Left him by no means at his ease.
Once more he weltered in despair,
With hands, through denser-matted hair,
More
tightly clenched than then they were.
When, bathed in Dawn of living red,
Majestic frowned the mountain head,
"Tell me my fault," was all he said.
When, at high Noon, the blazing sky
Scorched in his head each
haggard eye,
Then keenest rose his weary cry.
And when at Eve the unpitying sun
Smiled
grimly on the
solemn fun,
"Alack," he sighed, "what HAVE I done?"
But saddest, darkest was the sight,
When the cold grasp of leaden Night
Dashed him to earth, and held him tight.
Tortured, unaided, and alone,
Thunders were silence to his groan,
Bagpipes sweet music to its tone:
"What? Ever thus, in
dismal round,
Shall Pain and Mystery profound
Pursue me like a
sleepless hound,
"With crimson-dashed and eager jaws,
Me, still in
ignorance of the cause,
Unknowing what I broke of laws?"
The
whisper to his ear did seem
Like echoed flow of silent stream,
Or shadow of forgotten dream,
The
whisper trembling in the wind:
"Her fate with thine was intertwined,"
So spake it in his inner mind:
"Each orbed on each a baleful star:
Each proved the other's
blight and bar:
Each unto each were best, most far:
"Yea, each to each was worse than foe:
Thou, a scared dullard, gibbering low,
AND SHE, AN AVALANCHE OF WOE!"
TEMA CON VARIAZIONI
[WHY is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process
of Dilution which has proved so
advantageous to her sister-art
Music? The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known
Air, then a dozen bars of his own, then a few more notes of the
Air, and so on
alternately: thus saving the
listener, if not from
all risk of recognising the
melody at all, at least from the too-
exciting transports which it might produce in a more concentrated
form. The process is termed "setting" by Composers, and any one,
that has ever
experienced the
emotion of being
unexpectedly set
down in a heap of
mortar, will recognise the truthfulness of this
happy phrase.
For truly, just as the
genuine Epicure lingers lovingly over a
morsel of
supreme Venison - whose every fibre seems to murmur
"Excelsior!" - yet swallows, ere returning to the toothsome dainty,
great mouthfuls of oatmeal-porridge and winkles: and just as the
perfect Connoisseur in Claret permits himself but one
delicate sip,
and then tosses off a pint or more of boarding-school beer: so
also -
I NEVER loved a dear Gazelle -
NOR ANYTHING THAT COST ME MUCH:
HIGH PRICES PROFIT THOSE WHO SELL,
BUT WHY SHOULD I BE FOND OF SUCH?
To glad me with his soft black eye
MY SON COMES TROTTING HOME FROM SCHOOL;
HE'S HAD A FIGHT BUT CAN'T TELL WHY -
HE ALWAYS WAS A LITTLE FOOL!
But, when he came to know me well,
HE KICKED ME OUT, HER TESTY SIRE:
AND WHEN I STAINED MY HAIR, THAT BELLE
MIGHT NOTE THE CHANGE, AND THUS ADMIRE
And love me, it was sure to dye
A MUDDY GREEN OR STARING BLUE:
WHILST ONE MIGHT TRACE, WITH HALF AN EYE,
THE STILL TRIUMPHANT CARROT THROUGH.
A GAME OF FIVES
FIVE little girls, of Five, Four, Three, Two, One:
Rolling on the hearthrug, full of tricks and fun.
Five rosy girls, in years from Ten to Six:
Sitting down to lessons - no more time for tricks.
Five growing girls, from Fifteen to Eleven:
Music, Drawing, Languages, and food enough for seven!
Five winsome girls, from Twenty to Sixteen:
Each young man that calls, I say "Now tell me which you MEAN!"
Five
dashing girls, the youngest Twenty-one:
But, if nobody proposes, what is there to be done?
Five showy girls - but Thirty is an age
When girls may be ENGAGING, but they somehow don't ENGAGE.
Five dressy girls, of Thirty-one or more:
So
gracious to the shy young men they snubbed so much before!
* * * *
Five PASSE girls - Their age? Well, never mind!
We jog along together, like the rest of human kind:
But the quondam "careless bachelor" begins to think he knows
The answer to that ancient problem "how the money goes"!
POETA FIT, NON NASCITUR
"How shall I be a poet?
How shall I write in rhyme?
You told me once 'the very wish
Partook of the sublime.'
Then tell me how! Don't put me off
With your 'another time'!"
The old man smiled to see him,
To hear his sudden sally;
He liked the lad to speak his mind
Enthusiastically;
And thought "There's no hum-drum in him,
Nor any shilly-shally."
"And would you be a poet
Before you've been to school?
Ah, well! I hardly thought you
So
absolute a fool.
First learn to be spasmodic -
A very simple rule.
"For first you write a sentence,
And then you chop it small;
Then mix the bits, and sort them out
Just as they chance to fall:
The order of the phrases makes
No difference at all.
'Then, if you'd be impressive,
Remember what I say,
That
abstract qualities begin
With capitals alway:
The True, the Good, the Beautiful -
Those are the things that pay!
"Next, when you are describing
A shape, or sound, or tint;
Don't state the matter plainly,
But put it in a hint;
And learn to look at all things
With a sort of
mental squint."
"For
instance, if I wished, Sir,
Of mutton-pies to tell,
Should I say 'dreams of
fleecy flocks
Pent in a wheaten cell'?"
"Why, yes," the old man said: "that phrase
Would answer very well.
"Then fourthly, there are epithets
That suit with any word -
As well as Harvey's Reading Sauce
With fish, or flesh, or bird -
Of these, 'wild,' '
lonely,' 'weary,' 'strange,'
Are much to be preferred."
"And will it do, O will it do
To take them in a lump -
As 'the wild man went his weary way
To a strange and
lonely pump'?"
"Nay, nay! You must not hastily
To such conclusions jump.
"Such epithets, like pepper,
Give zest to what you write;
And, if you strew them sparely,
They whet the appetite:
But if you lay them on too thick,
You spoil the matter quite!
"Last, as to the arrangement:
Your reader, you should show him,
Must take what information he
Can get, and look for no im-
mature disclosure of the drift
And purpose of your poem.
"Therefore, to test his
patience -
How much he can
endure -
Mention no places, names, or dates,
And
evermore be sure
Throughout the poem to be found
Consistently obscure.
"First fix upon the limit
To which it shall extend:
Then fill it up with 'Padding'
(Beg some of any friend):
Your great SENSATION-STANZA
You place towards the end."
"And what is a Sensation,
Grandfather, tell me, pray?
I think I never heard the word
So used before to-day:
Be kind enough to mention one
'EXEMPLI GRATIA.'"
And the old man, looking sadly
Across the garden-lawn,
Where here and there a dew-drop
Yet glittered in the dawn,
Said "Go to the Adelphi,
And see the 'Colleen Bawn.'
'The word is due to Boucicault -
The theory is his,
Where Life becomes a Spasm,
And History a Whiz:
If that is not Sensation,
I don't know what it is.
"Now try your hand, ere Fancy
Have lost its present glow - "
"And then," his
grandson added,
"We'll publish it, you know:
Green cloth - gold-lettered at the back -
In duodecimo!"
Then
proudly smiled that old man
To see the eager lad
Rush madly for his pen and ink
And for his blotting-pad -
But, when he thought of PUBLISHING,
His face grew stern and sad.