Collected Poems

BY

AUSTIN DOBSON

IN TWO VOLUMES

Vol. II.

Majores majora sonent

NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
Publishers

Copyright, 1895,

By Dodd, Mead and Company

All rights reserved.

University Press:

John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U. S. A.

"For old sake's sake!" 'Twere hard to choose
Words fitter for an old-world Muse
Than these, that in their cadence bring
Faint fragrance of the posy-ring,
And charms that rustic lovers use.

The long day lengthens, and we lose
The first pale flush, the morning hues,—
Ah! but the back-look, lingering,
For old sake's sake!

That we retain. Though Time refuse
To lift the veil on forward views,
Despot in most, he is not King
Of those kind memories that cling
Around his travelled avenues
For old sake's sake!

"Qui n'a pas l'esprit de son âge
De son âge a tout le malheur."
Voltaire.

CONTENTS.

  • Page
  • [At the Sign of the Lyre]:—
  • The Ladies of St. James's [3]
  • The Old Sedan Chair [6]
  • To an Intrusive Butterfly [9]
  • The Curé's Progress [11]
  • The Masque of the Months [13]
  • Two Sermons [17]
  • "Au Revoir" [19]
  • The Carver and the Caliph [26]
  • To an Unknown Bust in the British Museum [29]
  • Molly Trefusis [32]
  • At the Convent Gate [36]
  • The Milkmaid [38]
  • An Old Fish-Pond [40]
  • An Eastern Apologue [43]
  • To a Missal of the Thirteenth Century [45]
  • A Revolutionary Relic [48]
  • A Madrigal [54]
  • A Song to the Lute [56]
  • A Garden Song [58]
  • A Chapter of Froissart [60]
  • To the Mammoth Tortoise [64]
  • A Roman "Round-Robin" [66]
  • Verses to Order [68]
  • A Legacy [70]
  • "Little Blue Ribbons" [72]
  • Lines to a Stupid Picture [74]
  • A Fairy Tale [76]
  • To a Child [78]
  • Household Art [80]
  • The Distressed Poet [81]
  • Jocosa Lyra [83]
  • My Books [85]
  • The Book-Plate's Petition [87]
  • Palomydes [89]
  • André le Chapelain [91]
  • The Water of Gold [95]
  • A Fancy from Fontenelle [97]
  • Don Quixote [98]
  • A Broken Sword [99]
  • The Poet's Seat [101]
  • The Lost Elixir [104]

AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE.

"At the Sign of the Lyre,"
Good Folk, we present you
With the pick of our quire,
And we hope to content you!

Here be Ballad and Song,
The fruits of our leisure,
Some short and some long—
May they all give you pleasure!

But if, when you read,
They should fail to restore you,
Farewell, and God-speed—
The world is before you!

THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S.

A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN.

"Phyllida amo ante alias."
Virg.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE OLD SEDAN CHAIR.

"What's not destroyed by Time's devouring Hand?
Where's Troy, and where's the May-Pole in the Strand?"
Bramston's "Art of Politicks."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TO AN INTRUSIVE BUTTERFLY.

"Kill not—for Pity's sake—and lest ye slay
The meanest thing upon its upward way."
Five Rules of Buddha.

I watch you through the garden walks,
I watch you float between
The avenues of dahlia stalks,
And flicker on the green;
You hover round the garden seat,
You mount, you waver. Why,—
Why storm us in our still retreat,
O saffron Butterfly!

Across the room in loops of flight
I watch you wayward go;
Dance down a shaft of glancing light,
Review my books a-row;
Before the bust you flaunt and flit
Of "blind Mæonides"—
Ah, trifler, on his lips there lit
Not butterflies, but bees!

You pause, you poise, you circle up
Among my old Japan;
You find a comrade on a cup,
A friend upon a fan;
You wind anon, a breathing-while,
Around Amanda's brow;—
Dost dream her then, O Volatile!
E'en such an one as thou?

Away! Her thoughts are not as thine.
A sterner purpose fills
Her steadfast soul with deep design
Of baby bows and frills;
What care hath she for worlds without,
What heed for yellow sun,
Whose endless hopes revolve about
A planet, ætat One!

Away! Tempt not the best of wives;
Let not thy garish wing
Come fluttering our Autumn lives
With truant dreams of Spring!
Away! Re-seek thy "Flowery Land;"
Be Buddha's law obeyed;
Lest Betty's undiscerning hand
Should slay ... a future Praed!

THE CURÉ'S PROGRESS.

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

You may see him pass by the little "Grande Place,"
And the tiny "Hôtel-de-Ville";
He smiles, as he goes, to the fleuriste Rose,
And the pompier Théophile.

He turns, as a rule, through the "Marché" cool,
Where the noisy fish-wives call;
And his compliment pays to the "Belle Thérèse,"
As she knits in her dusky stall.

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

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

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

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

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

THE MASQUE OF THE MONTHS.

(FOR A FRESCO.)

Firstly thou, churl son of Janus,
Rough for cold, in drugget clad,
Com'st with rack and rheum to pain us;—
Firstly thou, churl son of Janus.
Caverned now is old Sylvanus;
Numb and chill are maid and lad.

After thee thy dripping brother,
Dank his weeds around him cling;
Fogs his footsteps swathe and smother,—
After thee thy dripping brother.
Hearth-set couples hush each other,
Listening for the cry of Spring.

Hark! for March thereto doth follow,
Blithe,—a herald tabarded;
O'er him flies the shifting swallow,—
Hark! for March thereto doth follow.
Swift his horn, by holt and hollow,
Wakes the flowers in winter dead.

Thou then, April, Iris' daughter,
Born between the storm and sun;
Coy as nymph ere Pan hath caught her,—
Thou then, April, Iris' daughter.
Now are light, and rustling water;
Now are mirth, and nests begun.

May the jocund cometh after,
Month of all the Loves (and mine);
Month of mock and cuckoo-laughter,—
May the jocund cometh after.
Beaks are gay on roof and rafter;
Luckless lovers peak and pine.

June the next, with roses scented,
Languid from a slumber-spell;
June in shade of leafage tented;—
June the next, with roses scented.
Now her Itys, still lamented,
Sings the mournful Philomel.

Hot July thereafter rages,
Dog-star smitten, wild with heat;
Fierce as pard the hunter cages,—
Hot July thereafter rages.
Traffic now no more engages;
Tongues are still in stall and street.

August next, with cider mellow,
Laughs from out the poppied corn;
Hook at back, a lusty fellow,—
August next, with cider mellow.
Now in wains the sheafage yellow
'Twixt the hedges slow is borne.

Laden deep with fruity cluster,
Then September, ripe and hale;
Bees about his basket fluster,—
Laden deep with fruity cluster.
Skies have now a softer lustre;
Barns resound to flap of flail.

Thou then, too, of woodlands lover,
Dusk October, berry-stained;
Wailed about of parting plover,—
Thou then, too, of woodlands lover.
Fading now are copse and cover;
Forests now are sere and waned.

Next November, limping, battered,
Blinded in a whirl of leaf;
Worn of want and travel-tattered,—
Next November, limping, battered.
Now the goodly ships are shattered,
Far at sea, on rock and reef.

Last of all the shrunk December
Cowled for age, in ashen gray;
Fading like a fading ember,—
Last of all the shrunk December.
Him regarding, men remember
Life and joy must pass away.

TWO SERMONS.

Between the rail of woven brass,
That hides the "Strangers' Pew,"
I hear the gray-haired vicar pass
From Section One to Two.

And somewhere on my left I see—
Whene'er I chance to look—
A soft-eyed, girl St. Cecily,
Who notes them—in a book.

Ah, worthy Goodman,—sound divine!
Shall I your wrath incur,
If I admit these thoughts of mine
Will sometimes stray—to her?

I know your theme, and I revere;
I hear your precepts tried;
Must I confess I also hear
A sermon at my side?

Or how explain this need I feel,—
This impulse prompting me
Within my secret self to kneel
To Faith,—to Purity!

"AU REVOIR."

A Dramatic Vignette.

Scene.—The Fountain in the Garden of the Luxembourg. It is surrounded by Promenaders.

Monsieur Jolicœur.
A Lady (unknown).

M. Jolicœur.
'Tis she, no doubt. Brunette,—and tall:
A charming figure, above all!
This promises.—Ahem!

The Lady.
Monsieur?
Ah! it is three. Then Monsieur's name
Is Jolicœur?...

M. Jolicœur.
Madame, the same.

The Lady.
And Monsieur's goodness has to say?...
Your note?...

M. Jolicœur.
Your note.

The Lady.
Forgive me.—Nay.
(Reads)
"If Madame [I omit] will be
Beside the Fountain-rail at Three,
Then Madame—possibly—may hear
News of her Spaniel. Jolicœur."
Monsieur denies his note?

M. Jolicœur.
I do.
Now let me read the one from you.
"If Monsieur Jolicœur will be
Beside the Fountain-rail at Three,
Then Monsieur—possibly—may meet
An old Acquaintance. 'Indiscreet.'"

The Lady (scandalized).
Ah, what a folly! 'Tis not true.
I never met Monsieur. And you?

M. Jolicœur (with gallantry).
Have lived in vain till now. But see:
We are observed.

The Lady. (looking round).
I comprehend....
(After a pause.)
Monsieur, malicious brains combine
For your discomfiture, and mine.
Let us defeat that ill design.
If Monsieur but ... (hesitating).

M. Jolicœur (bowing).
Rely on me.

The Lady (still hesitating).
Monsieur, I know, will understand ...

M. Jolicœur.
Madame, I wait but your command.

The Lady.
You are too good. Then condescend
At once to be a new-found Friend!

M. Jolicœur (entering upon the part forthwith).
How? I am charmed,—enchanted. Ah!
What ages since we met ... at Spa?

The Lady (a little disconcerted).
At Ems, I think. Monsieur, maybe,
Will recollect the Orangery?

M. Jolicœur.
At Ems, of course. But Madame's face
Might make one well forget a place.

The Lady.
It seems so. Still, Monsieur recalls
The Kürhaus, and the concert-balls?

M. Jolicœur.
Assuredly. Though there again
'Tis Madame's image I retain.

The Lady.
Monsieur is skilled in ... repartee.
(How do they take it?—Can you see?)

M. Jolicœur.
Nay,—Madame furnishes the wit.
(They don't know what to make of it!)

The Lady.
And Monsieur's friend who sometimes came?...
That clever ... I forget the name.

M. Jolicœur.
The Baron?... It escapes me, too.
'Twas doubtless he that Madame knew?

The Lady (archly).
Precisely. But, my carriage waits.
Monsieur will see me to the gates?

M. Jolicœur (offering his arm).
I shall be charmed. (Your stratagem
Bids fair, I think, to conquer them.)
(Aside)
(Who is she? I must find that out.)
—And Madame's husband thrives, no doubt?

The Lady (off her guard).
Monsieur de Beau—?... He died at Dôle!

M. Jolicœur.
Truly. How sad!
(Aside)
(Yet, on the whole,
How fortunate! Beau-pré?—Beau-vau?
Which can it be? Ah, there they go!)
—Madame, your enemies retreat
With all the honours of ... defeat.

The Lady.
Thanks to Monsieur. Monsieur has shown
A skill Préville could not disown.

M. Jolicœur.
You flatter me. We need no skill
To act so nearly what we will.
Nay,—what may come to pass, if Fate
And Madame bid me cultivate ...

The Lady (anticipating).
Alas!—no farther than the gate.
Monsieur, besides, is too polite
To profit by a jest so slight.

M. Jolicœur.
Distinctly. Still, I did but glance
At possibilities ... of Chance.

The Lady.
Which must not serve Monsieur, I fear,
Beyond the little grating here.

M. Jolicœur (aside).
(She's perfect. One may push too far,
Piano, sano.)
(They reach the gates.)
Here we are.
Permit me, then ...
(Placing her in the carriage.)
And Madame goes?...
Your coachman?... Can I?...

The Lady (smiling).
Thanks! he knows.
Thanks! Thanks!

M. Jolicœur (insidiously).
And shall we not renew
Our ... "Ems acquaintanceship?"

The Lady (still smiling).
Adieu!
My thanks instead!

M. Jolicœur (with pathos).
It is too hard!
(Laying his hand on the grating.)
To find one's Paradise is barred!!

The Lady.
Nay.—"Virtue is her own Reward!"
[Exit.

M. Jolicœur (solus).
Beau-vau?—Beau-vallon?—Beau-manoir?—
But that's a detail!
(Waving his hand after the carriage.)
Au Revoir!

THE CARVER AND THE CALIPH.

(We lay our story in the East.
Because 'tis Eastern? Not the least.
We place it there because we fear
To bring its parable too near,
And seem to touch with impious hand
Our dear, confiding native land.)

Haroun Alraschid, in the days
He went about his vagrant ways,
And prowled at eve for good or bad
In lanes and alleys of Bagdad,
Once found, at edge of the bazaar,
E'en where the poorest workers are,
A Carver.

Fair his work and fine
With mysteries of inlaced design,
And shapes of shut significance
To aught but an anointed glance,—
The dreams and visions that grow plain
In darkened chambers of the brain.

And all day busily he wrought
From dawn to eve, but no one bought;—
Save when some Jew with look askant,
Or keen-eyed Greek from the Levant,
Would pause awhile,—depreciate,—
Then buy a month's work by the weight,
Bearing it swiftly over seas
To garnish rich men's treasuries.

And now for long none bought at all,
So lay he sullen in his stall.
Him thus withdrawn the Caliph found,
And smote his staff upon the ground—
"Ho, there, within! Hast wares to sell?
Or slumber'st, having dined too well?"
"'Dined,'" quoth the man, with angry eyes,
"How should I dine when no one buys?"
"Nay," said the other, answering low,—
"Nay, I but jested. Is it so?
Take then this coin, ... but take beside
A counsel, friend, thou hast not tried.
This craft of thine, the mart to suit,
Is too refined,—remote,—minute;
These small conceptions can but fail;
'Twere best to work on larger scale,
And rather choose such themes as wear
More of the earth and less of air,
The fisherman that hauls his net,—
The merchants in the market set,—
The couriers posting in the street,—
The gossips as they pass and greet,—
These—these are clear to all men's eye
Therefore with these they sympathize.
Further (neglect not this advice!)
Be sure to ask three times the price."

The Carver sadly shook his head;
He knew 'twas truth the Caliph said.
From that day forth his work was planned
So that the world might understand.
He carved it deeper, and more plain;
He carved it thrice as large again;
He sold it, too, for thrice the cost;
—Ah, but the Artist that was lost!

TO AN UNKNOWN BUST IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM.

"Sermons in stones."

Who were you once? Could we but guess,
We might perchance more boldly
Define the patient weariness
That sets your lips so coldly;
You "lived," we know, for blame and fame;
But sure, to friend or foeman,
You bore some more distinctive name
Than mere "B. C.,"—and "Roman"?

Your pedestal should help us much.
Thereon your acts, your title,
(Secure from cold Oblivion's touch!)
Had doubtless due recital;
Vain hope!—not even deeds can last!
That stone, of which you're minus,
Maybe with all your virtues past
Endows ... a Tigellinus!

We seek it not; we should not find.
But still, it needs no magic
To tell you wore, like most mankind,
Your comic mask and tragic;
And held that things were false and true,
Felt angry or forgiving,
As step by step you stumbled through
This life-long task ... of living!

You tried the cul-de-sac of Thought;
The montagne Russe of Pleasure;
You found the best Ambition brought
Was strangely short of measure;
You watched, at last, the fleet days fly,
Till—drowsier and colder—
You felt Mercurius loitering by
To touch you on the shoulder.

'Twas then (why not?) the whim would come
That howso Time should garble
Those deeds of yours when you were dumb,
At least you'd live—in Marble;
You smiled to think that after days,
At least, in Bust or Statue,
(We all have sick-bed dreams!) would gaze,
Not quite incurious, at you.

We gaze; we pity you, be sure!
In truth, Death's worst inaction
Must be less tedious to endure
Than nameless petrifaction;
Far better, in some nook unknown,
To sleep for once—and soundly,
Than still survive in wistful stone,
Forgotten more profoundly!

MOLLY TREFUSIS.

"Now the Graces are four and the Venuses two,
And ten is the number of Muses;
For a Muse and a Grace and a Venus are you,—
My dear little Molly Trefusis!"

So he wrote, the old bard of an "old magazine:"
As a study it not without use is,
If we wonder a moment who she may have been,
This same "little Molly Trefusis!"

She was Cornish. We know that at once by the "Tre;"
Then of guessing it scarce an abuse is
If we say that where Bude bellows back to the sea
Was the birthplace of Molly Trefusis.

And she lived in the era of patches and bows,
Not knowing what rouge or ceruse is;
For they needed (I trust) but her natural rose,
The lilies of Molly Trefusis.

And I somehow connect her (I frankly admit
That the evidence hard to produce is)
With Bath in its hey-day of Fashion and Wit,—
This dangerous Molly Trefusis.

I fancy her, radiant in ribbon and knot,
(How charming that old-fashioned puce is!)
All blooming in laces, fal-lals and what not,
At the Pump Room,—Miss Molly Trefusis.

I fancy her reigning,—a Beauty,—a Toast,
Where Bladud's medicinal cruse is;
And we know that at least of one Bard it could boast,—
The Court of Queen Molly Trefusis.

He says she was "Venus." I doubt it. Beside,
(Your rhymer so hopelessly loose is!)
His "little" could scarce be to Venus applied,
If fitly to Molly Trefusis.

No, no. It was Hebe he had in his mind;
And fresh as the handmaid of Zeus is,
And rosy, and rounded, and dimpled,—you'll find,—
Was certainly Molly Trefusis!

Then he calls her "a Muse." To the charge I reply
That we all of us know what a Muse is;
It is something too awful,—too acid,—too dry,—
For sunny-eyed Molly Trefusis.

But "a Grace." There I grant he was probably right;
(The rest but a verse-making ruse is)
It was all that was graceful,—intangible,—light,
The beauty of Molly Trefusis!

Was she wooed? Who can hesitate much about that
Assuredly more than obtuse is;
For how could the poet have written so pat
"My dear little Molly Trefusis!"

And was wed? That I think we must plainly infer,
Since of suitors the common excuse is
To take to them Wives. So it happened to her,
Of course,—"little Molly Trefusis!"

To the Bard? 'Tis unlikely. Apollo, you see,
In practical matters a goose is;—
'Twas a knight of the shire, and a hunting J.P.,
Who carried off Molly Trefusis!

And you'll find, I conclude, in the "Gentleman's Mag.,"
At the end, where the pick of the news is,
"On the (blank), at 'the Bath,' to Sir Hilary Bragg,
With a Fortune, Miss Molly Trefusis."

Thereupon ... But no farther the student may pry:
Love's temple is dark as Eleusis;
So here, at the threshold, we part, you and I,
From "dear little Molly Trefusis."

AT THE CONVENT GATE.

Wistaria blossoms trail and fall
Above the length of barrier wall;
And softly, now and then,
The shy, staid-breasted doves will flit
From roof to gateway-top, and sit
And watch the ways of men.

The gate's ajar. If one might peep!
Ah, what a haunt of rest and sleep
The shadowy garden seems!
And note how dimly to and fro
The grave, gray-hooded Sisters go,
Like figures seen in dreams.

Look, there is one that tells her beads;
And yonder one apart that reads
A tiny missal's page;
And see, beside the well, the two
That, kneeling, strive to lure anew
The magpie to its cage!

Not beautiful—not all! But each
With that mild grace, outlying speech,
Which comes of even mood;—
The Veil unseen that women wear
With heart-whole thought, and quiet care,
And hope of higher good.

"A placid life—a peaceful life!
What need to these the name of Wife?
What gentler task (I said)—
What worthier—e'en your arts among—
Than tend the sick, and teach the young,
And give the hungry bread?"

"No worthier task!" re-echoes She,
Who (closelier clinging) turns with me
To face the road again:
—And yet, in that warm heart of hers,
She means the doves', for she prefers
To "watch the ways of men."

THE MILKMAID.

A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE.

Across the grass I see her pass;
She comes with tripping pace,—
A maid I know,—and March winds blow
Her hair across her face;—
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.

The March winds blow. I watch her go:
Her eye is brown and clear;
Her cheek is brown, and soft as down,
(To those who see it near!)—
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.

What has she not that those have got,—
The dames that walk in silk!
If she undo her 'kerchief blue,
Her neck is white as milk.
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.

Let those who will be proud and chill!
For me, from June to June,
My Dolly's words are sweet as curds—
Her laugh is like a tune;—
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.

Break, break to hear, O crocus-spear!
O tall Lent-lilies flame!
There'll be a bride at Easter-tide,
And Dolly is her name.
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.

AN OLD FISH POND.

Green growths of mosses drop and bead
Around the granite brink;
And 'twixt the isles of water-weed
The wood-birds dip and drink.

Slow efts about the edges sleep;
Swift-darting water-flies
Shoot on the surface; down the deep
Fast-following bubbles rise.

Look down. What groves that scarcely sway!
What "wood obscure," profound!
What jungle!—where some beast of prey
Might choose his vantage-ground!

Who knows what lurks beneath the tide?—
Who knows what tale? Belike,
Those "antres vast" and shadows hide
Some patriarchal Pike;—

Some tough old tyrant, wrinkle-jawed,
To whom the sky, the earth,
Have but for aim to look on awed
And see him wax in girth;—

Hard ruler there by right of might;
An ageless Autocrat,
Whose "good old rule" is "Appetite,
And subjects fresh and fat;"—

While they—poor souls!—in wan despair
Still watch for signs in him;
And dying, hand from heir to heir
The day undawned and dim,

When the pond's terror too must go;
Or creeping in by stealth,
Some bolder brood, with common blow,
Shall found a Commonwealth.

Or say,—perchance the liker this!—
That these themselves are gone;
That Amurath in minimis,—
Still hungry,—lingers on,

With dwindling trunk and wolfish jaw
Revolving sullen things,
But most the blind unequal law
That rules the food of Kings;—

The blot that makes the cosmic All
A mere time-honoured cheat;—
That bids the Great to eat the Small,
Yet lack the Small to eat!

Who knows! Meanwhile the mosses bead
Around the granite brink;
And 'twixt the isles of water-weed
The wood-birds dip and drink.

AN EASTERN APOLOGUE.

(To E. H. P.)

Melik the Sultán, tired and wan,
Nodded at noon on his diván.

Beside the fountain lingered near
Jamíl the bard, and the vizier—

Old Yúsuf, sour and hard to please;
Then Jamíl sang, in words like these.

Slim is Butheina—slim is she
As boughs of the Aráka tree!

"Nay," quoth the other, teeth between,
"Lean, if you will,—I call her lean."

Sweet is Butheina—sweet as wine,
With smiles that like red bubbles shine!

"True,—by the Prophet!" Yúsuf said,
"She makes men wander in the head!"

Dear is Butheina—ah! more dear
Than all the maidens of Kashmeer!

"Dear," came the answer, quick as thought,
"Dear ... and yet always to be bought."

So Jamíl ceased. But still Life's page
Shows diverse unto Youth and Age:

And,—be the song of Ghouls or Gods,—
Time, like the Sultán, sits ... and nods.

TO A MISSAL OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY.

Missal of the Gothic age,
Missal with the blazoned page,
Whence, O Missal, hither come,
From what dim scriptorium?

Whose the name that wrought thee thus,
Ambrose or Theophilus,
Bending, through the waning light,
O'er thy vellum scraped and white;

Weaving 'twixt thy rubric lines
Sprays and leaves and quaint designs;
Setting round thy border scrolled
Buds of purple and of gold?

Ah!—a wondering brotherhood,
Doubtless, by that artist stood,
Raising o'er his careful ways
Little choruses of praise;

Glad when his deft hand would paint
Strife of Sathanas and Saint,
Or in secret coign entwist
Jest of cloister humourist.

Well the worker earned his wage,
Bending o'er the blazoned page!
Tired the hand and tired the wit
Ere the final Explicit!

Not as ours the books of old—
Things that steam can stamp and fold;
Not as ours the books of yore—
Rows of type, and nothing more.

Then a book was still a Book,
Where a wistful man might look,
Finding something through the whole,
Beating—like a human soul.

In that growth of day by day,
When to labour was to pray,
Surely something vital passed
To the patient page at last;

Something that one still perceives
Vaguely present in the leaves;
Something from the worker lent;
Something mute—but eloquent!

A REVOLUTIONARY RELIC.

Old it is, and worn and battered,
As I lift it from the stall;
And the leaves are frayed and tattered,
And the pendent sides are shattered,
Pierced and blackened by a ball.

'Tis the tale of grief and gladness
Told by sad St. Pierre of yore,
That in front of France's madness
Hangs a strange seductive sadness,
Grown pathetic evermore.

And a perfume round it hovers,
Which the pages half reveal,
For a folded corner covers,
Interlaced, two names of lovers,—
A "Savignac" and "Lucile."

As I read I marvel whether,
In some pleasant old château,
Once they read this book together,
In the scented summer weather,
With the shining Loire below?

Nooked—secluded from espial,
Did Love slip and snare them so,
While the hours danced round the dial
To the sound of flute and viol,
In that pleasant old château?

Did it happen that no single
Word of mouth could either speak?
Did the brown and gold hair mingle,
Did the shamed skin thrill and tingle
To the shock of cheek and cheek?

Did they feel with that first flushing
Some new sudden power to feel,
Some new inner spring set gushing
At the names together rushing
Of "Savignac" and "Lucile"?

Did he drop on knee before her—
"Son Amour, son Cœur, sa Reine"—
In his high-flown way adore her,
Urgent, eloquent implore her,
Plead his pleasure and his pain?

Did she turn with sight swift-dimming,
And the quivering lip we know,
With the full, slow eyelid brimming,
With the languorous pupil swimming,
Like the love of Mirabeau?

Stretch her hand from cloudy frilling,
For his eager lips to press;
In a flash all fate fulfilling
Did he catch her, trembling, thrilling—
Crushing life to one caress?

Did they sit in that dim sweetness
Of attained love's after-calm,
Marking not the world—its meetness,
Marking Time not, nor his fleetness,
Only happy, palm to palm?

Till at last she,—sunlight smiting
Red on wrist and cheek and hair,—
Sought the page where love first lighting,
Fixed their fate, and, in this writing,
Fixed the record of it there.

Did they marry midst the smother,
Shame and slaughter of it all?
Did she wander like that other
Woful, wistful, wife and mother,
Round and round his prison wall;—

Wander wailing, as the plover
Waileth, wheeleth, desolate,
Heedless of the hawk above her,
While as yet the rushes cover,
Waning fast, her wounded mate,—

Wander, till his love's eyes met hers,
Fixed and wide in their despair?
Did he burst his prison fetters,
Did he write sweet, yearning letters,
"A Lucile,—en Angleterre"?

Letters where the reader, reading,
Halts him with a sudden stop,
For he feels a man's heart bleeding,
Draining out its pain's exceeding—
Half a life, at every drop:

Letters where Love's iteration
Seems to warble and to rave;
Letters where the pent sensation
Leaps to lyric exultation,
Like a song-bird from a grave.

Where, through Passion's wild repeating,
Peep the Pagan and the Gaul,
Politics and love competing,
Abelard and Cato greeting,
Rousseau ramping over all.

Yet your critic's right—you waive it,
Whirled along the fever-flood;
And its touch of truth shall save it,
And its tender rain shall lave it,
For at least you read Amavit,
Written there in tears of blood.

Did they hunt him to his hiding,
Tracking traces in the snow?
Did they tempt him out, confiding,
Shoot him ruthless down, deriding,
By the ruined old château?

Left to lie, with thin lips resting
Frozen to a smile of scorn,
Just the bitter thought's suggesting,
At this excellent new jesting
Of the rabble Devil-born.

Till some "tiger-monkey," finding
These few words the covers bear,
Some swift rush of pity blinding,
Sent them in the shot-pierced binding
"A Lucile, en Angleterre."

Fancies only! Nought the covers,
Nothing more the leaves reveal,
Yet I love it for its lovers,
For the dream that round it hovers
Of "Savignac" and "Lucile."

A MADRIGAL.

Before me, careless lying,
Young Love his ware comes crying;
Full soon the elf untreasures
His pack of pains and pleasures,—
With roguish eye,
He bids me buy
From out his pack of treasures.

His wallet's stuffed with blisses,
With true-love-knots and kisses,
With rings and rosy fetters,
And sugared vows and letters;—
He holds them out
With boyish flout,
And bids me try the fetters.

Nay, Child (I cry), I know them;
There's little need to show them!
Too well for new believing
I know their past deceiving,—
I am too old
(I say), and cold,
To-day, for new believing!

But still the wanton presses,
With honey-sweet caresses,
And still, to my undoing,
He wins me, with his wooing,
To buy his ware
With all its care,
Its sorrow and undoing.

A SONG TO THE LUTE.

When first I came to Court,
Fa la!
When first I came to Court,
I deemed Dan Cupid but a boy,
And Love an idle sport,
A sport whereat a man might toy
With little hurt and mickle joy—
When first I came to Court!

Too soon I found my fault,
Fa la!
Too soon I found my fault;
The fairest of the fair brigade
Advanced to mine assault.
Alas! against an adverse maid
Nor fosse can serve nor palisade—
Too soon I found my fault!

When Silvia's eyes assail,
Fa la!
When Silvia's eyes assail,
No feint the arts of war can show,
No counterstroke avail;
Naught skills but arms away to throw,
And kneel before that lovely foe,
When Silvia's eyes assail!

Yet is all truce in vain,
Fa la!
Yet is all truce in vain,
Since she that spares doth still pursue
To vanquish once again;
And naught remains for man to do
But fight once more, to yield anew,
And so all truce is vain!

A GARDEN SONG.

(To W. E. H.)

Here, in this sequestered close
Bloom the hyacinth and rose;
Here beside the modest stock
Flaunts the flaring hollyhock;
Here, without a pang, one sees
Ranks, conditions, and degrees.

All the seasons run their race
In this quiet resting place;
Peach, and apricot, and fig
Here will ripen, and grow big;
Here is store and overplus,—
More had not Alcinoüs!

Here, in alleys cool and green,
Far ahead the thrush is seen;
Here along the southern wall
Keeps the bee his festival;
All is quiet else—afar
Sounds of toil and turmoil are.

Here be shadows large and long;
Here be spaces meet for song;
Grant, O garden-god, that I,
Now that none profane is nigh,—
Now that mood and moment please,
Find the fair Pierides!

A CHAPTER OF FROISSART.

(GRANDPAPA LOQUITUR.)

You don't know Froissart now, young folks.
This age, I think, prefers recitals
Of high-spiced crime, with "slang" for jokes,
And startling titles;

But, in my time, when still some few
Loved "old Montaigne," and praised Pope's Homer
(Nay, thought to style him "poet" too,
Were scarce misnomer),

Sir John was less ignored. Indeed,
I can re-call how Some-one present
(Who spoils her grandson, Frank!) would read
And find him pleasant;

For,—by this copy,—hangs a Tale.
Long since, in an old house in Surrey,
Where men knew more of "morning ale"
Than "Lindley Murray,"

In a dim-lighted, whip-hung hall,
'Neath Hogarth's "Midnight Conversation,"
It stood; and oft 'twixt spring and fall,
With fond elation,

I turned the brown old leaves. For there
All through one hopeful happy summer,
At such a page (I well knew where),
Some secret comer,

Whom I can picture, 'Trix, like you
(Though scarcely such a colt unbroken),
Would sometimes place for private view
A certain token;—

A rose-leaf meaning "Garden Wall,"
An ivy-leaf for "Orchard corner,"
A thorn to say "Don't come at all,"—
Unwelcome warner!—

Not that, in truth, our friends gainsaid;
But then Romance required dissembling,
(Ann Radcliffe taught us that!) which bred
Some genuine trembling;

Though, as a rule, all used to end
In such kind confidential parley
As may to you kind Fortune send,
You long-legged Charlie,

When your time comes. How years slip on!
We had our crosses like our betters;
Fate sometimes looked askance upon
Those floral letters;

And once, for three long days disdained,
The dust upon the folio settled;
For some-one, in the right, was pained,
And some-one nettled,

That sure was in the wrong, but spake
Of fixed intent and purpose stony
To serve King George, enlist and make
Minced-meat of "Boney,"

Who yet survived—ten years at least.
And so, when she I mean came hither,
One day that need for letters ceased,
She brought this with her!

Here is the leaf-stained Chapter:—How
The English King laid Siege to Calais;
I think Gran. knows it even now,—
Go ask her, Alice.

TO THE MAMMOTH-TORTOISE

OF THE MASCARENE ISLANDS.

"Tuque, Testudo, resonare septem
Callida nervis."
Hor. iii. 11.

Monster Chelonian, you suggest
To some, no doubt, the calm,—
The torpid ease of islets drest
In fan-like fern and palm;

To some your cumbrous ways, perchance,
Darwinian dreams recall;
And some your Rip-van-Winkle glance,
And ancient youth appal;

So widely varied views dispose:
But not so mine,—for me
Your vasty vault but simply shows
A Lyre immense, per se,

A Lyre to which the Muse might chant
A truly "Orphic tale,"
Could she but find that public want,
A Bard—of equal scale!

Oh, for a Bard of awful words,
And lungs serenely strong,
To sweep from your sonorous chords
Niagaras of song,

Till, dinned by that tremendous strain,
The grovelling world aghast,
Should leave its paltry greed of gain,
And mend its ways ... at last!

A ROMAN "ROUND-ROBIN."

("HIS FRIENDS" TO QUINTUS HORATIUS FLACCUS.)

"Hæc decies repetita [non] placebit."—Ars Poetica.

Flaccus, you write us charming songs:
No bard we know possesses
In such perfection what belongs
To brief and bright addresses;

No man can say that Life is short
With mien so little fretful;
No man to Virtue's paths exhort
In phrases less regretful;

Or touch, with more serene distress,
On Fortune's ways erratic;
And then delightfully digress
From Alp to Adriatic: