le silence? H. DE BALZAC. I. I DREW it from its china tomb ; It came out feebly scented With some thin ghost of past perfume That dust and days had lent it. An old, old letter, folded still ! To read with due composure, I sought the sun-lit window-sill, Above the gray enclosure, That glimmering in the sultry haze, Faint-flowered, dimly shaded, Slumbered like Goldsmith's Madam Blaize, Bedizened and brocaded. A queer old place ! You 'd surely say Some tea-board garden-maker Had planned it in Dutch William's day To please some florist Quaker, OLD-WORLD IDYLLS So trim it was. The yew-trees still, With pious care perverted, Grew in the same grim shapes ; and still The lipless dolphin spurted ; Still in his wonted state abode The broken-nosed Apollo ; And still the cypress-arbour showed The same umbrageous hollow. Only, as fresh young Beauty gleams From coffee-coloured laces, So peeped from its old-fashioned dreams The fresher modern traces ; For idle mallet, hoop, and ball Upon the lawn were lying ; A magazine, a tumbled shawl, Round which the swifts were flying ; And, tossed beside the Guelder rose, A heap of rainbow knitting, Where, blinking in her pleased repose; A Persian cat was sitting. " A place to love in, live, for aye, If we too, like Tithonus, Could find some God to stretch the gray, Scant life the Fates have thrown us ; A DEAD LETTER. " But now by steam we run our race, With buttoned heart and pocket ; Our Love 's a gilded, surplus grace, Just like an empty locket 1 " The time is out of joint.' Who will, May strive to make it better ; For me, this warm old window-sill, And this old dusty letter." II. " Dear John (the letter ran), it can't, can't be, For Father 's gone to Charley Fair with Sam, And Mother 's storing Apples, Prue and Me Up to our Elbows making Damson Jam : But we shall meet before a Week is gone, " Tis a long Lane that has no Turning,' John ! " Only till Sunday next, and then you '11 wait Behind the White-Thorn, by the broken Stile- We can go round and catch them at the Gate, All to Ourselves, for nearly one long Mile ; Dear Prue won't look, and Father he '11 go on, And Sam's two Eyes are all for Cissy 9 John I "John, she 's so smart, with every Ribbon new, Flame-coloured Sack, and Crimson Padesoy ; OLD-WORLD IDYLLS. As proud as proud ; and has the Vapours too, Just like My Lady ; calls poor Sam a Boy, And vows no Sweet-heart 's worth the Thinking-on Till he 's past Thirty ... I know better, John ! " My Dear, I don't think that I thought of much Before we knew each other, I and you ; And now, why, John, your least, least Finger- touch, Gives me enough to think a Summer through. See, for I send you Something ! There, 'tis gone ! Look in this corner, mind you find it, John /" III. This was the matter of the note, A long-forgot deposit, Dropped in an Indian dragon's throat, Deep in a fragrant closet, Piled with a dapper Dresden world, Beaux, beauties, prayers, and poses, Bonzes with squat legs undercurled, And great jars filled with roses. Ah, heart that wrote ! Ah, lips that kissed 1 You had no thought or presage Into what keeping you dismissed Your simple old-world message I A DEAD LETTER. A reverent one. Though we to-day Distrust beliefs and powers, The artless, ageless things you say Are fresh as May's own flowers, Starring some pure primeval spring, Ere Gold had grown despotic, Ere Life was yet a selfish thing, Or Love a mere exotic ! I need not search too much to find Whose lot it was to send it, That feel upon me yet the kind, Soft hand of her who penned it ; And see, through two score years of smoke, In by-gone, quaint apparel, Shine from yon time-black Norway oak The face of Patience Caryl, The pale, smooth forehead, silver-tressed ; The gray gown, primly flowered ; The spotless, stately coif whose crest Like Hector's horse-plume towered ; An still the sweet half-solemn look Where some past thought was clinging, OLD-WORLD IDYLLS. As when one shuts a serious book To hear the thrushes singing. I kneel to you I Of those you were, Whose kind old hearts grow mellow, Whose fair old faces grow more fair As Point and Flanders yellow ; Whom some old store of garnered grief, Their placid temples shading, Crowns like a wreath of autumn leaf With tender tints of fading. Peace to your soul ! You died unwed Despite this loving letter. And what of John? The less that 's said Of John, I think, the better. A GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL. GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL. HE lived in that past Georgian day, When men were less inclined to say That " Time is Gold," and overlay With toil their pleasure ; He held some land, and dwelt thereon, Where, I forget, the house is gone ; His Christian name, I think, was John, His surname, Leisure. Reynolds has painted him, a face Filled with a fine, old-fashioned grace, Fresh-coloured, frank, with ne'er a trace Of trouble shaded ; The eyes are blue, the hair is drest In plainest way, one hand is prest Deep in a flapped canary vest, With buds brocaded. He wears a brown old Brunswick coat, With silver buttons, round his throat, A. soft cravat ; in all you note An elder fashion, OLD-WORLD IDYLLS. A strangeness, which, to us who shine In shapely hats, whose coats combine All harmonies of hue and line, Inspires compassion. He lived so long ago, you see ! Men were untravelled then, but we, Like Ariel, post o'er land and sea With careless parting ; He found it quite enough for him To smoke his pipe in " garden trim," And watch, about the fish tank's brim, The swallows darting. He liked the well-wheel's creaking tongue, - He liked the thrush that stopped and sung,- He liked the drone of flies among His netted peaches ; He liked to watch the sunlight fall Athwart his ivied orchard wall ; Or pause to catch the cuckoo's call Beyond the beeches. His were the times of Paint and Patch, And yet no Ranelagh could match The sober doves that round his thatch Spread tails and sidled ; A GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL. He liked their ruffling, puffed content, For him their drowsy wheelings meant More than a Mall of Beaux that bent, Or Belles that bridled. Not that, in truth, when life began He shunned the flutter of the fan ; He too had maybe "pinked his man " In Beauty's quarrel ; But now his " fervent youth " had flown Where lost things go ; and he was grown As staid and slow-paced as his own Old hunter, Sorrel. Yet still he loved the chase, and held That no composer's score excelled The merry horn, when Sweetlip swelled Its jovial riot ; But most his measured words of praise Caressed the angler's easy ways, His idly meditative days, His rustic diet. Not that his "meditating" rose Beyond a sunny summer doze ; He never troubled his repose With fruitless prying ; OLD-WORLD IDYLLS. But held, as law for high and low, What God withholds no man can know, And smiled away inquiry so, Without replying. We read alas, how much we read ! The jumbled strifes of creed and creed With endless controversies feed Our groaning tables ; His books and they sufficed him were Cotton's " Montaigne," "The Grave " of Blair, A " Walton" much the worse for wear, And "^Esop's Fables." One more, " The Bible." Not that he Had searched its page as deep as we 5 No sophistries could make him see Its slender credit ; It may be that he could not count The sires and sons to Jesse's fount, He liked the "Sermon on the Mount, "- And more, he read it. Once he had loved, but failed to wed, A red-cheeked lass who long was dead ; His ways were far too slow, he said, To quite forget her ; A GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL. And still when time had turned him gray, The earliest hawthorn buds in May Would find his lingering feet astray, Where first he met her. " In Ccelo Quits" heads the stone On Leisure's grave, now little known, A tangle of wild -rose has grown So thick across it ; The " Benefactions " still declare He left the clerk an elbow-chair, And "12 Pence Yearly to Prepare A Christmas Posset." Lie softly, Leisure ! Doubtless you, With too serene a conscience drew Your easy breath, and slumbered through The gravest issue ; But we, to whom our age allows Scarce space to wipe our weary brows, Look down upon your narrow house, Old friend, and miss you I 14 OLD-WORLD IDYLLS. A GENTLEWOMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL. SHE lived in Georgian era too. Most women then, if bards be true, Succumbed to Routs and Cards, or grew Devout and acid. But hers was neither fate. She came Of good west-country folk, whose fame Has faded now. For us her name Is "Madam Placid." Patience or Prudence, what you will, Some prefix faintly fragrant still As those old musky scents that fill Our grandams' pillows; And for her youthful portrait take Some long-waist child of Hudson's make, Stiffly at ease beside a lake With swans and willows. I keep her later semblance placed Beside my desk, 'tis lawned and laced, In shadowy sanguine stipple traced By Bartolozzi ; A GENTLEWOMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 15 A placid face, in which surprise Is seldom seen, but yet there lies Some vestige of the laughing eyes Of arch Piozzi. For her e'en Time grew debonair. He, finding cheeks unclaimed of care, With late-delayed faint roses there, And lingering dimples, Had spared to touch the fair old face, And only kissed with Vauxhall grace The soft white hand that stroked her lace, Or smoothed her wimples. So left her beautiful. Her age Was comely as her youth was sage, And yet she once had been the rage ; It hath been hinted, Indeed, affirmed by one or two, Some spark at Bath (as sparks will do) Inscribed a song to "Lovely Prue," Which Urban printed. I know she thought ; I know she felt ; Perchance could sum, I doubt she spelt, She knew as little of the Celt As of the Saxon ; 16 OLD-WORLD IDYLLS. I know she played and sang, for yet We keep the tumble-down spinet To which she quavered ballads set By Arne or Jackson. Her tastes were not refined as ours ; She liked plain food and homely flowers, Refused to paint, kept early hours, Went clad demurely; Her art was sampler-work design, Fireworks for her were "vastly fine," Her luxury was elder-wine, She loved that "purely." She was renowned, traditions say, For June conserves, for curds and whey, For finest tea (she called it "tay"), And ratafia ; She knew, for sprains, what bands to choose, Could tell the sovereign wash to use For freckles, and was learned in brews As erst Medea. Yet studied little. She would read, On Sundays, "Pearson on the Creed," Though, as I think, she could not heed His text profoundly; A GENTLEWOMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 17 Seeing she chose for her retreat The warm west-looking window-seat, Where, if you chanced to raise your feet, You slumbered soundly. This, 'twixt ourselves. The dear old dame, In truth, was not so much to blame ; The excellent divine I name Is scarcely stirring ; Her plain-song piety preferred Pure life to precept. If she erred, She knew her faults. Her softest word Was for the erring. If she had loved, or if she kept Some ancient memory green, or wept Over the shoulder-knot that slept Within her cuff-box, I know not. Only this I know, At sixty-five she 'd still her beau, A lean French exile, lame and slow, With monstrous snuff-box. Younger than she, well-born and bred. She 'd found him in St. Giles', half dead Of teaching French for nightly bed And daily dinners ; C OLD-WORLD IDYLLS. Starving, in fact, 'twixt want and pride ; And so, henceforth, you always spied His rusty "pigeon-wings " beside Her Mechlin pinners. He worshipped her, you may suppose. She gained him pupils, gave him clothes, Delighted in his dry bon-mots And cackling laughter ; And when, at last, the long duet Of conversation and picquet Ceased with her death, of sheer regret He died soon after. Dear Madam Placid ! Others knew Your worth as well as he, and threw Their flowers upon your coffin too, I take for granted. Their loves are lost ; but still we see Your kind and gracious memory Bloom yearly with the almond tree The Frenchman planted. THE BALLAD OF "BEAU BROCADE." THE BALLAD OF "BEAU BROCADE." ' { Hark ! I hear the sound of coaches ! " BEGGAR'S OPERA. Q* EVENTEEN hundred and thirty-nine : ^ That was the date of this tale of mine. First great GEORGE was buried and gone ; GEORGE the Second was plodding on. LONDON then, as the " Guides " aver, Shared its glories with Westminster; And people of rank, to correct their " tone," Went out of town to Marybotie. Those were the days of the War with Spain, PORTO-BELLO would soon be ta'en ; WHITEFIELD preached to the colliers grim, Bishops in lawn sleeves preached at him ; WALPOLE talked of f ' a man and his price " ; Nobody's virtue was over-nice : OLD-WORLD IDYLLS. Those, in fine, were the brave days when Coaches were stopped by ... Highwaymen ! And of all the knights of the gentle trade Nobody bolder than " BEAU BROCADE." This they knew on the whole way down ; Best, maybe, at the " Oak and Crown" (F*r timorous cits on their pilgrimage Would ' ' club " for a " Guard " to ride the stage ; And the Guard that rode on more than one Was the Host of this hostel's sister's son.) Open we here on a March-day fine, Under the oak with the hanging sign. There was Barber DICK with his basin by ; Cobbler JOE with the patch on his eye ; Portly product of Beef and Beer, JOHN the host, he was standing near. Straining and creaking, with wheels awry, Lumbering came the " Plymouth Fly" ; THE BALLAD OF "BEAU BROCADE." at Lumbering up from Bagshot Heath, Guard in the basket armed to the teeth ; Passengers heavily armed inside ; Not the less surely the coach had been tried ! Tried ! but a couple of miles away, By a well-dressed man ! in the open day ! Tried successfully, never a doubt, Pockets of passengers all turned out ! Cloak-bags rifled, and cushions ripped, ~ Even an Ensign's wallet stripped ! Even a Methodist hosier's wife Offered the choice of her Money or Life ! Highwayman's manners no less polite, Hoped that their coppers (returned) were right ; Sorry to find the company poor, Hoped next time they 'd travel with more ; Plucked them all at his ease, in short : Such was the " Plymouth Fly's " report. OLD-WORLD IDYLLS. Sympathy ! horror ! and wonderment ! " Catch the Villain !" (But Nobody went.) Hosier's wife led into the Bar ; (That 's where the best strong waters are !) Followed the tale of the hundred -and -one Things that Somebody ought to have done. Ensign (of BRAGG 's) made a terrible clangour : But for the Ladies had drawn his hanger ! Robber, of course, was " BEAU BROCADE " ; Out-spoke DOLLY the Chambermaid. Devonshire DOLLY, plump and red, Spoke from the gallery overhead ; Spoke it out boldly, staring hard : " Why did n't you shoot then, GEORGE the Guard ?" Spoke it out bolder, seeing him mute : " GEORGE the Guard, why did n't you shoot ?" Portly JOHN grew pale and red, (JOHN was afraid of her, people said ;) THE BALLAD OF " BEA U BROCADE." 23 Gasped that " DOLLY was surely cracked," (JOHN was afraid of her that 's a fact !) GEORGE the Guard grew red and pale, Slowly finished his quart of ale : " Shoot? Why Rabbit him ! did n't he shoot ?" Muttered " The Baggage was far too 'cute !" " Shoot? Why he J d flashed the pan in his eye !" Muttered" She 'd pay for it by and by 1" Further than this made no reply. Nor could a further reply be made, Fdr GEORGE was in league with " BEAU BROCADE" ! And JOHN the Host, in his wakefullest state, Was not on the whole immaculate. But nobody's virtue was over-nice When WALPOLE talked of " a man and his price l? ; And wherever Purity found abode, 'Twas certainly not on a posting road. II. "Forty" followed to "Thirty-nine." Glorious days of the Hanover line ! OLD-WORLD IDYLLS. Princes were born, and drums were banged ; Now and then batches of Highwaymen hanged. " Glorious news !" from the Spanish Main ; PORTO-BELLO at last was ta'en. " Glorious news !" for the liquor trade ; Nobody dreamed of "BEAU BROCADE." People were thinking of Spanish Crowns ; Money was coming from seaport towns ! Nobody dreamed of " BEAU BROCADE," (Only DOLLY the Chambermaid !) Blessings on VERNON ! Fill up the cans ; Money was coming in " Flys" and " Fans." Possibly, JOHN the Host had heard ; Also, certainly, GEORGE the Guard. And DOLLY had possibly tidings, too, That made her rise from her bed anew, Plump as ever, but stern of eye, With a fixed intention to warn the "Fty." THE BALLAD OF "BEAU BROCADE." 25 Lingering only at JOHN his door, Just to make sure of a jerky snore ; Saddling the gray mare, Dtimpling Star; Fetching the pistol out of the bar ; (The old horse-pistol that, they say, Came from the battle of Malplaquet ;) Loading with powder that maids would use, Even in " Forty," to clear the flues; And a couple of silver buttons, the Squire Gave her, away in Devonshire. These she wadded for want of better With the B SH P of L ND N'S " Pastoral Letter"; Looked to the flint, and hung the whole, Ready to use, at her pocket-hole. Thus equipped and accoutred, DOLLY Clattered away to "Exciseman's Folly"; Such was the name of a ruined abode, Just on the edge of the London road. 26 OLD-WORLD IDYLLS. Thence she thought she might safely try, As soon as she saw it, to warn the " Fly" But, as chance fell out, her rein she drew, As the BEAU came cantering into the view. By the light of the moon she could see him drest In his famous gold-sprigged tambour vest ; And under his silver-gray surtout, The laced, historical coat of blue, That he wore when he went to London-Spaix), And robbed Sir MUNGO MUCKLETHRAW. Out-spoke DOLLY the Chambermaid, (Trembling a little, but not afraid,) "Stand and Deliver, O *BEAU BROCADE* !" But the BEAU rode nearer, and would not speak, For he saw by the moonlight a rosy cheek ; And a spavined mare with a rusty hide ; And a girl with her hand at her pocket-side. So never a word he spoke as yet, For he thought 'twas a freak of MEG or BET ; A freak of the "Rose" or the "Rummer" set. THE BALLAD OF "BEAU BROCADE? 27 Out-spoke DOLLY the Chambermaid, (Tremulous now, and sore afraid,) " Stand and Deliver, O 'BEAU BROCADE'!" Firing then, out of sheer alarm, Hit the BEAU in the bridle-arm. Button the first went none knows where, But it carried away his solitaire; Button the second a circuit made, Glanced in under the shoulder blade ; Down from the saddle fell "BEAU BROCADE "! Down from the saddle and never stirred ! DOLLY grew white as a Windsor curd. Slipped not less from the mare, and bound Strips of her kirtle about his wound. Then, lest his Worship should rise and flee, Fettered his ankles tenderly. Jumped on his chestnut, BET the fleet (Called after BET of Portugal Street}; Came like the wind to the old Inn-door ; Roused fat JOHN from a three-fold snore; aS OLD-WORLD IDYLLS. Vowed she J d 'peach if he misbehaved . . . Briefly, the "Plymouth Fly" was saved! Staines and Windsor were all on fire : DOLLY was wed to a Yorkshire squire ; Went to Town at the K G'S desire ! But whether His M j STY saw her or not, HOGARTH jotted her down on the spot ; And something of DOLLY one still may trace In the fresh contours of his "Milkmaid's" face. GEORGE the Guard fled over the sea: JOHN had a fit of perplexity ; Turned King's evidence, sad to state ; But JOHN was never immaculate, As for the BEAU, he was duly tried, When his wound was healed, at Whitsuntide; Served for a day as the last of "sights," To the world of St. J antes" s-Street and Went on his way to TYBURN TREE, With a pomp befitting his high degree. THE BALLAD OF "BEAU BROCADE." 2 g Every privilege rank confers : Bouquet of pinks at St. Sepulchre's ; Flagon of ale at Holborn Bar ; Friends (in mourning) to follow his Car (" t" is omitted where HEROES are ! ) Every one knows the speech he made ; Swore that he " rather admired the Jade !" Waved to the crowd with his gold-laced hat : Talked to the Chaplain after that ; Turned to the Topsman undismayed . . . This was the finish of " BEAU BROCADE " J And this is the Ballad that seemed to hide In the leaves of a dusty " LONDONER'S GUIDE " ; " Humbly Inscribed" (with curls and tails) By the Author to FREDERICK, Prince of WALES :- " Published by FRANCIS and OLIVER PINE ; Ludgate~Hill) at the Blackmoor Sign. Seventeen- Hundred-and- Thirty-Nine. " 30 OLD-WORLD IDYLLS. UNE MARQUISE. A RHYMED MONOLOGUE IN THE LOUVRE. 1 Belle Marquise^ vos beaux yeux me font mourir Amour " ; You were " Venus & Cy there" ; " Sappho mise en Pompadour" And " Minerve en Parabtre "/ You had every grace of heaven In your most angelic face, OLD-WORLD IDYLLS. With the nameless finer leaven Lent of blood and courtly race ; And he added, too, in duty, Ninon's wit and Boufflers' beauty; And La Valliere's^w^ veloutes Followed these ; And you liked it, when he said it (On his knees), And you kept it, and you read it, " Belle Marqziise!" III. Yet with us your toilet graces Fail to please, And the last of your last faces, And your wise ; For we hold you just as real, " Belle Marquise /" As your Bergers and Bergeres, lies d * Amour and Bateltires ; As your pares, and your Versailles, Gardens, grottoes, and rocailles ; As your Naiads and your trees ; Just as near the old ideal Calm and ease, As the Venus there, by Coustou, That a fan would make quite flighty, UNE MARQUISE. 33 Is to her the gods were used to, Is to grand Greek Aphrodite, Sprung from seas. You are just a porcelain trifle, "Bdle Marquise ! n Just a thing of puffs and patches, Made for madrigals and catches, Not for heart-wounds, but for scratches, O Marquise 1 Just a pinky porcelain trifle, "Belle Marquise l n Wrought in rarest rose-Dubarry, Quick at verbal point and parry, Clever, doubtless ; but to marry, No, Marquise ! IV. For your Cupid, you have clipped him, Rouged and patched him, nipped and snipped him, And with chapeau-bras equipped him, "Belle Marquise!" Just to arm you through your wife-time, And the languors of your life-time, "Belle Marquise I" Say, to trim your toilet tapers, Or, to twist your hair in papers, D 34 OLD-WORLD IDYLLS. Or, to wean you from the vapours ; As for these, You are worth the love they give you, Till a fairer face outlive you, Or a younger grace shall please ; Till the coming of the crows' feet, And the backward turn of beaux' feet, "Belle Marquise !"- Till your frothed-out life's commotion Settles down to Ennui's ocean, Or a dainty sham devotion, "Belle Marquise I" v. No : we neither like nor love you, " Belle Marquise!" Lesser lights we place above you, Milder merits better please. We have passed from Philosophe-tom Into plainer modern days, Grown contented in our oafdom, Giving grace not all the praise ; And, enpartant, Arsinoe, Without malice whatsoever, We shall counsel to our Chloe To be rather good than clever ; UNE MARQUISE. For we find it hard to smother Just one little thought, Marquise ! Wittier perhaps than any other, You were neither Wife nor Mother, "Belle Marquise!" OLD-WORLD IDYLLS. THE STORY OF ROSINA. AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF FRANCOIS BOUCHER. " On ne Iodine pas avec amour." HE scene, a wood. A shepherd tip-toe creeping, -* Carries a basket, whence a billet peeps, To lay beside a silk-clad Oread sleeping Under an urn ; yet not so sound she sleeps But that she plainly sees his graceful act ; " He thinks she thinks he thinks she sleeps," in fact. One hardly needs the " Feint par Francois Boucher" All the sham life comes back again, one sees Alc&ves, Ruelles, the Lever, and the Coucher^ Patches and Ruffles, Roues and Marquises ; The little great, the infinite small thing That ruled the hour when Louis Quinze was king. For these were yet the days of halcyon weather, A " Martin's summer ", when the nation swam, Aimless and easy as a wayward feather, Down the full tide of jest and epigram; A careless time, when France's bluest blood Beat to the tune of "After us the flood." THE STORY OF ROSIN A. 37 Plain Roland still was placidly " inspecting," Not now Camilla had stirred the Cafe Foy ; Marat was young, and Guillotin dissecting, Corday unborn, and Lamballe in Savoie ; No faubourg yet had heard the Tocsin ring : This was the summer when Grasshoppers sing. And far afield were sun-baked savage creatures, Female and male, that tilled the earth, and wrung Want from the soil ; lean things with livid features, Shape of bent man, and voice that never sung : These were the Ants, for yet to Jacques Bonhomme Tumbrils were not, nor any sound of drum. But Boucher was a Grasshopper, and painted, Rose-water Raphael, en couleur de rose, The crowned Caprice, whose sceptre, nowise sainted, Swayed the light realm of ballets and bon-mots ; Ruled the dim boudoir's demi-jour, or drove Pink-ribboned flocks through some pink-flowered grove. A laughing Dame, who sailed a laughing cargo Of flippant loves along the Fleuve du Tendrc} Whose greatest grace vrv&jupes ci la Camargo^ Whose gentlest merit gentiment se rend re; Queen of the rouge-cheeked Hours, whose footsteps fell To Rameau's notes, in dances by Gardel ; 3 3 OLD-WORLD IDYLLS. Her Boucher served, till Nature's self betraying, As Wordsworth sings, the heart that loved her not, Made of his work a land of languid Maying, Filled with false gods and muses misbegot ; A Versailles Eden of cosmetic youth, Wherein most things went naked, save the Truth. Once, only once, perhaps the last night's revels Palled in the after-taste, our Boucher sighed For that first beauty, falsely named the Devil's, Young-lipped, unlessoned, joyous, and clear-eyed ; Flung down his palette like a weary man, And sauntered slowly through the Rue Sainte-Anne. Wherefore, we know not ; but, at times, far nearer Things common come, and lineaments half-seen Grow in a moment magically clearer; Perhaps, as he walked, the grass he called "too green ' Rose and rebuked him, or the earth "ill-lighted" Silently smote him with the charms he slighted. But, as he walked, he tired of god and goddess, Nymphs that deny, and shepherds that appeal; Stale seemed the trick of kerchief and of bodice, Folds that confess, and flutters that reveal ; Then as he grew more sad and disenchanted, Forthwith he spied the very thing he wanted. THE STORY OP ROSIN A. 39 So, in the Louvre, the passer-by might spy some Arch-looking head, with half-evasive air, Start from behind the fruitage of Van Huysum, Grape-bunch and melon, nectarine and pear : Here 'twas no Venus of Batavian city, But a French girl, young, piquante t bright, and pretty. Graceful she was, as some slim marsh-flower shaken Among the sallows, in the breezy Spring ; Blithe as the first blithe song of birds that waken, Fresh as a fresh young pear-tree blossoming; Black was her hair as any blackbird's feather ; Just for her mouth, two rose-buds grew together. Sloes were her eyes ; but her soft cheeks were peaches, Hued like an Autumn pippin, where the red Seems to have burned right through the skin, and reaches E'en to the core ; and if you spoke, it spread Up till the blush had vanquished all the brown, And, like two birds, the sudden lids dropped down. As Boucher smiled, the bright black eyes ceased dancing, As Boucher spoke, the dainty red eclipse Filled all the face from cheek to brow, enhancing Half a shy smile that dawned around the lips. Then a shrill mother rose upon the view ; " Cerises, M'steu? Rosine, depkhez-vous I" OLD-WORLD IDYLLS. Deep in the fruit her hands Rosina buries, Soon in the scale the ruby bunches lay. The painter, watching the suspended cherries, Never had seen such little fingers play ; As for the arm, no Hebe's could be rounder ; Low in his heart a whisper said " I Ve found her." " Woo first the mother, if you 'd win the daughter ! " Boucher was charmed, and turned to Madame Mere, Almost with tears of suppliance besought her Leave to immortalize a face so fair ; Praised and cajoled so craftily that straightway Voici Rosina, standing at his gateway. Shy at the first, in time Rosina's laughter Rang through the studio as the girlish face Peeped from some painter's travesty, or after Showed like an Omphale in lion's case ; Gay as a thrush, that from the morning dew Pipes to the light its clear " Revtillez-vous" Just a mere child with sudden ebullitions, Flashes of fun, and little bursts of song, Petulant pains, and fleeting pale contritions, Mute little moods of misery and wrong ; Only a child, of Nature's rarest making, Wistful and sweet, and with a heart for breaking ! THE STORY OF ROSIN A. Day after day the little loving creature Came and returned ; and still the Painter felt 5 Day after day, the old theatric Nature Fade from his sight, and like a shadow melt Panzers and Powder, Pastoral and Scene, Killed by the simple beauty of Rosine. As for the girl, she turned to her new being, Came, as a bird that hears its fellow call ; Blessed, as the blind that blesses God for seeing ; Grew, as a flower on which the sun-rays fall ; Loved if you will ; she never named it so : Love comes unseen, we only see it go. There is a figure among Boucher's sketches, Slim, a child-face, the eyes as black as beads, Head set askance, and hand that shyly stretches Flowers to the passer, with a look that pleads. This was no other than Rosina surely ; None Boucher knew could else have looked so purely. But forth her Story, for I will not tarry, Whether he loved the little "nut-brown maid "; If, of a truth, he counted this to carry Straight to the end, or just the whim obeyed, Nothing we know, but only that before More had been done, a finger tapped the door. OLD-WORLD IDYLLS. Opened Rosina to the unknown comer. 'Twas a young girl " une pauvrefille" she said, " They had been growing poorer all the summer ; Father was lame, and mother lately dead ; Bread was so dear, and, oh ! but want was bitter, Would Monsieur pay to have her for a sitter ? Men called her pretty." Boucher looked a minute : Yes, she was pretty ; and her face beside Shamed her poor clothing by a something in it, Grace, and a presence hard to be denied ; This was no common offer it was certain ; " Allez, Rosina ! sit behind the curtain." Meantime the Painter, with a mixed emotion, Drew and re-drew his ill-disguised Marquise, Passed in due time from praises to devotion ; Last when his sitter left him on his knees, Rose in a maze of passion and surprise, Rose, and beheld Rosina's saddened eyes. Thrice-happy France, whose facile sons inherit Still in the old traditionary way, Power to enjoy with yet a rarer merit, Power to forget ! Our Boucher rose, I say, With hand still prest to heart, with pulses throbbing, And blankly stared at poor Rosina sobbing. THE STORY OF ROSIN A. ' This was no model, M^sieUy but a lady." Boucher was silent, for he knew it true. " Est-ce que vous Faimez ? " Never answer made he ! Ah, for the old love fighting with the new ! " Est-ce q^le vous Faimez ? " sobbed Rosina's sorrow. " Bon / " murmured Boucher ; * * she will come to-morrow. " How like a Hunter thou, O Time, dost harry Us, thine oppressed, and pleasured with the chase, Sparest to strike thy sorely-running quarry, Following not less with unrelenting face. Time, if Love hunt, and Sorrow hunt, with thee, Woe to the Fawn ! There is no way to flee. Woe to Rosina ! By To-morrow stricken, Swift from her life the sun of gold declined. Nothing remained but those gray shades that thicken, Cloud and the cold, the loneliness the wind. Only a little by the door she lingers, Waits, with wrung lip and interwoven fingers. No, not a sign. Already with the Painter Grace and the nymphs began recovered reign ; Truth was no more, and Nature, waxing fainter, Paled to the old sick Artifice again. Seeing Rosina going out to die, How should he know what Fame had passed him by ? OLD-WORLD IDYLLS. Going to die ! For who shall waste in sadness, Shorn of the sun, the very warmth and light, Miss the green welcome of the sweet earth's gladness, Lose the round life that only Love makes bright : There is no succour if these things are taken. None but Death loves the lips by Love forsaken. So, in a little, when those Two had parted, Tired of himself, and weary as before, Boucher remembering, sick and sorry-hearted, Stayed for a moment by Rosina's door. " Ah, the poor child !" the neighbours cry of her, " Morte, M*sieu, morte I On dit, des peines du court" Just for a second, say, the tidings shocked him, Say, in his eye a sudden tear-drop shone, Just for a second a dull feeling mocked him With a vague sense of something priceless gone ; Then, for at best 'twas but the empty type, The husk of man with which the days were ripe, Then, he forgot her. But, for you that slew her, You, her own sister, that with airy ease, Just for a moment's fancy could undo her, Pass on your way. A little while, Marquise, Be the sky silent, be the sea serene ; A pleasant passage Sainte Guillotine! THE STORY OF ROSIN A. As for Rosina, for the quiet sleeper, Whether stone hides her, or the happy grass, If the sun quickens, if the dews beweep her, Laid in the Madeleine or Montpamasse, Nothing we know, but that her heart is cold, Poor beating heart 1 And so the story 's told. PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. PROLOGUE. A SSUME that we are friends. Assume <** A common taste for old costume, Old pictures ', books. Then dream us sitting, Us two, in some soft-lighted room. Outside the wind; the "ways are mire" We, with our faces towards the fire, Finished the feast not full but fitting, Watch the light-leaping flames aspire. Silent at first, in time we glow ; Discuss " eclectics" high and low ; Inspect engravings, 'twixt us passing The fancies ^DETROY, MOREAU ; "Reveils" and "Couchers? "Balls" and " Fttes" ; Anon we glide to " crocks " and plates t Grow eloquent on glaze and classing, And half -pathetic over "states." E PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. Then I produce my Prize, in truth ; Six groups in SEVRES, fresh as Youth, And rare as Love. You pause, you wonder, {Pretend to doubt the marks, forsooth /) And so we fall to why and how The fragile figures smile and bow ; Divine, at length, the fable under . . . Thus grew the " Scenes " that follow new. THE BALLAD A-LA-MODE. THE BALLAD A-LA-MODE. M Tout vient & print d quifeut attendre" SCENE. A Boudoir Louis-Quinze> painted with Cupids shooting at Butterflies. THE COUNTESS. THE BARON (her cousin and suitor), THE COUNTESS (looking tip from her work). T) ARON, you doze. THE BARON (closing his book). I, Madame? No. I wait your order Stay or Go. THE COUNTESS. Which means, I think, that Go or Stay Affects you nothing, either way. THE BARON. Excuse me, By your favour graced, My inclinations are effaced. THE COUNTESS. Or much the same. How keen you grow ! You must be reading MARIVAUX. 52 PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. THE BARON. Nay, -'twas a song of SAINTE-AULAIRE. THE COUNTESS. Then read me one. We've time to spare : If I can catch the clock-face there, 'Tis barely eight. THE BARON. What shall it be, A tale of woe, or perfidy? THE COUNTESS. Not woes, I beg. I doubt your woes : But perfidy, of course, one knows. THE BARON (reads}. "'Ah.Phillis! cruel Phillis! (/ heard a Shepherd say,) Yon liold me with your Eyes, and yet You bid me Go my Way ! ' " ' Ah, Colin / foolish Colin ! ( The Maiden answered so, ) If that be All, the III is small, I close them You may go ! ' THE BALLAD A-LA-MODE. " But when her Eyes she opened, (Although the Sun it shone y ) She found the Shepherd had not stirred ' Because the Light was gone I* "Ah, Cupid! wanton Ciipid! ' Twas ever thus your Way: When Maids would bid you ply your Wings, You find Excuse to stay / " THE COUNTESS. Famous ! He earned whatever he got : But there 's some sequel, is there not ? THE BARON (turning the page]. I think not. No. Unless 'tis this : My fate is far more hard than his ; In fact, your Eyes THE COUNTESS. Now, that *s a breach ! Your bond is not to make a speech. And we must start so call JUSTINE. I know exactly what you mean ! Give me your arm PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. THE BARON. If, in return, Countess, I could your hand but earn ! THE COUNTESS. I thought as much. This comes, you see, Of sentiment, and Arcady, Where vows are hung on every tree. . . THE BARON (offering his arm, with a low bow). And no one dreams of PERFIDY. THE METAMORPHOSIS. 5 5 THE METAMORPHOSIS. " On s'enrichit quandon dort." SCENE. A high stone Seat in an Alley of clipped Lime-trees. THE ABB TIRILI. MONSIEUR L'ETOILE. \ THE ABB {writing}. " r T^HIS shepherdess Dorine adored" *- What rhyme is next ? Implored? ignored? Poured* soared? afford? That facile Dunce, L'ExoiLE, would cap the line at once. 'Twill come in time. Meanwhile, suppose We take a meditative doze. (Sleeps. By-and-by his paper falls.) M. L'EroiLE (approaching from the back). Some one before me. What ! 'tis you, Monsieur the Scholar ? Sleeping too ! (Picks up the fluttering paper.) More " Tales" of course. One can't refuse To chase so fugitive a Muse ! 56 PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. Verses are public, too, that fly " Cum privilegio "Zephyri! (Reads.) "CLITANDER AND DoRiNE.' Insane! He fancies he's a LA FONTAINE ! "In early Days, the Gods, wt find, Paid casual Visits to Mankind ; At least, authentic Records say so In Publius Ovidius Naso." (Three names for one. This passes all. 'Tis "furiously" classical !) " No doubt their Purpose oft would be Some ' Nodus dignus Vindice ' ; ' On ditj not less, these earthly Tours Were mostly matters of Amours. And woe to him whose luckless Flame Impeded that Olympic Game; Ere he could say an ' Ave ' o'er, They changed him like a Louis-d'or. " (" Aves" and current coinage ! O! O shade of NICHOLAS BOILEAU !) "Bird, Beast y or River he became: With Women it was much the same. In Ovid Case to Case succeeds ; But Names the Reader never reads. " (That is, Monsieur the Abbe feels His quantities are out at heels !) THE METAMORPHOSIS. 57 " Suffices that, for this our Tale, There dwelt in a Thessalian Vale, Of Tales like this the frequent Scene, A Shepherdess, by name Dorine. Trim Waist, ripe Lips, bright Eyes, had she ; In short, the whole Artillery. Her Beauty made some local Stir ; Men marked it. So did Jupiter. This Shepherdess Dorine adored. . ." Implared, ignored, and soared^ and poured (He 's scrawled them here 1) We '11 sum in brief His fable on his second leaf. (Writes) There, they shall know who 'twas that wrote : " L'ETOILE'S is but a mock-bird's note. " [Exit. THE ABBE (waking). Implored 's the word, I think. But where, Where is my paper ? Ah 1 'tis there 1 Eh ! what ? (Reads.} THE METAMORPHOSIS. (not in Ovid.) " The Shepherdess Dorine adored The Shepherd-Boy Clitander ; But Jove himself, Olympus' Lord, The Shepherdess Dorine adored. 58 PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. Our Abbe's Aid the Pair Implored; And changed to Goose and Gander, The Shepherdess Dorine adored The Shepherd- Boy Clitanderr L'ExoiLE, by all the Muses ! Pestel He 's off, post-haste, to tell the rest. No matter. Laugh, Sir Dunce, to-day; Next time 'twill be my turn to play. THE SONG OUT OF SEASON. THE SONG OUT OF SEASON. *' Point de culte sans mystere." SCENE. A Corridor in a Ch&teau, with Busts and Venice chandeliers. MONSIEUR L'ETOILE. Two VOICES. M. L'ETOILE (carrying a Rose). THIS is the place. MUTINE said here. " Through the Mancini room, and near The fifth Venetian chandelier. . ." The fifth ? She knew there were but four ; Still, here 's the busto of the Moor. (Humming.} Tra-la, tra-la ! If BIJOU wake, She '11 bark, no doubt, and spoil my shake I I '11 tap, I think. One can't mistake ; This surely is the door. (Sings softly.) " When Jove, the Skies' Director^ First saw you sleep of yore, He cried aloud for Nectar, 60 PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. 'The Nectar quickly pour, The Nectar, Hebe, pour ! ' " (No sound. I '11 tap once more.) (Sings again.) " Then came the Sire Apollo, He past you where you lay; ' Come, Dian, rise and follow TJie dappled Hart to slay, The rapid Hart to slay. ' " (A rustling within.) (Coquette ! She heard before.) (Smgs again. ) " And urchin Ctipid after Beside the Pillow curled, He whispered you with Laughter, ' Awake and witch the World, Venus, witch the World!'" (Now comes the last. J Tis scarcely worse, I think, than Monsieur I'ABB^'s verse.) " So waken, waken, waken, You, whom we adore ! WJiere Gods can be mistaken, Mere Mortals must be more, Poor Mortals must be more ! " THE SONG OUT OF SEASON. (That merits an encore!) " So waken, waken > waken I O YOU whom we adore!" (An energetic VOICE.) 'Tis thou, ANTOINE ? Ah, Addle-pate 1 Ah, Thief of Valet, always late ! Have I not told thee half-past eight A thousand times ! (Great agitation^ But wait, but wait,- M. L'ETOILE (stupefied). Just Skies ! What hideous roar ! What lungs ! The infamous Soubrette 1 This is a turn I sha'nt forget : To make me sing my chansonnette Before old JOURDAIN'S door ! (Retiring slowly. ) And yet, and yet, it can't be she. They prompted her. Who can it be? (A second VOICE.) IT WAS THE ABB Ti RI LI ! 62 PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. (In a mocking falsetto^ *' Where Gods can be mistaken, Mere Poets must be more, BAD POETS must be more." THE CAP THAT FITS. 63 THE CAP THAT FITS. 44 Qui seme tpines riaillc dechaux." SCENE. A Salon with blue and white Panels. Outside, Persons pass and re-pass upon a Terrace. HORTENSE. ARMANDE. MONSIEUR LOYAL. HORTENSE (behind her fan). TV T OT young, I think. ARMANDE (raising her eye-glass). And faded, too ! Quite faded I Monsieur, what say you? M. LOYAL. Nay, I defer to you. In truth, To me she seems all grace and youth. HORTENSE. Graceful ? You think it? What, with hands That hang like this (with a gesture). ARMANDE. And how she stands 64 PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. M. LOYAL. Nay, I am wrong again. I thought Her air delightfully untaught ! HORTENSE. But you amuse me M. LOYAL. Still her dress, Her dress at least, you must confess ARMANDE. Is odious simply ! JACOTOT Did not supply that lace, I know ; And where, I ask, has mortal seen A hat unfeathered ! HORTENSE. Edged with green I M. LOYAL. The words remind me. Let me say A Fable that I heard to-day. Have I permission? BOTH (with enthusiasm). Monsieur, pray I THE CAP THAT FITS. C- 5 M. LOYAL. "Myrtilla (lest a Scandal rise The Lady's Name I thtts disguise), Dying of Ennui) once decided, Much on Resource herself she prided, To choose a Hat. Forthwith she flies On that momentous Enterprise. Whetlicr to Petit or Legros, I knoiv not: only this I know; Head-dresses then, of any Fashion, Bore Names of Quality or Passion. Myrtilla tried them, almost all: ' Prudence, she felt, was somewhat small; 1 Retirement ' seemed the Eyes to hide; ' Content ' at once she cast aside. ' Simplicity,' 'twas otit of place; * Devotion,' for an older face; Briefly, Selection smaller grew, ' Vexatious ! odious!' none would do! Then, on a sudden, she espied One that she thought she had not tried: Becoming, rather, 'edged with green,' Roses in yellow, Thorns betiveen. 'Quick! Bring me that!' 'Tis brought. 'Complete, Divine, Enchanting, Tasteful, Neat,' In all the Tones. f A nd this you call ? ' ' "ILL-NATURE," Madame. It fits all. ' " F 66 PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. HORTENSE. A thousand thanks ! So naively turned ! ARMANDE, So useful too ... to those concerned ! 'Tis yours ? M. LOYAL. Ah no, some cynic wit's ; And called (I think) (Placing his hat upon his breast], "The Cap that Fits." THE SECRETS OF THE HEART. 67 THE SECRETS OF THE HEART. " Le ccsur mene oii il va." SCENE. A Chalet covered with Honeysuckle. NINETTE. NINON. NINETTE. '"pHIS way NINON. No, this way NINETTE. This way, then. (They enter the Chalet.} You are as changing, Child, as Men. NINON. But are they ? Is it true, I mean ? Who said it? NINETTE. Sister SRAPHINE, She was so pious and so good, 63 PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. With such sad eyes beneath her hood, And such poor little feet, all bare ! Her name was EUGENIE LA FERE. She used to tell us, moonlight nights, When I was at the Carmelites. NINON. Ah, then it must be right. And yet, Suppose for once suppose, NINETTE NINETTE. But what ? NINON. Suppose it were not so ? Suppose there were true men, you know ! NINETTE. And then ? NINON. Why, if that could occur. What kind of man should you prefer ? NINETTE. What looks, you mean ? NINON. Looks, voice and all. THE SECRETS OF THE HEART. NINETTE. Well, as to that, he must be tall, Or say, not " tall," of middle size ; And next, he must have laughing eyes, And a hook-nose, with, underneath, ! what a row of sparkling teeth ! NINON (touching her cheek suspicioitsly.} Has he a scar on this side ? NINETTE. Hush! Someone is coming. No; a thrush: 1 see it swinging there. NINON. Go on. NINETTE. Then he must fence, (ah, look, 'tis gone i) And dance like Monseigneur, and sing " Love was a Shepherd ": everything That men do. Tell me yours, NINON. NINON. Shall I ? Then mine has black, black hair. . . I mean he should have ; then an air PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. Half sad, half noble ; features thin ; A little royale on the chin ; And such a pale, high brow. And then, He is a prince of gentlemen ; He, too, can ride and fence, and write Sonnets and madrigals, yet fight No worse for that NINETTE. I know your man. NINON. And I know yours. But you '11 not tell, Swear it ! NINETTE. I swear upon this fan, My Grandmother's ! NINON. And I, I swear On this old turquoise reliquaire^ My great, great Grandmother's ! ! {After a patise.) NINETTE ! I feel so sad. THE SECRETS OF THE HEART. NINETTE. I too. But why? NINON. Alas, I know not ! NINETTE (with a sigh). Nor do I. PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. "GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTE!" " Si vicillesse pouvait ! " SCENE. A small neat Room. In a high Voltaire Chair sits a white-haired old Gentleman. MONSIEUR VIEUXBOIS. BABETTE. D M. VIEUXBOIS (turning querulously). 1AY 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 I M. VIEUXBOIS. Where have you been ? BABETTE. Why M'sieu' knows :- April !...Ville-d'Avray !...Ma'am'selle ROSE ! M. VIEUXBOIS. Ah ! I am old, and I forget. Was the place growing green, BABETTE ? " GOOD-NIGHT. BABE TTE ! " BABETTB, 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 ! {Li ft ing her apron to her eyes.) This poor Ma'am 'selle 1 M. VlEUXBOIS. 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." PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. 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 1 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 I...EULALIE too ! And ROSE... And O ! "the sky so blue ! " BABETTE (sings). " One had my Mothers eyes* Wistful and mild-. ' ' GOOD-NIGHT, BA BE TTE ! " One had my Father's face ; One was a Child : All of them bent to me, Bent down and smiled I" (He is asleep !) M. VlEUXBOlS (almost inaudibly). "How I forget!" "I am so old I"... "Good-night, BABETTE 1" 76 PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN. EPILOGUE. T T EIGHO ! how chill the evenings get! -*- -* Good-night, NINON \ good-night, NINETTE ! Your little Play is played and finished; Go back, then, to ycmr Cabinet ! LOYAL, L'ETOILE 1 no more to-day ! Alas! they heed not what we say : They smile with ardour unditninished ; But we, we are not always gay I ^ VIGNETTES IN RHYME. THE DRAMA OF THE DOCTOR'S WINDOW. IN THREE ACT?, WITH A PROLOGUE. "A tedious brief scene of young Pyramids, And his love Tkisbe ; very tragical -mirth" MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DKEAM. PROLOGUE. " T T 7" ELL, I must wait ! " The Doctor's room, V Where I used this expression, Wore the severe official gloom Attached to that profession ; Rendered severer by a bald And skinless Gladiator, Whose raw robustness first appalled The entering spectator. No one would call "The Lancet" gay, Few could avoid confessing That Jones, "On Muscular Decay," Is, as a rule, depressing : So VIGNETTES IN RHYME. So, leaving both, to change the scene, I turned toward the shutter, And peered out vacantly between A water-butt and gutter. Below, the Doctor's garden lay, If thus imagination May dignify a square of clay Unused to vegetation, Filled with a dismal-looking swing That brought to mind a gallows An empty kennel, mouldering, And two dyspeptic aloes. No sparrow chirped, no daisy sprung, About the place deserted ; Only across the swing-board hung A battered doll, inverted, Which sadly seemed to disconcert The vagrant cat that scanned it, Sniffed doubtfully around the skirt, But failed to understand it. A dreary spot ! And yet, I own, Half hoping that, perchance, it Might, in some unknown way, atone For Jones and for "The Lancet," THE DRAMA OF THE DOCTOR'S WINDOW. 81 I watched ; and by especial grace, Within this stage contracted, Saw presently before my face A classic story acted. Ah, World of ours, are you so gray And weary, World, of spinning, That you repeat the tales to-day You told at the beginning ? For lo ! the same old myths that made The early " stage successes," Still "hold the boards," and still are played, "With new effects and dresses." Small, lonely " three -pair-backs :> behold, To-day, Alcestis dying ; To-day, in farthest Polar cold, Ulysses' bones are lying ; Still in one's morning " Times " one reads How fell an Indian Hector ; Still clubs discuss Achilles' steeds, Briseis' next protector ; Still Menelaus brings, we see, His oft-remanded case on ; Still somewhere sad Hypsipyle Bewails a faithless Jason ; G 82 VIGNETTES IN RHYME. And here, the Doctor's sill beside, Do I not now discover A Thisbe, whom the walls divide From Pyramus, her lover ? ACT THE FIRST. Act I. began. Some noise had scared The cat, that like an arrow Shot up the wall and disappeared ; And then, across the narrow, Unweeded path, a small dark thing, Hid by a garden-bonnet, Passed wearily towards the swing, Paused, turned, and climbed upon it. A child of five, with eyes that were At least a decade older, A mournful mouth, and tangled hair Flung careless round her shoulder, Dressed in a stiff ill-fitting frock, Whose black, uncomely rigour Sardonically seemed to mock The plaintive, slender figure. What was it ? Something in the dress That told the girl unmothered ; THE DRAMA OF THE DOCTOR'S WINDOW. 83 Or was it that the merciless Black garb of mourning smothered Life and all light : but rocking so, In the dull garden- corner, The lonely swinger seemed to grow More piteous and forlorner. Then, as I looked, across the wall Of " next-door's " garden, that is To speak correctly through its tall Surmounting fence of lattice, Peeped a boy's face, with curling hair, Ripe lips, half drawn asunder, And round, bright eyes, that wore a stare Of frankest childish wonder. Rounder they grew by slow degrees, Until the swinger, swerving, Made, all at once, alive to these Intentest orbs observing, Gave just one brief, half-uttered cry, And, as with gathered kirtle, Nymphs fly from Pan's head suddenly Thrust through the budding myrtle, Fled in dismay. A moment's space, The eyes looked almost tragic ; 84 VIGNETTES IN RHYME. Then, when they caught my watching face, Vanished as if by magic ; And, like some sombre thing beguiled To strange, unwonted laughter, The gloomy garden, having smiled, Became the gloomier after. ACT THE SECONP. Yes : they were gone, the stage was bare, Blank as before ; and therefore, Sinking within the patient's chair, Half vexed, I knew not wherefore, I dozed ; till, startled by some call, A glance sufficed to show me, The boy again above the wall, The girl erect below me. The boy, it seemed, to add a force To words found unavailing, Had pushed a striped and spotted horse Half through the blistered paling, Where now it stuck, stiff-legged and straight. While he, in exultation, Chattered some half-articulate Excited explanation. THE DRAMA OF THE DOCTOR'S WINDOW. 85 Meanwhile, the girl, with upturned face, Stood motionless, and listened ; The ill-cut frock had gained a grace, The pale hair almost glistened ; The figure looked alert and bright, Buoyant as though some power Had lifted it, as rain at night Uplifts a drooping flower. The eyes had lost their listless way, The old life, tired and faded, Had slipped down with the doll that lay Before her feet, degraded ; She only, yearning upward, found In those bright eyes above her The ghost of some enchanted ground Where even Nurse would love her. Ah, tyrant Time ! you hold the book, We, sick and sad, begin it ; You close it fast, if we but look Pleased for a meagre minute ; You closed it now, for, out of sight, Some warning finger beckoned ; Exeunt both to left and right ; Thus ended Act the Second. 86 VIGNETTES IN RHYME. ACT THE THIRD. Or so it proved. For while I still Believed them gone for ever, Half raised above the window sill, I saw the lattice quiver ; And lo, once more appeared the head, Flushed, while the round mouth pouted ; " Give Tom a kiss," the red lips said, In style the most undoubted. The girl came back without a thought ; Dear Muse of Mayfair, pardon, If more restraint had not been taught In this neglected garden ; For these your code was all too stiff, So, seeing none dissented, Their unfeigned faces met as if Manners were not invented. Then on the scene, by happy fate, When lip from lip had parted, And, therefore, just two seconds late, A sharp-faced nurse-maid darted ; Swooped on the boy, as swoops a kite Upon a rover chicken, THE DRAMA OF THE DOCTOR'S WINDOW 87 And bore him sourly off, despite His well-directed kicking. The girl stood silent, with a look Too subtle to unravel, Then, with a sudden gesture took The torn doll from the gravel ; Hid the whole face, with one caress, Under the garden-bonnet, And, passing in, I saw her press Kiss after kiss upon it. Exeunt omnes. End of play. It made the dull room brighter, The Gladiator almost gay, And e'en " The Lancet " lighter. VIGNETTES IN RHYME. AN AUTUMN IDYLL. 11 Sweet Themmes ! runne softly ', till I end my song? SPENSER. LAWRENCE. FRANK. JACK. LAWRENCE. HERE, where the beech-nuts drop among the grassep Push the boat in, and throw the rope ashore. Jack, hand me out the claret and the glasses ; Here let us sit. We landed here before. FRANK. Jack's undecided. Say^formose puer, Bent in a dream above the "water wan," Shall we row higher, for the reeds are fewer, There by the pollards, where you see the swan ? JACK. Hist ! That *s a pike. Look nose against the river Gaunt as a wolf, the sly old privateer ! Enter a gudgeon. Snap, a gulp, a shiver ; Exit the gudgeon. Let us anchor here. AN AUTUMN IDYLL. 89 FRANK (in the grass}. Jove, what a day ! Black Care upon the crupper Nods at his post, and slumbers in the sun ; Half of Theocritus, with a touch of Tupper, Churns in my head. The frenzy has begun ! LAWRENCE. Sing to us then. Damoetas in a choker, Much out of tune, will edify the rooks. FRANK. Sing you again. So musical a croaker Surely will draw the fish upon the hooks. JACK. Sing while you may. The beard of manhood still is Faint on your cheeks, but I, alas ! am old. Doubtless you yet believe in Amaryllis ; Sing me of Her, whose name may not be told. FRANK. Listen, O Thames ! His budding beard is riper, gay by a week. Well, Lawrence, shall we sing ? LAWRENCE. Yes, if you will. But ere I play the piper, Let him declare the prize he has to bring. go VIGNETTES IN RHYME. JACK. Hear then, my Shepherds. Lo, to him accounted First in the song, a Pipe I will impart ; This, my Beloved, marvellously mounted, Amber and foam, a miracle of art. LAWRENCE. Lordly the gift. O Muse of many numbers, Grant me a soft alliterative song I FRANK. Me too, O Muse ! And when the Umpire slumbers, Sting him with gnats a summer evening long. LAWRENCE. Not in a cot, begarlanded of spiders, Not where the brook traditionally "purls," No, in the Row, supreme among the riders, Seek I the gem, the paragon of girls. FRANK. Not in the waste of column and of coping, Not in the sham and stucco of a square, No, on a June-lawn, to the water sloping, Stands she I honour, beautifully fair. AN AUTUMN IDYLL. LAWRENCE. Dark-haired is mine, with splendid tresses plaited Back from the brows, imperially curled ; Calm as a grand, far-looking Caryatid, Holding the roof that covers in a world. FRANK. Dark-haired is mine, with breezy ripples swinging Loose as a vine-branch blowing in the morn ; Eyes like the morning, mouth for ever singing, Blithe as a bird new risen from the corn. LAWRENCE, Best is the song with music interwoven : Mine 's a musician, musical at heart, ^ Throbs to the gathered grieving of Beethoven, Sways to the light coquetting of Mozart. FRANK. Best ? You should hear mine trilling out a ballad, Queen at a pic-nic, leader of the glees, Not too divine to toss you up a salad, Great in Sir Roger danced among the trees. LAWRENCE. Ah, when the thick night flares with drooping torches, Ah, when the crush-room empties of the swarm, VIGNETTES IN RHYME. Pleasant the hand that, in the gusty porches, Light as a snow-flake, settles on your arm. FRANK. Better the twilight and the cheery chatting, Better the dim, forgotten garden-seat, Where one may lie, and watch the fingers tatting, Lounging with Bran or Bevis at her feet. LAWRENCE. All worship mine. Her purity doth hedge her Round with so delicate divinity, that men, Stained to the soul with money-bag and ledger, Bend to the goddess, manifest again. FRANK. None worship mine. But some, I fancy, love her,- Cynics to boot. I know the children run, Seeing her come, for naught that I discover, Save that she brings the summer and the sun. LAWRENCE. Mine is a Lady, beautiful and queenly, Crowned with a sweet, continual control, Grandly forbearing, lifting life serenely E'en to her own nobility of soul. AN AUTUMN IDYLL. 93 FRANK. Mine is a Woman, kindly beyond measure, Fearless in praising, faltering in blame : Simply devoted to other people's pleasure, Jack's sister Florence, now you know her name. LAWRENCE. " Jack's sister Florence ! " Never, Francis, never. Jack, do you hear ? Why, it was she I meant. She like the country ! Ah, she's far too clever FRANK. There you are wrong. I know her down in Kent. LAWRENCE. You '11 get a sunstroke, standing with your head bare. Sorry to differ. Jack, the word 's with you. FRANK. How is it, Umpire ? Though the motto 's threadbare, " Ccelum, non animum " is, I take it, true. JACK. " Souventfemme varie" as a rule, is truer ; Flattered, I 'm sure, but both of you romance. I lappy to further suit of either wooer, Merely observing you have n't got a chance. 94 VIGNETTES IN RHYME. LAWRENCE. Yes. But the Pipe FRANK. The Pipe is what we care for, JACK. Well, in this case, I scarcely need explain, Judgment of mine were indiscreet, and therefore, Peace to you both. The Pipe I shall retain. A GARDEN IDYLL. 95 A GARDEN IDYLL. A LADY. A POET. THE LADY. SIR POET, ere you crossed the lawn (If it was wrong to watch you, pardon,) Behind this weeping birch withdrawn, I watched you saunter round the garden. I saw you bend beside the phlox, Pluck, as you passed, a sprig of myrtle, Review my well-ranged hollyhocks, Smile at the fountain's slender spurtle ; You paused beneath the cherry-tree, Where my marauder thrush was singing, Peered at the bee-hives curiously, And narrowly escaped a stinging ; And then you see I watched you passed Down the espalier walk that reaches Out to the western wall, and last Dropped on the seat before the peaches. What was your thought ? You waited long. Sublime or graceful, grave, satiric ? 96 VIGNETTES IN RHYME. A Morris Greek-and-Gothic song ? A tender Tennysonian lyric ? Tell me. That garden-seat shall be, So long as speech renown disperses, Illustrious as the spot where he The gifted Blank composed his verses. THE POET. Madam, whose uncensorious eye Grows gracious over certain pages, Wherein the Jester's maxims lie, It may be, thicker than the Sage's I hear but to obey, and could Mere wish of mine the pleasure do you, Some verse as whimsical as Hood, As gay as Praed, should answer to you. But, though the common voice proclaims Our only serious vocation Confined to giving nothings names, And dreams a " local habitation"; Believe me there are tuneless days, When neither marble, brass, nor vellum, Would profit much by any lays That haunt the poet's cerebellum. A GARDEN IDYLL. 97 More empty things, I fear, than rhymes, More idle things than songs, absorb it ; The "finely-frenzied" eye, at times, Reposes mildly in its orbit ; And painful truth at times, to him, Whose jog-trot thought is nowise restive, "A primrose by a river's brim" Is absolutely unsuggestive. The fickle Muse ! As ladies will, She sometimes wearies of her wooer ; A goddess, yet a woman still, She flies the more that we pursue her; In short, with worst as well as best, Five months in six, your hapless poet Is just as prosy as the rest, But cannot comfortably show it. You thought, no doubt, the garden-scent Brings back some brief-winged bright sensation Of love that came and love that went, Some fragrance of a lost flirtation, Born when the cuckoo changes song, Dead ere the apple's red is on it, That should have been an epic long, Yet scarcely served to fill a sonnet. 98 VIGNETTES IN RHYME. Or else you thought, the murmuring noon, He turns it to a lyric sweeter, With birds that gossip in the tune, And windy bough-swing in the metre ; Or else the zigzag fruit-tree arms Recall some dream of harp-prest bosoms, Round singing mouths, and chanted charms, And mediaeval orchard blossoms, Quite ^ la mode. Alas for prose ! My vagrant fancies only rambled Back to the red-walled Rectory close, When first my graceless boyhood gamboled, Climbed on the dial, teased the fish, And chased the kitten round the beeches, Till widening instincts made me wish For certain slowly-ripening peaches. Three peaches. Not the Graces three Had more equality of beauty : I would not look, yet went to see ; I wrestled with Desire and Duty; I felt the pangs of those who feel The Laws of Property beset them ; The conflict made my reason reel, And, half-abstractedly, I ate them; A GARDEN IDYLL. 99 Or Two of them. Forthwith Despair More keen that one of these was rotten Moved me to seek some forest lair Where I might hide and dwell forgotten, Attired in skins, by berries stained, Absolved from brushes and ablution ; But, ere my sylvan haunt was gained, Fate gave me up to execution. I saw it all but now. The grin That gnarled old Gardener Sandy's features ; My father, scholar-like and thin, Unroused, the tenderest of creatures ; I saw ah me I saw again My dear and deprecating mother ; And then, remembering the cane, Regretted that Vd left the Other. VIGNETTES IN RHYME. TU QUOQUE. AN IDYLL IN THE CONSERVATORY. " romprons-nous, Ou ne romprons-nouspas ?" LE DPIT AMOUREUX. NELLIE. T F I were you, when ladies at the play, sir, -* Beckon and nod, a melodrama through, I would not turn abstractedly away, sir, If I were you 1 FRANK. If I were you, when persons I affected, Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew, I would, at least, pretend I recollected, If I were you ! NELLIE. If I were you, when ladies are so lavish, Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two, I would not dance with odious Miss M'Tavish If I were you ! TU QUOQUE. FRANK. If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer Whiff of the best, the mildest "honey-dew," I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer, If I were you ! NELLIE. If I were you, I would not, sir, be bitter, Even to write the "Cynical Review" ; FRANK. No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter, If I wer you I NELLIE. Really ! You would ? Why, Frank, you 're quite delightful, Hot as Othello, and as black of hue ; Borrow my fan. I would not look so frightful, If I were you ! FRANK. " It is the cause." I mean your chaperon is Bringing some well-curled juvenile. Adieu ! / shall retire. I M spare that poor Adonis, If I were you I VIGNETTES IN RHYME. NELLIE. Go, if you will. At once ! And by express, sir ! Where shall it be ? To China or Peru ? Go. I should leave inquirers my address, sir, If I were you 1 FRANK. No, I remain. To stay and fight a duel Seems, on the whole, the proper thing to do Ah, you are strong, I would not then be Cruel, If I were you ! NELLIE. One does not like one's feelings to be doubted, FRANK. One does not like one's friends to misconstrue, NELLIE. If I confess that I a wee-bit pouted? FRANK. I should admit that I was//^/, too. NELLIE. Ask me to dance. I 'd say no more about it, If I were you ! [Waltz Exeunt. A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO. A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO. " Le temps le mieux employ est celui gu'ottperd." CLAUDE TILLIER. I'D " read " three hours. Both notes and text Were fast a mist becoming ; In bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed, And filled the room with humming, Then out. The casement's leafage sways, And, parted light, discloses Miss Di., with hat and book, a maze Of muslin mixed with roses. " You 're reading Greek ?" " I am and you ?" " O, mine 's a mere romancer !" " So Plato is." " Then read him do ; And I '11 read mine in answer." I read. " My Plato (Plato, too, That wisdom thus should harden !) Declares ' blue eyes look doubly blue Beneath a Dolly Varden.' " 104 VIGNETTES IN RHYME. She smiled. " My book in turn avers (No author's name is stated) That sometimes those Philosophers Are sadly mis-translated." *' But hear, the next 's in stronger style : The Cynic School asserted That two red lips which part and smile May not be controverted 1" She smiled once more " My book, I find, Observes some modern doctors Would make the Cynics out a kind Of album- verse concoctors." Then I" Why not ? ' Ephesian law, No less than time's tradition, Enjoined fair speech on all who saw DIANA'S apparition.' " She blushed this time. " If Plato's page No wiser precept teaches, Then I 'd renounce that doubtful sage, And walk to Burnham-beeches." " Agreed," I said. " For Socrates (I find he too is talking) A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO. 105 Thinks Learning can't remain at ease While Beauty goes a-walking." She read no more. I leapt the sill : The sequel 's scarce essential Nay, more than this, I hold it still Profoundly confidential. io6 VIGNETTES IN RHYME. THE ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE. POOR Rose ! I lift you from the street- Far better I should own you, Than you should lie for random feet, Where careless hands have thrown you ! Poor pinky petals, crushed and torn ! Did heartless Mayfair use you, Then cast you forth to lie forlorn, For chariot wheels to bruise you ? I saw you last in Edith's hair. Rose, you would scarce discover That I she passed upon the stair Was Edith's favoured lover, A month " a little month " ago O theme for moral writer ! Twixt you and me, my Rose, you know, She might have been politer ; But let that pass. She gave you then Behind the oleander THE ROM AUNT OF THE ROSE. To one, perhaps, of all the men, Who best could understand her, Cyril that, duly flattered, took, As only Cyril 's able, With just the same Arcadian look He used, last night, for Mabel ; Then, having waltzed till every star Had paled away in morning, Lit up his cynical cigar, And tossed you downward, scorning. Kismet^ my Rose ! Revenge is sweet, She made my heart -strings quiver ; And yet You shan't lie in the street, I '11 drop you in the River. io8 VIGNETTES IN RHYME. LOVE IN WINTER. T) ETWEEN the berried holly-bush D The Blackbird whistled to the Thrush : " Which way did bright-eyed Bella go ? Look, Speckle-breast, across the snow, Are those her dainty tracks I see, That wind beside the shrubbery?" The Throstle pecked the berries still. " No need for looking, Yellow-bill ; Young Frank was there an hour ago, Hall" frozen, waiting in the snow ; His callow beard was white with rime, 'Tchuck, 'tis a merry pairing- time !" "What would you?" twittered in the Wren ; " These are the reckless ways of men. I watched them bill and coo as though They thought the sign of Spring was snow ; If men but timed their loves as we, 'Twould save this inconsistency." "Nay, Gossip," chirped the Robin, "nay 5 I like their unreflective way. LOVE IN WINTER. 109 Besides, I heard enough to show Their love is proof against the snow : * Why wait/ he said, ' why wait for May, When love can warm a winter's day ?' n VIGNETTES IN RHYME. POT-POURRI. " Sijeunesse savait ? " I PLUNGE my hand among the leaves : (An alien touch but dust perceives, Nought else supposes ;) For me those fragrant ruins raise Clear memory of the vanished days When they were roses. " If youth but knew ! " Ah, " if," in truth- I can recall with what gay youth, To what light chorus, Unsobered yet by time or change, We roamed the many-gabled Grange, All life before us ; Braved the old clock-tower's dust and damp Ta catch the dim Arthurian camp In misty distance ; Peered at the still-room's sacred stores, Or rapped at walls for sliding doors Of feigned existence. POT-POURRI. What need had we for thoughts or cares ! The hot sun parched the old parterres And " flowerful closes" ; We roused the rooks with rounds and glees, Played hide-and-seek behind the trees, Then plucked these roses. Louise was one light, glib Louise, So freshly freed from school decrees You scarce could stop her ; And Bell, the Beauty, unsurprised At fallen locks that scandalized Our dear " Miss Proper :" Shy Ruth, all heart and tenderness, Who wept like Chaucer's Prioress, When Dash was smitten ; Who blushed before the mildest men, Yet waxed a very Corday when You teased her kitten. I loved them all. Bell first and best ; Louise the next for days of jest Or madcap masking ; And Ruth, I thought, why, failing these, When my High-Mightiness should please, She *d come for asking. VIGNETTES IN RHYME. Louise was grave when last we met ; Bell's beauty, like a sun, has set ; And Ruth, Heaven bless her, Ruth that I wooed, and wooed in vain, Has gone where neither grief nor pain Can now distress her. DOROTHY. n 3 DOROTHY. A REVERIE SUGGESTED BY THE NAME UPON A PANE. SHE then must once have looked, as I Look now, across the level rye, Past Church and Manor-house, and seen, As now I see, the village green, The bridge, and Walton's river she Whose old-world name was " Dorothy." The swallows must have twittered, too, Above her head ; the roses blew Below, no doubt, and, sure, the South Crept up the wall and kissed her mouth, That wistful mouth, which comes to me Linked with her name of Dorothy. What was she like ? I picture her Unmeet for uncouth worshipper ; Soft, pensive, far too subtly graced To suit the blunt bucolic taste, Whose crude perception could but see "Ma'am Fine-airs" in " Miss Dorothy." I VIGNETTES IN RHYME. How not ? She loved, may be, perfume, Soft textures, lace, a half-lit room ; Perchance too candidly preferred " Clarissa " to a gossip's word ; And, for the rest, would seem to be Or proud, or dull this Dorothy. Poor child ! with heart the down-lined nest Of warmest instincts unconfest, Soft, callow things that vaguely felt The breeze caress, the sunlight melt, But yet, by some obscure decree Unwinged from birth ; poor Dorothy I Not less I dream her mute desire To acred churl and booby squire, Now pale, with timorous eyes that filled At " twice-told tales " of foxes killed ; - Now trembling when slow tongues grew free 'Twixt sport, and Port and Dorothy ! 'Twas then she 'd seek this nook, and find Its evening landscape balmy-kind ; And here, where still her gentle name Lives on the old green glass, would frame Fond dreams of unfound harmony 'Twixt heart and heart. Poor Dorothy ! DOROTHY. L'ENVOI. These last I spoke. Then Florence said, Below me, " Dreams ? Delusions, Fred 1 " Next, with a pause, she bent the while Over a rose, with roguish smile " But how disgusted, sir, you '11 be To hear /scrawled that ' Dorothy.* " 1x6 VIGNETTES IN RHYME. AVICE. ;< On serait tenie de Im dire, Bonjour, Mademoiselle la Bergeron- nette" VICTOR HUGO. CHOUGH the voice of modem schools Has demurred, By the dreamy Asian creed 'Tis averred, That the souls of men, released From their bodies when deceased, Sometimes enter in a beast, Or a bird. I have watched you long, Avice, Watched you so, I have found your secret out ; And I know That the restless ribboned things, Where your slope of shoulder springs, Are but undeveloped wings That will grow. When you enter in a room, It is stirred Ay ICE. With the wayward, flashing flight Of a bird ; And you speak and bring with you Leaf and sun-ray, bud and blue, And the wind-breath and the dew, At a word. When you called to me my name, Then again When I heard your single cry In the lane, All the sound was as the " sweet " Which the birds to birds repeat In their thank-song to the heat After rain. When you sang the Schwalbenlied, 'Twas absurd, But it seemed no human note That I heard ; For your strain had all the trills, All the little shakes and stills, Of the over-song that rills From a bird. You have just their eager, quick " Airs det&e" VIGNETTES IN RHYME. All their flush and fever-heat When elate ; Every bird-like nod and beck, And a bird's own curve of neck When she gives a little peck To her mate. When you left me, only now, In that furred, Puffed, and feathered Polish dress, I was spurred Just to catch you, O my Sweet, By the bodice trim and neat, Just to feel your heart a-beat, Like a bird. Yet, alas ! Love's light you deign But to wear As the dew upon your plumes, And you care Not a whit for rest or hush ; But the leaves, the lyric gush, And the wing-power, and the rush Of the air. So I dare not woo you, Sweet, For a day, AVICE. 119 Lest I lose you in a flash, As I may ; Did I tell you tender things, You would shake your sudden wings ; You would start from him who sings, And away. VIGNETTES IN RHYME. THE LOVE-LETTER. "yat vu les mocurs de inon tents, etfaipublit cette httre. " LA NOUVELLE HELOISE IF this should fail, why then I scarcely know What could succeed. Here's brilliancy (and banter), Byron ad lib., a chapter of Rousseau ; If this should fail, then tempora mutantur ; Style's out of date, and love, as a profession, Acquires no aid from beauty of expression. " The men who think as I, I fear, are few," (Cynics would say 'twere well if they were fewer); " I am not what I seem," (indeed, 'tis true ; Though, as a sentiment, it might be newer) ; " Mine is a soul whose deeper feelings lie More deep than words " (as these exemplify). " I will not say when first your beauty's sun Illumed my life, " (it needs imagination) ; " For me to see you and to love were one," (This will account for some precipitation) ; " Let it suffice that worship more devoted Ne'er throbbed," et c&tera. The rest is quoted. THE LOVE-LETTER. " If Love can look with all-prophetic eye," (Ah, if he could, how many would be single !) " If truly spirit unto spirit cry," (The ears of some most terribly must tingle !) " Then I have dreamed you will not turn your face." This next, I think, is more than commonplace. " Why should we speak, if Love, interpreting, Forestall the speech with favour found before ? Why should we plead ? it were an idle thing, If Love himself be Love's ambassador 1" Blot, as I live ! Shall we erase it ? No ; 'Twill show we write currents calamo, " My fate, my fortune, I commit to you," (In point of fact, the latter 's not extensive) ; " Without you I am poor indeed," (strike through, 'Tis true but crude 'twould make her apprehensive) ; " My life is yours I lay it at your feet," (Having no choice but Hymen or the Fleet). * c Give me the right to stand within the shrine, Where never yet my faltering feet intruded ; Give me the right to call you wholly mine," (That is, Consols and Three-per-Cents included) ; " To guard your rest from every care that cankers, To keep your life," (and balance at your banker's). VIGNETTES IN RHYME. "Compel me not to long for your reply; Suspense makes havoc with the mind" (and muscles); "Winged Hope takes flight," (which means that I must fly, Default of funds, to Paris or to Brussels) ; rt I cannot wait ! My own, my queen Priscilla ! Write by return." And now for a Manilla ! " Miss Blank," at " Blank." Jemima, let it go ; And I, meanwhile, will idle with " Sir Walter ;" Stay, let me keep the first rough copy, though 'Twill serve again. There J s but the name to alter, And Love, that starves, must knock at every portal, In formd pauperis^ We are but mortal 1 THE MISOGYNIST. 123 THE MISOGYNIST. "Ilttait unjeune homme dun bien beau passl." WHEN first he sought our haunts, he wore His locks in Hamlet-style ; His brow with thought was "sicklied o'er," We rarely saw him smile ; And, e'en when none were looking on, His air was always woe-begone. He kept, I think, his bosom bare To imitate Jean Paul ; His solitary topics were ^Esthetics, Fate, and Soul ; Although at times, but not for long, He bowed his Intellect to song. He served, he said, a Muse of Tears: I know his verses breathed A fine funereal air of biers, And objects cypress-wreathed ; Indeed, his tried acquaintance fled An ode he named "The Sheeted Dead." 124 VIGNETTES IN RHYME. In these light moods, I call to mind, He darkly would allude To some dread sorrow undefined, Some passion unsubdued ; Then break into a ghastly laugh, And talk of Keats his epitaph. He railed at women's faith as Cant ; We thought him grandest when He named them Siren-shapes that " chant On blanching bones of Men ; " Alas, not e'en the great go free From that insidious minstrelsy ! His lot, he oft would gravely urge, Lay on a lone Rock where Around Time-beaten bases surge The Billows of Despair. We dreamed it true. We never knew What gentler ears he told it to. We, bound with him in common care, One-minded, celibate, Resolved to Thought and Diet spare Our lives to dedicate ; We, truly, in no common sense Deserved his closest confidence ! THE MISOGYNIST. 325 But soon, and yet, though soon, too late, We, sorrowing, sighed to find A gradual softness enervate That all superior mind, Until, in full assembly met, He dared to speak of Etiquette. The verse that we severe had known, Assumed a wanton air, A fond effeminate monotone Of eyebrows, lips, and hair ; Not ijo stirred him now or VOVQ, He read "The Angel in the House !" Nay worse. He, once sublime to chaff, Grew whimsically sore If we but named a photograph We found him simpering o'er ; Or told how in his chambers lurked A watch-guard intricately worked. Then worse again. He tried to dress ; He trimmed his tragic mane ; Announced at length (to our distress) He had not " lived in vain " ; Thenceforth his one prevailing mood Became a base beatitude. i 2 6 VIGNETTES IN RHYME. And O Jean Paul, and Fate, and Soul ! We met him last, grown stout, His throat with wedlock's triple roll, " All wool," enwound about ; His very hat had changed its brim ; Our course was clear, WE BANISHED HIM ! A VIRTUOSO. 127 A VIRTUOSO. BE seated, pray. " A grave appeal "? The sufferers by the war, of course ; Ah, what a sight for us who feel, This monstrous melodrame of Force ! We, Sir, we connoisseurs, should know, On whom its heaviest burden falls ; Collections shattered at a blow, Museums turned to hospitals 1 " And worse," you say ; " the wide distress I" Alas, 'tis true distress exists, Though, let me add, our worthy Press Have no mean skill as colourists ; Speaking of colour, next your seat There hangs a sketch from Vernet's hand ; Some Moscow fancy, incomplete, Yet not indifferently planned 5 Note specially the gray old Guard, Who tears his tattered coat to wrap A closer bandage round the scarred And frozen comrade in his lap ; is8 VIGNETTES IN RHYME. But, as regards the present war, Now don't you think our pride of pence Goes may I say it ? somewhat far For objects of benevolence ? You hesitate. For my part, I Though ranking Paris next to Rome, ^sthetically still reply That " Charity begins at Home." The words remind me. Did you catch My so-named " Hunt "? The girl 's a gem : And look how those lean rascals snatch The pile of scraps she brings to them ! " But your appeal 's for home," you say, For home, and English poor ! Indeed ! I thought Philanthropy to-day Was blind to mere domestic need However sore Yet though one grants That home should have the foremost claims, At least these Continental wants Assume intelligible names ; While here with us Ah ! who could hope To verify the varied pleas, Or from his private means to cope With all our shrill necessities ! A VIRTUOSO. Impossible ! One might as well Attempt comparison of creeds ; Or fill that huge Malayan shell With these half-dozen Indian beads. Moreover, add that every one So well exalts his pet distress, 'Tis Give to all, or give to none, If you 'd avoid invidiousness. Your case, I feel, is sad as A.'s, The same applies to B.'s and C.'s ; By my selection I should raise An alphabet of rivalries ; And life is short, I see you look At yonder dish, a priceless bit ; You '11 find it etched in Jacquemart's book, They say that Raphael painted it ; And life is short, you understand ; So, if I only hold you out An open though an empty hand, Why, you '11 forgive me, I Ve no doubt. Nay, do not rise. You seem amused ; One can but be consistent, Sir ! *Twas on these grounds I just refused Some gushing lady-almoner, K i 3 o VIGNETTES IN RHYME. Believe me, on these very grounds. Good-bye, then. Ah, a rarity ! That cost me quite three hundred pounds,- That Durer figure,-" Charity." LAISSEZ FAIRE, LAISSEZ FAIRE. " Prophete rechts, Prophcte links, Das Weltkindin der Mitten" GOETHE'S Dinl zu Coltenz. IO left, here J s B., half-Communist, Who talks a chastened treason, And C., a something-else in "ist," Harangues, to right, on Reason. T B., from his "tribune," fulminates At Throne and Constitution, Nay, with the walnuts, advocates Reform by revolution ; While C.'s peculiar coterie Have now in full rehearsal Some patent new Philosophy To make doubt universal. And yet Why not ? If zealots burn, Their zeal has not affected My taste for salmon and Sauterne, Or I might have objected : i 3 2 VIGNETTES IN RHYME. Friend B., the argument you choose Has been by France refuted ; And C., mon cher, your novel views Are just Tom Paine, diluted ; There 's but one creed, that's Laissez faire t Behold its mild apostle ! My dear, declamatory pair, Although you shout and jostle, Not your ephemeral hands, nor mine, Time's Gordian knots shall sunder, Will, laid three casks of this old wine : Who '11 drink the last, I wonder ? TO Q. H. F. 133 TO Q. H. F. SUGGESTED BY A CHAPTER IN THEODORE MARTIN'S "HORACE." ("ANCIENT CLASSICS FOR ENGLISH READERS.") " TJORATIUS FLACCUS, B.C. 8," * -^ There's not a doubt about the date, You're dead and buried : As you observed, the seasons roll ; And 'cross the Styx full many a soul Has Charon ferried, Since, mourned of men and Muses nine, They laid you on the Esquiline. And that was centuries ago ! You'd think we J d learned enough, I know, To help refine us, Since last you trod the Sacred Street, And tacked from mortal fear to meet The bore Crispinus ; Or, by your cold Digentia, set The web of winter birding-net. 134 VIGNETTES IN RHYME. Ours is so far-advanced an age ! Sensation tales, a classic stage, Commodious villas ! We boast high art, an Albert Hall, Australian meats, and men who call Their sires gorillas ! We have a thousand things, you see, Not dreamt in your philosophy. And yet, how strange ! Our "world," to-day, Tried in the scale, would scarce outweigh Your Roman cronies ; Walk in the Park you '11 seldom fail To find a Sybaris on the rail By Lydia's ponies, Or hap on Barrus, wigged and stayed, Ogling some unsuspecting maid. The great Gargilius, then, behold ! His "long-bow " hunting tales of old Are now but duller ; Fair Neobule too ! Is not One Hebrus here from Aldershot ? Aha, you colour ! Be wise. There old Canidia sits ; No doubt she 's tearing you to bits. TO Q. ff. F. 135 And look, dyspeptic, brave, and kind, Comes dear Maecenas, half behind Terentia's skirting ; Here J s Pyrrha, " golden-haired " at will ; Prig Damasippus, preaching still ; Asterie flirting, Radiant, of course. We '11 make her black, Ask her when Gyges* ship comes back. So with the rest. Who will may trace Behind the new each elder face Defined as clearly ; Science proceeds, and man stands still ; Our "world " to-day 's as good or ill, As cultured (nearly), As yours was, Horace ! You alone, Unmatched, unmet, we have not known. 136 VIGNETTES IN RHYME. TO "LYDIA LANGUISH." "// mefaut des Emotions" BLANCHE AMORY. YOU ask me, Lydia, " whether I, If you refuse my suit, shall die." (Now pray don't let this hurt you) Although the time be out of joint, I should not think a bodkin's point The sole resource of virtue ; Nor shall I, though your mood endure, Attempt a final Water-cure Except against my wishes ; For I respectfully decline To dignify the Serpentine, And make hors-d'oeuvres for fishes ; But, if you ask me whether I Composedly can go, Without a look, without a sigh, Why, then I answer No. " You are assured," you sadly say (If in this most considerate way To treat my suit your will is), That I shall " quickly find as fair Af? TtTR TIVERS TO "LYDIA LANGUISH" Some new Neaera's tangled hair Some easier Amaryllis." I cannot promise to be cold If smiles are kind as yours of old On lips of later beauties ; Nor can I hope to qr.ite forget The homage that is Nature's debt, While man has social duties ; But, if you ask shall I prefer To you I honour so A somewhat visionary Her, I answer truly No. You fear, you frankly add, " to find In me too late the altered mind That altering Time estranges." To this I make response that we (As physiologists agree), Must have septennial changes ; This is a thing beyond control, And it were best upon the whole To try and find out whether We could not, by some means, arrange This not-to-be-avoided change So as to change together : But, had you asked me to allow That you could ever grow i 3 8 VIGNETTES /A RHYME. Less amiable than you are now, Emphatically No. But to be serious if you care To know how I shall really bear This much-discr.ssed rejection, I answer you. As feeling men Behave, in best romances, when You outrage their affection ; With that gesticulatory woe, By which, as melodramas show, Despair is indicated ; Enforced by all the liquid grief Which hugest pocket-handkerchief Has ever simulated ; And when, arrived so far, you say In tragic accents "Go," Then, Lydia, then ... I still shall stay, And firmly answer No. A GAGE D' AMOUR, 133 A GAGE D'AMOUR. (HORACE, in, 8.) " Mar tils ccelebs q-tid agam Kalcndis^ miraris ? " /^HARLES, for it seems you wish to know,- Vx You wonder what could scare me so, And why, in this long-locked bureau, With trembling fingers, With tragic air, I now replace This ancient web of yellow lace, Among whose faded folds the trace Of perfume lingers. Friend of my youth, severe as true, I guess the train your thoughts pursue ; But this my state is nowise due To indigestion ; I had forgotten it was there, A scarf that Some-one used to wear. Hinc illce lacrima, so spare Your cynic question. VIGNETTES IN RHYME. Some-one who is not girlish now, And wed long since. We meet and bow ; I don't suppose our broken vow Affects us keenly; Yet, trifling though my act appears, Your Stemes would make it ground for tears ; One can't disturb the dust of years, And smile serenely. " My golden locks " are gray and chill, For hers, let them be sacred still ; But yet, I own, a boyish thrill Went dancing through me, Charles, when I held yon yellow lace ; For, from its dusty hiding-place, Peeped out an arch, ingenuous face That beckoned to me. We shut our heart up, now-a-days, Like some old music-box that plays Unfashionable airs that raise Derisive pity; Alas, a nothing starts the spring ; And lo, the sentimental thing At once commences quavering Its lover's ditty. A GAGE D' AMOUR. I4 i Laugh, if you like. The boy in me, The boy that was, revived to see The fresh young smile that shone when she, Of old, was tender. Once more we trod the Golden Way, That mother you saw yesterday, And I, whom none can well portray As young, or slender. She twirled the flimsy scarf about Her pretty head, and stepping out, Slipped arm in mine, with half a pout Of childish pleasure. Where we were bound no mortal knows, For then you plunged in Ireland's woes, And brought me blankly back to prose And Gladstone's measure. Well, well, the wisest bend to Fate. My brown old books around me wait, My pipe still holds, unconfiscate, Its wonted station. Pass me the wine. To Those that keep The bachelor's secluded sleep Peaceful, inviolate, and deep, I pour libation. 142 VIGNETTES IN RHYME. CUPID'S ALLEY. A MORALITY. O, Love 's but a dance, Where Time plays the fiddle! See tJte coiiples advance, O, Love 's but a dance ! A whisper, tt glance, "Shall -we twirl down the middle ? " O, Love 's but a dance, Where Time plays the fiddle ! T T runs (so saith my Chronicler) -* Across a smoky City; A Babel filled with buzz and whirr, Huge, gloomy, black and gritty ; Dark-louring looks the hill-side near, Dark-yawning looks the valley, But here 'tis always fresh and clear, For here is " Cupid's Alley." And, from an Arbour cool and green, With aspect down the middle, An ancient Fiddler, gray and lean, Scrapes on an ancient fiddle ; CUPID'S ALLEY. Alert he seems, but aged enow To punt the Stygian galley ; With wisp of forelock on his brow, He plays in " Cupid's Alley.** All day he plays, a single tune ! But, by the oddest chances, Gavotte, or Brawl, or Rigadoon, It suits all kinds of dances ; My Lord may walk a pas de Cour To Jenny's pas de Chalet ; The folks who ne'er have danced before, Can dance in * ' Cupid's Alley " And here, for ages yet untold, Long, long before my ditty, Came high and low, and young and old, From out the crowded City ; And still to-day they come, they go, And just as fancies tally, They foot it quick, they foot it slow, All day in "Cupid's Alley." Strange dance ! 'Tis free to Rank and Rags ; Here no distinction flatters, Here Riches shakes its money-bags, And Poverty its tatters ; VIGNETTES IN RHYME. Church, Army, Navy, Physic, Law ; Maid, Mistress, Master, Valet ; Long locks, gray hairs, bald heads, and a',- They bob in " Cupid's Alley." Strange pairs ! To laughing, fresh Fifteen Here capers Prudence thrifty; Here Prodigal leads down the green A blushing Maid of fifty ; Some treat it as a serious thing, And some but shilly-shally ; And some have danced without the ring (Ah me !) in " Cupid's Alley." And sometimes one to one will dance, And think of one behind her ; And one by one will stand, perchance, Yet look all ways to find her ; Some seek a partner with a sigh, Some win him with a sally ; And some, they know not how nor why, Strange fate ! of " Cupid's Alley." And some will dance an age or so Who came for half a minute ; And some, who like the game, will go Before they well begin it ; CUPID'S ALLEY. And some will vow they're " danced to death," Who (somehow) always rally; Strange cures are wrought (mine author saith), Strange cures ! in " Cupid's Alley." It may be one will dance to-day, And dance no more to-morrow ; It may be one will steal away And nurse a life-long sorrow ; What then ? The rest advance, evade, Unite, dispart, and dally, Re-set, coquet, and gallopade, Not less in " Cupid's Alley." For till that City's wheel-work vast And shuddering beams shall crumble ; And till that Fiddler lean at last From off his seat shall tumble ; Till then (the Civic records say), This quaint, fantastic ballet Of Go and Stay, of Yea and Nay, Must last in " Cupid's Alley." 146 VIGNETTES IN RHYME. THE IDYLL OF THE CARP. (The SCENE is in a garden, where you please, So that it lie in France, anJ have withal Its gray-stoned pond beneath the arching trees, And Triton huge, with moss for coronal. A PRINCESS, feeding Fish. To her DEMISE.) THE PRINCESS. HPHESE, DENISE, are my Suitors ! DENISE. Where? THE PRINCESS. These fish, I feed them daily here at morn and night With cmmbs of favour, scraps of graciousness, Not meant, indeed, to mean the thing they wish, But serving just to edge an appetite. ( Throwing bread.} Make haste, Messieurs I Make haste, then ! Hurry. See, See how they swim ! Would you not say, confess, Some crowd of Courtiers in the audience hall, When the King comes ? DENISE. You 're jesting J THE IDYLL OF THE CARP. 147 THE PRINCESS. Not at all. Watch but the great one yonder 1 There 's the Duke ; Those gill-marks mean his Order of St. Luke ; Those old skin-stains his boasted quarterings. Look what a swirl and roll of tide he brings ; Have you not marked him thus, with crest in air, Breathing disdain, descend the palace-stair ? You surely have, DENISE. DENISE. I think I have. But there 's another, older and more grave,- The one that wears the round patch on the throat, And swims with such slow fins. Is he of note ? THE PRINCESS. Why that 's my good chambellan with his seal. A kind old man ! he carves me orange-peel In quaint devices at refection-hours, Equips my sweet-pouch, brings me morning flowers, Or chirrups madrigals with old, sweet words, Such as men loved when people wooed like birds And spoke the true note first. No suitor he, Yet loves me too, though in a graybeard's key. DENISE. Look, Madam, look ! a fish without a stain ! VIGNETTES IN RHYME. O speckless, fleckless fish ! Who is it, pray, That bears him so discreetly? THE PRINCESS. FONTENAY. You know him not ? My prince of shining locks ! My pearl ! my Phcenix ! my pomander-box ! He loves not Me, alas ! The man 's too vain ! He loves his doublet better than my suit, His graces than my favours. Still his sash Sits not amiss, and he can touch the lute Not wholly out of tune . DENISE. Ai ! what a splash ! Who is it comes with such a sudden dash Plump i' the midst, and leaps the others clear ? THE PRINCESS. Ho ! for a trumpet ! Let the bells be rung ! Baron of Sans-terre> Lord of Prh-en- Cieux, Vidame of Vol-au- Vent " et aultres lieux!" Bah ! How I hate his Gasconading tongue ! Why, that 's my bragging Bravo-Musketeer My carpet cut-throat, valiant by a scar Got hi a brawl that stands for Spanish war : His very life 's a splash ! THE IDYLL OF THE CARP. 149 DENISE. I'd rather wear E'en such a patched and melancholy air, As his, that motley one, who keeps the wall, And hugs his own lean thoughts for carnival. THE PRINCESS. My frankest wooer ! Thus his love he tells To mournful moving of his cap and bells. He loves me (so he saith) as Slaves the Free, As Cowards War, as young Maids Constancy. Item, he loves me as the Hawk the Dove ; He loves me as the Inquisition Thought ; DENISE. " He loves? he loves ? " Why all this loving 's naught ! THE PRINCESS. And " Naught (quoth JACQUOT) makes the sum of Love ! " DENISE. The cynic knave ! How call you this one here ? This small shy-looking fish, that hovers near, And circles, like a cat around a cage, To snatch the surplus. THE PRINCESS. CHERUBIN, the page. 'Tis but a child, yet with that roguish smile, i 5 o VIGNETTES IN RHYME. And those sly looks, the child will make hearts ache Not five years hence, I prophesy. Meanwhile, He lives to plague the swans upon the lake, To steal my comfits, and the monkey's cake. DENISE. And these that swim aside who may these be ? THE PRINCESS. Those are two gentlemen of Picardy, Equal in blood, of equal bravery : D'AURELLES and MAUFRIGNAC. They hunt hi pair ; I mete them morsels with an equal care, Lest they should eat each other, or eat Me. DENISE. And that and that and that ? THE PRINCESS. I name them not. Those are the crowd who merely think their lot The lighter by my land. DENISE. And is there none More prized than most? There surely must be one, A Carp of carps ! THE IDYLL OF TPIE CARP. THE PRINCESS. Ah me ! he will not come ! He swims at large, looks shyly on, is dumb. Sometimes, indeed, I think he fain would nibble, But while he stays with doubts and fears to quibble, Some gilded fop, or mincing courtier-fribble, Slips smartly in, and gets the proffered crumb. He should have all my crumbs if he 'd but ask ; Nay, an he would, it were no hopeless task To gain a something more. But though he 's brave, He 's far too proud to be a dangling slave ; And then he 's modest 1 So ... he will not come ! VIGNETTES IN RHYME. THE SUNDIAL. >r TMS an old dial, dark with many a stain ; J- In summer crowned with drifting orchard bloom, Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain, And white in winter like a marble tomb ; And round about its gray, time-eaten brow Lean letters speak a worn and shattered row : 31 am a %fjaue: a %>TjaBotoe too arte t$ou: 31 marfce tfje ^Tfmc : gape, og$tp, fcogt rtjott Here would the ringdoves linger, head to head ; And here the snail a silver course would run, Beating old Time ; and here the peacock spread His gold-green glory, shutting out the sun. The tardy shade moved forward to the noon ; Betwixt the paths a dainty Beauty stept, That swung a flower, and, smiling, hummed a tune, Before whose feet a barking spaniel leapt. O'er her blue dress an endless blossom strayed ; About her tendril-curls the sunlight shone ; And round her train the tiger-lilies swayed, Like courtiers bowing till the queen be gone. THE SUNDIAL. She leaned upon the slab a little while, Then drew a jewelled pencil from her zone, Scribbled a something with a frolic smile, Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the stone. The shade slipped on, no swifter than the snail ; There came a second lady to the place, Dove-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and pale An inner beauty shining from her face. She, as if listless with a lonely love, Straying among the alleys with a book, Herrick or Herbert, watched the circling dove, And spied the tiny letter in the nook. Then, like to one who confirmation found Of some dread secret half-accounted true, Who knew what hands and hearts the letter bound, And argued loving commerce 'twixt the two, She bent her fair young forehead on the stone ; The dark shade gloomed an instant on her head ; And 'twixt her taper-fingers pearled and shone The single tear that tear-worn eyes will shed. The shade slipped onward to the falling gloom ; There came a soldier gallant in her stead, Swinging a beaver with a swaling plume, A ribboned love-lock rippling from his head ; i 5 4 VIGNETTES IN RHYME. Blue-eyed, frank-faced, with clear and open brow, Scar-seamed a little, as the women love ; So kindly fronted that you marvel how The frequent sword-hilt had so frayed his glove ; Who switched at Psyche plunging in the sun ; Uncrowned three lilies with a backward swinge ; And standing somewhat widely, like to one More used to " Boot and Saddle " than to cringe As courtiers do, but gentleman withal, Took out the note ; held it as one who feared The fragile thing he held would slip and fall ; Read and re-read, pulling his tawny beard ; Kissed it, I think, and hid it in his breast ; Laughed softly in a flattered happy way, Arranged the broidered baldrick on his chest, And sauntered past, singing a roundelay. The shade crept forward through the dying glow ; There came no more nor dame nor cavalier ; But for a little time the brass will show A small gray spot the record of a tear. AN UNFINISHED SONG. 155 AN UNFINISHED SONG. " Cantat Deo qui vivit Deo." T7ES, he was well-nigh gone and near his rest, -* The year could not renew him ; nor the cry Of building nightingales about the nest ; Nor that soft freshness of the May- wind's sigh, That fell before the garden scents, and died Between the ampler leafage of the trees : All these he knew not, lying open-eyed, Deep in a dream that was not pain nor ease, But death not yet. Outside a woman talked His wife she was whose clicking needles sped To faded phrases of complaint that balked My rising words of comfort. Overhead, A cage that hung amid the jasmine stars Trembled a little, and a blossom dropped. Then notes came pouring through the wicker bars, Climbed half a rapid arc of song, and stopped. XS6 VIGNETTES IN RHYME. " Is it a thrush ? " I asked. " A thrush," she said. "That was Will's tune. Will taught him that before He left the doorway settle for his bed, Sick as you see, and could n't teach him more. "He'd bring his Bible here o' nights, would Will, Following the light, and whiles when it was dark And days were warm, he'd sit there whistling still, Teaching the bird. He whistled like a lark." "Jack ! Jack !" A joyous flutter stirred the cage, Shaking the blossoms down. The bird began ; The woman turned again to want and wage, And in the inner chamber sighed the man. How clear the song was ! Musing as I heard, My fancies wandered from the droning wife To sad comparison of man and bird, The broken song, the uncompleted life, That seemed a broken song ; and of the two, My thought a moment deemed the bird more blest, That, when the sun shone, sang the notes it knew, Without desire or knowledge of the rest. Nay, happier man. For him futurity Still hides a hope that this his earthly praise Finds heavenly end, for surely will not He, Solver of all, above his Flower of Days, AN UNFINISHED SONG. 157 Teach him the song that no one living knows ? Let the man die, with that half-chant of his, What Now discovers not Hereafter shows, And God will surely teach him more than this. Again the Bird. I turned, and passed along ; But Time and Death, Eternity and Change, Talked with me ever, and the climbing song Rose in my hearing, beautiful and strange. x 5 8 VIGNETTES IN RHYME. THE CHILD-MUSICIAN. HE had played for his lordship's levee, He had played for her ladyship's whim, Till the poor little head was heavy, And the poor little brain would swim. And the face grew peaked and eerie, And the large eyes strange and bright, And they said too late " He is weary I He shall rest for, at least, To-night !" But at dawn, when the birds were waking, As they watched in the silent room, With the sound of a strained cord breaking, A something snapped in the gloom. Twas a string of his violoncello, And they heard him stir in his bed : " Make room for a tired little fellow, Kind God ! " was the last that he said. THE CRADLE. 159 THE CRADLE. HOW steadfastly she 'd worked at it 1 How lovingly had drest With all her would-be-mother's wit That little rosy nest I How longingly she 'd hung on it ! It sometimes seemed, she said, There lay beneath its coverlet A little sleeping head. He came at last, the tiny guest, Ere bleak December fled ; That rosy nest he never prest . . , Her coffin was his bed. i6o VIGNETTES IN RHYME. BEFORE SEDAN. " The dead hand clasped a letter" SPECIAL CORRESPONDENCP, HERE, in this leafy place, Quiet he lies, Cold, with his sightless face Turned to the skies ; 'Tis but another dead ; All you can say is said. Carry his body hence, Kings must have slaves ; Kings climb to eminence Over men's graves : So this man's eye is dim ; Throw the earth over him. What was the white you touched, There, at his side ? Paper his hand had clutched Tight ere he died ; Message or wish, may be ; Smooth the folds out and see. BEFORE SEDAN. 161 Hardly the worst of us Here could have smiled I Only the tremulous Words of a child ; Prattle, that has for stops Just a few ruddy drops. Look. She is sad to miss, Morning and night, Hi$ her dead father's kiss ; Tries to be bright, Good to mamma, and sweet. That is all. " Marguerite. " Ah, if beside the dead Slumbered the pain ! Ah, if the hearts that bled Slept with the slain ! If the grief died ; But no ; Death will not have it so. M 162 VIGNETTES IN RHYME. THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE. A SKETCH IN A CEMETERY. OUT from the City's dust and roar, You wandered through the open door : Paused at a plaything pail and spade Across a tiny hillock laid ; Then noted on your dexter side Some moneyed mourner's " love or pride" ; And so, beyond a hawthorn- tree, Showering its rain of rosy bloom Alike on low and lofty tomb, You came upon it suddenly. How strange ! The very grasses' growth Around it seemed forlorn and loath ; The very ivy seemed to turn Askance that wreathed the neighbour urn. The slab had sunk ; the head declined, And left the rails a wreck behind. No name ; you traced a "6," a "7," Part of " affliction " and of " Heaven "; THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE. 163 And then, in letters sharp and clear, You read O Irony austere ! " The, with rhythmic feet In, "windings of some old-world dance. The smiting couples cross and meet % Join hands, and then in line advance ', So, to these fair old tunes of France, Throiigh all their maze of to and fro, TJie light-heeled numbers laughing go Retreat, return, and ere they flee, One moment pause in panting row* Andseetn to say Vos plauditc ! ROSE-LEAVES. (TRIOLETS.) " Sans peser. Sans restcr" A KISS. ROSE kissed me to-day. Will she kiss me to-morrow ? Let it be as it may, Rose kissed rne to-day. But the pleasure gives way To a savour of sorrow ; Rose kissed me to-day, Will she kiss me to-morrow ? CIRCE. IN the School of Coquettes Madam Rose is a scholar : O, they fish with all nets In the School of Coquettes ! When her brooch she forgets 'Tis to show her new collar ; In the School of Coquettes Madam Rose is a scholar ! JESS Ays IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. THERE *s a tear in her eye, Such a clear little jewel ! What can make her cry ? There 's a tear in her eye. " Puck has killed a big fly, And it 's horribly cruel ;" There 's a tear in her eye, Such a clear little jewel ! A GREEK GIFT. HERE 's a present for Rose, How pleased she is looking ! Is it verse ? is it prose ? Here 's a piosent for Rose ! "Plats," " Entries," and " R6ts? Why, it 's " Gouffe on Cooking " ! Here 's a present for Rose, How pleased she is looking I "URCEUS EXIT." I INTENDED an Ode, And it turned to a Sonnet. It began a la mode t I intended an Ode ; But Rose crossed the road In her latest new bonnet ; I intended an Ode, And it turned to a Sonnet. 1874. " PERSICOS ODT." 213 "PERSICOS GDI." (TRIOLETS.) DAVUS, I detest Orient display 5 Wreaths on linden drest, Davus, I detest. Let the late rose rest Where it fades away : Davus, I detest Orient display. Naught but myrtle twine Therefore, Boy, for me Sitting 'neath the vine, Naught but myrtle twine ; Fitting to the wine, Not unfitting thee ; Naught but myrtle twine Therefore, Boy, for me. 1877. 3i 4 ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. THE WANDERER. (RONDEL.) T OVE comes back to his vacant dwelling, - ' The old, old Love that we knew of yore ! We see him stand by the open door, With his great eves sad, and his bosom swelling. He makes as though in our arms repelling, He fain would lie as he lay before ; Love comes back to his vacant dwelling, The old, old Love that we knew of yore ! H Ah, who shall help us from over-spelling That sweet forgotten, forbidden lore ! E'en as we doubt in our heart once more, ^ With a rush of tears to our eyelids welling, Love comes back to his vacant dwelling. 1878. 11 VITAS HINNULEOr 215 "VITAS HINNULEO." (RONDEL.) "Y7OU shun me, Chloe, wild and shy * As some stray fawn that seeks its mother Through trackless woods. If spring-winds sigh, & It vainly strives its fears to smother ; Its trembling knees assail each other When lizards stir the bramble dry ; You shun me, Chloe, wild and shy As some stray fawn that seeks its mother. And yet no Libyan lion I, No ravening thing to rend another ; Lay by your tears, your tremors by A Husband 's better than a brother ; Nor shun me, Chloe, wild and shy As some stray fawn that seeks its mother. 1877. ai6 ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. "ON LONDON STONES." (RONDEAU.) /^~~\N London stones I sometimes sigh V*/ For wider green and bluer sky ; Too oft the trembling note is drowned In this huge city's varied sound ; " Pure song is country -born" I cry. Then comes the spring, the months go by, The last stray swallows seaward fly ; And I I too ! no more am found On London stones ! Q In vain ! the woods, the fields deny That clearer strain I fain would try ; Mine is an urban Muse, and bound By some strange law to paven ground ; Abroad she pouts ; she is not shy On London stones ! 1876. " FAREWELL, RENO V/N ! " "FAREWELL, RENOWN I" (RONDEAU.) FAREWELL, Renown ! Too fleeting flower, That grows a year to last an hour ; Prize of the race's dust and heat, Too often trodden under feet, Why should I court your "barren dower"? Nay ; had I Dryden's angry power, The thews of Ben, the wind of Gower, Not less rny voice should still repeat " Farewell, Renown ! " Farewell ! Because the Muses' bower Is rilled with rival brows that lower ; Because, howe'er his pipe be sweet, The Bard, that "pays," must please the street ;- But most . . . because the grapes are sour, Farewell, Renown ! 1876. ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. "MORE POETS YET1" (RONDEAU.) " A/T ORE Poets yet ! "~~ I hear him say ' *! Arming his heavy hand to slay ; " Despite my skill and ' swashing blow,' They seem to sprout where'er I go ; I killed a host but yesterday !" Slash on, O Hercules ! You may. Your task 's, at best, a Hydra-fray ; And though you cut, not less will grow More Poets yet ! Too arrogant ! For who shall stay The first blind motions of the May ? Who shall out-blot the morning glow ? Or stem the full heart's overflow ? Who ? There will rise, till Time decay, More Poets yet 1 1876. 1 WITH PIPE AND FLUTE." 219 "WITH PIPE AND FLUTE." (RONDEAU.) "\ T 7ITH pipe and flute the rustic Pan Of old made music sweet for man ; And wonder hushed the warbling bird, And closer drew the calm-eyed herd, The rolling river slowlier ran. Ah ! would, ah ! would, a little span, Some air of Arcady could fan This age of ours, too seldom stirred With pipe and flute ! But now for gold we plot and plan ; And from Beersheba unto Dan, Apollo's self might pass unheard, Or find the night-jar's note preferred ; Not so it fared, when time began, With pipe and flute 1 1877. ESS Ays IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. A RONDEAU TO ETHEL, (Who wishes she had lived " In teacup-times of hood and hoop^ Or -while the patch was worn.") " T N teacup-times ! " The style of dress * Would suit your beauty, I confess ; BELiNDA-like, the patch you 'd wear ; I picture you with powdered hair, You 'd make a charming Shepherdess ! And I no doubt could well express SIR PLUME'S complete conceitedness, Could poise a clouded cane with care " In teacup-times I" The parts would fit precisely yes : We should achieve a huge success ! You should disdain, and I despair, With quite the true Augustan air ; But . . . could I love you more, or less, "In teacup-times?" 1878. " O FONS BANDUSIM." "O FONS BANDUSLE." (RONDEAU.) O BABBLING Spring, than glass more clear, Worthy of wreath and cup sincere, To-morrow shall a kid be thine With swelled and sprouting brows for sign, Sure sign ! of loves and battles near. Child of the race that butt and rear ! Not less, alas ! his life-blood dear Must tinge thy cold wave crystalline, O babbling Spring ! Thee Sirius knows not. Thou dost cheer With pleasant cool the plough-worn steer, The wandering flock. This verse of mine Will rank thee one with founts divine ; Men shall thy rock and tree revere, O babbling Spring ! 1877. IN OLD FRENCH FORMS, "VIXI PUELLIS." (RONDEAU OF VILLON.) WE loved of yore, in warfare bold, Nor laurelless. Now all must go ; Let this left wall of Venus show The arms, the tuneless lyre of old. Here let them hang, the torches cold, The portal-bursting bar, the bow, We loved of yore. But thou, who Cyprus sweet dost hold, And Memphis free from Thracian snow, Goddess and queen, with vengeful blow, Smite, smite but once that pretty scold We loved of yore I 1877. " WHEN I SAW YOU LAST, ROSE. 11 223 "WHEN I SAW YOU LAST, ROSE/ (VILLANELLE.) WHEN I saw you last, Rose, You were only so high ; How fast the time goes ! Like a bud ere it blows, You just peeped at the sky, When I saw you last, Rose ! Now your petals unclose, Now your May-time is nigh ; How fast the time goes ! And a life, how it grows I You were scarcely so shy, When I saw you last, Rose ! In your bosom it shows There 's a guest on the sly ; (How fast the time goes !) ESS A yS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. , Is it Cupid ? Who knows ! Yet you used not to sigh, When I saw you last, Rose ; How fast the time goes ! 1877. ON A NANKIN PLATE. 225 ON A NANKIN PLATE. (VILLANELLE.) r * A H me, but it might have been ! ^JL 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 I " As it was, from her palankeen, She laughed' You're a week too late ! ' " (Quoth the little blue mandarin.) Q ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. " 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. 1881. i FOR A COPY OF THEOCRITUS. 227 FOR A COPY OF THEOCRITUS. (VILLANELLE.) O SINGER of the field and fold, THEOCRITUS ! Pan's pipe was thine,- Thine was the happier Age of Gold. For thee the scent of new-turned mould, The bee-hives, and the murmuring pine, O Singer of the field and fold ! Thou sang'st the simple feasts of old, The beechen bowl made glad with wine . . Thine was the happier Age of Gold. Thou bad'st the rustic loves be told, Thou bad'st the tuneful reeds combine,. O Singer of the field and fold ! And round thee, ever-laughing, rolled The blithe and blue Sicilian brine . . Thine was the happier Age of Gold. 228 ESS AyS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. Alas for us 1 Our songs are cold ; Our Northern suns too sadly shine : O Singer of the field and fold, Thine was the happier Age of Gold 1 11 TU NE QUAESIERIS:' "TU NE QUAESIERIS." (VILLANELLE.) SEEK not, O Maid, to know (Alas ! unblest the trying 1) When thou and I must go. No lore of stars can show. What shall be, vainly prying, Seek not, O Maid, to know. Will Jove long years bestow ? Or is J t with this one dying, That thou and I must go ; Now, when the great winds blow, And waves the reef are plying? . . Seek not, O Maid, to know. Rather let clear wine flow, On no vain hope relying ; When thou and I must go 23 o ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. Lies dark ; then be it so. Now, now, churl Time is flying ; Seek not, O Maid, to know When thou and I must go, 1877. THE PRODIGALS. 231 THE PRODIGALS. (BALLADE : IRREGULAR.) " T)RINCES ! and you, most valorous, A Nobles and Barons of all degrees 1 Hearken awhile to the prayer of us, Beggars that come from the over-seas 1 Nothing we ask or of gold or fees ; Harry us not with the hounds we pray ; Lo, for the surcote's hem we seize, Give us ah ! give us but Yesterday I" " Dames most delicate, amorous ! Damosels blithe as the belted bees I Hearken awhile to the prayer of us, Beggars that come from the over-seas 1 Nothing we ask of the things that please ; Weary are we, and worn, and gray ; Lo, for we clutch and we clasp your knees, Give us ah ! give us but Yesterday ! " " Damosels Dames, be piteous !" (But the dames rode fast by the roadway trees.) "Hear us, O Knights magnanimous !" (But the knights pricked on in their panoplies.) 232 ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. Nothing they gat or of hope or ease, But only to beat on the breast and say : " Life we drank to the dregs and lees ; Give us ah ! give us but Yesterday !" ENVOY. YOUTH, take heed to the prayer of these ! Many there be by the dusty way, Many that cry to the rocks and seas " Give us ah I give us but Yesterday !" 1876, ON A FAX. 933 - ON A FAN THAT BELONGED TO THE MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR. (BALLADE.) /CHICKEN-SKIN, delicate, white, ^-^ Painted by Carlo Vanloo, Loves in a riot of light, Roses and vaporous blue ; Hark to the dzrnty frwt-frou I Picture above, if you can, , Eyes that could melt as the dew, This was the Pompadour's fan ! See how they rise at the sight, Thronging the (Eil de Bceuf through, Courtiers as butterflies bright, Beauties that Fragonard drew, Talon-rouge, falbala, queue, Cardinal, Duke, to a man, Eager to sigh or to sue, This was the Pompadour's fan ! Ah, but things more than polite Hung on this toy, voyez-vous / j&SSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. Matters of state and of might, Things that great ministers do ; Things that, may be, overthrew Those in whose brains they began ; Here was the sign and the cue, This was the Pompadour's fan ! WHERE are the secrets it knew ? Weavings of plot and of plan ? But where is the Pompadour, too ? This was the Pompadour's Fan ! 1878. A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH. 235 A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH of the Spanish Armada. (BALLADE.) ING PHILIP had vaunted his claims ; A *- He had sworn for a year he would sack us ; With an army of heathenish names He was coming to fagot and stack us ; Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, And shatter our ships on the main ; But we had bold Neptune to back us, And where are the galleons of Spain ? His carackes were christened of dames To the kirtles whereof he would tack us ; With his saints and his gilded stern-frames, He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us ; Now Howard may get to his Flaccus, And Drake to his Devon again, And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus, For where are the galleons of Spain ? Let his Majesty hang to St. James The axe that he whetted to hack us ; ESSAyS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. He must play at some lustier games Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us ; To his mines of Peru he would pack us To tug at his bullet and chain ; Alas ! that his Greatness should lack us !- But where are the galleons of Spain ? ENVOY. GLORIANA ! the Don may attack us Whenever his stomach be fain ; He must reach us before he can rack us, . And where are the galleons of Spain ? 1877. THE BALLAD OF IMITATION. 237 THE BALLAD OF IMITATION. (BALLADE.) " Cest imiter quelqrf un que de planter des choux" ALFRED DE MUSSET, IF they hint, O Musician, the piece that you played Is nought but a copy of Chopin or Spohr; That the ballad you sing is but merely " conveyed " From the stock of the Arnes and the Purcells of yore ; That there 's nothing, in short, in the words or the score That is not as out-worn as the " Wandering Jew "; Make answer Beethoven could scarcely do more That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too ! [f they tell you, Sir Artist, your light and your shade Are simply " adapted " from other men's lore ; That plainly to speak of a " spade " as a " spade " You've "stolen" your grouping from three or from four; That (however the writer the truth may deplore), Twas Gainsborough painted your " Little Boy Blue " ; Smile only serenely though cut to the core- For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too 1 I 2 3 8 ESSAyS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. And you too, my Poet, be never dismayed If they whisper your Epic " Sir Eperon d'Or " - Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayed In a tissue that 's taken from Morris's store ; That no one, in fact, but a child could ignore That you "lift " or "accommodate " all that you do ; Take heart though your Pegasus' withers be sore For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too ! POSTSCRIPTUM. And you, whom we all so adore, Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so new ! One word in your ear. There were Critics before . . And the man who plants cabbages imitates, too 1 1878. THE BALLAD OF PROSE AND RHYME. 239 THE BALLAD OF PROSE AND RHYME. (BALLADE A DOUBLE REFRAIN.) "XX T HEN 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 I 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, \nd 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 ! n a theme where the thoughts have a pedant-strut, In a changing quarrel of "Ayes " and " Noes," n a starched procession of "If" and " But," There is place and enough for the pains of prose ; jo SSA VS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. 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 1 for the ripple of laughing rhyme 1 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 ! 1878. 'O NAVIS." 941 "O NAVIS." (BALLADE.) SHIP, to the roadstead rolled, What dost thou ? O, once more Regain the port. Behold ! Thy sides are bare of oar, Thy tall mast wounded sore Of Africus, and see, What shall thy spars restore I- Tempt not the tyrant sea ! What cable now will hold When all drag out from shore ! What god canst thou, too bold, In time of need implore ! Look ! for thy sails flap o'er, Thy stiff shrouds part and flee, Fast fast thy seams outpour, Tempt not the tyrant sea 1 What though thy ribs of old The pines of Pontus bore I Not now to stem of gold Men trust, or painted prore I R SSAYS IN OLD FRENCH Thou, or thou count'st it store A toy of winds to be, Shun thou the Cyclads* roar, Tempt not the tyrant sea 1 ENVOY. SHIP OF THE STATE, before A care, and now to me A hope in my heart's core, Tempt not the tyrant sea ! 1883- THE DANCE OF DEATH. THE DANCE OF DEATH. (CHANT ROYAL, AFTER HOLBEIN.) " Contra, vim MORTIS Non est niedicainen in Jiortis. " HE is the despots' Despot. All must bide, Later or soon, the message of his might ; Princes and potentates their heads must hide, Touched by the awful sigil of his right ; Beside the Kaiser he at eve doth wait And pours a potion in his cup of state ; The stately Queen his bidding must obey ; No keen-eyed Cardinal shall him affray ; And to the Dame that wantoneth he saith "Let be, Sweet-heart, to junket and to play." There is no king more terrible than Death. The lusty Lord, rejoicing in his pride, He draweth down ; before the armed Knight With jingling bridle-rein he still doth ride ; He crosseth the strong Captain in the fight ; He beckons the grave Elder from debate ; He hales the Abbot by his shaven pate, Nor for the Abbess' wailing will delay ; SSA ys IN OLD FRENCH FORMS. No bawling Mendicant shall say him nay ; E'en to the pyx the Priest he followeth, Nor can the Leech his chilling finger stay . . There is no king more terrible than Death. All things must bow to him. And woe betide The Wine-bibber, the Roisterer by night ; Him the feast-master, many bouts defied, Him 'twixt the pledging and the cup shall smite ; Woe to the Lender at usurious rate, The hard Rich Man, the hireling Advocate ; Woe to the Judge that selleth right for pay ; Woe to the Thief that like a beast of prey With creeping tread the traveller harryeth : These, in their sin, the sudden sword shall slay . . There is no king more terrible than Death. He hath no pity, nor will be denied. When the low hearth is garnished and bright, Grimly he flingeth the dim portal wide, And steals the Infant in the Mother's sight ; He hath no pity for the scorned of fate : He spares not Lazarus lying at the gate, Nay, nor the Blind that stumbleth as he may ; Nay, the tired Ploughman, at the sinking ray, In the last furrow, feels an icy breath, THE DANCE OF DEA TH. 345 And knows a hand hath turned the team astray , There is no king more terrible than Death. He hath no pity. For the new-made Bride, Blithe with the promise of her life's delight, That wanders gladly by her Husband's side, He with the clatter of his drum doth fright ; He scares the Virgin at the convent grate ; The Maid half-won, the Lover passionate ; He hath no grace for weakness and decay : The tender Wife, the Widow bent and gray, The feeble Sire whose footstep faltereth, All these he leadeth by the lonely way . . There is no king more terrible than Death. YOUTH, for whose ear and monishing of late, I sang of Prodigals and lost estate, Have thou thy joy of living and be gay ; But know not less that there must come a day, Aye, and perchance e'en now it hasteneth, When thine own heart shall speak to thee and say, There is no king more terrible than Death. 1877. When Finis conies, the BOOK we close, And somewJiat sadly, Fancy goes, With backward step, from stage to stage Of that accomplished pilgrimage . . . The thorn lies thicker than the rose ! There is so much that no one knows, So much un-reached that none suppose ; What flaws! what faults! on every page, When Finis conies. Still, they must pass ! The swift Tide flows. Though not for all the laurel grows, Perchance, in this be-slandered age, The worker, mainly, wins his wagei And Time will sweep both friends andfcts When FINIS comes! NOTES. NOTES. " Ensign (^BRAGG'S) made a terrible clangour" PAGE 22. T^ESPITE its suspicious appropriateness in this case, ' Bragg V regiment of Foot-Guards really existed ; and was ordered to Flanders in April, 1742. (See Gentleman's Magazine, 1742, i. 217.) " PORTO-BELLO at last was ta'eu." PAGE 24. Porto Bello was taken in November, 1739. But Vice-Admiral Vernon's despatches did not reach England until the following March. (See Gentleman's Magazine for 1740, i. 124, et seq.) " In tte fresh contours of his * Milkmaid's 'face" PAGE 28. See the Enraged Musician, an engraving of which was published in November of the following year (1741). "An Incident in the Life of Francois Boucher" PAGE 36. See Boucher^ by Arsene Houssaye, Galerie du XVIII* Stick \Cinquieme Sirie\ and Charles Blanc, Histoire des Peintres de tout Us Ecoles. " The scene, a wood." PACK 36. The picture referred to is Lg Panier MystMeux by F. Boucher ; engraved by R. Gaillard. 2 5 o NOTES. " And far afield were sun-baked savage creatures." PAG* 37. See Les CaractSres de LA BRUYERE, De fhomme. " Whose greatest grace was jupes a la Camargo." PAGE 37. " Cetait le beau temps ou Camargo trouvait ses jupes trop longues pour danser lagargouillade."PLRSKHE. HOUSSAYE. " The grass he called ' too green.' " PAGE 38. " // trouvait la nature trop verte et mal tclairee. Et son ami Lancret, le peintre des salons a la mode, lui rfpondait: ' Je suit de votre sentiment ', la nature manque dharmonie et de seduction' " CHARLES BLANC " Nay, 'twas a J