WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 4)

The Gold Digger. Once upon an evening dreary, a gold-digger, tired and weary, Cogitated very sadly, brain and bone and heart were sore, For no gold came by his toiling, unkind fate seemed ever foiling 54 All his toilsome, weary efforts, and the keeper of the store Had pitilessly stopped his credit; quoth the keeper of the store, “I can’t tucker you no more.” Wild and gloomy thoughts were tumbling through his head and set him grumbling, And his voice in accents mumbling ’gan the harsh fates to implore, That they’d come to some decision, either make him some provision, Or at once their utmost fury on his willing head outpour— “Either make me some provision, or your deadliest vials pour”— He kept crying o’er and o’er. Swearing, snapping, musing, napping, presently there came a tapping, Quite an unaccustomed tapping at this fate-tossed digger’s door, And it roused him from his musing with expectancy confusing, Made him listen to that tapping on the night’s Plutonian shore, Wond’ring what could cause that tapping on the night’s Plutonian shore, Wondering, guessing, more and more. Softly then he seized a waddy, quietly he bore his body To that space within his hut, immediately behind the door; And with easiest, gentlest motion, like the wave of summer ocean, He hove up the latch that barred all ingress to his shanty floor, Hove it up, and grasped his waddy, scanned the night’s Plutonian shore, Saw the light, and nothing more. Then cried he, “What shicer is it pays me this mysterious visit? Is’t a snake or is’t a wild dog? either sneak I do abhor, Well! I don’t know about funking, but I’ll just lie down my bunk in, And I’ll leave the door wide open, open to what may explore The old hut, and while exploring, if the explorer don’t get sore, Cooey on me, nevermore.” From the darkness came a fluttering, and a sort of subdued muttering That developed into stuttering, stuttering at the open door; And a lovely Cochin China, impudent as any Dinah, Strutted proudly o’er the threshold like as he’d been there before, Just as though he had a right that came all other rights before, A right that still demanded more. But a different opinion reigned without that small dominion; There a calm recumbent digger eyed the proud bird o’er and o’er, And then stealthily arising, with a cunning most surprising, Ere Chanticleer had perceived it, he had fastened to the door; Had made the door so very fast that the chanticleer’s uproar Might undo it, nevermore. Then said he, “This bird celestial may I civilly request he’ll Now disclose the cause of his nocturnal tapping at my door? Say! hath my good angel sent thee? Flutter not, nay, nay, content thee, Thou shalt have as warm a welcome as e’er cocky had before, Have a regular hot old welcome, such as others had before; I can offer nothing more.” Ah! the bird was very wary, and of eloquence quite chary, No clear answer did it make him as it dodged about the floor, Never thanked him for his kindness, but with worse than colour blindness, It refused to see the goodness of the digger o’er and o’er, Really flew from his advances, as esteeming him a bore, And desiring such no more. Spare my muse a dire narration, take the simple intimation That by fell decapitation, Cocky weltered in his gore. His shrill clarion brought to silence by a digger’s ruthless violence, Never more at dawn of morning, or at close of day might pour Its clear notes upon the air; might no matin solo pour; Silenced quite for evermore. Quite soon a mouth-moistening aroma, such as a famous cook’s diploma Might certify that famed cook’s skill could draw from viands in his store, Filled the hut. The pot was bubbling, Cochin China’s toil and troubling Were at an end, and he was yielding grateful broth from every pore, Yielding broth fit for a warden, that should our digger’s strength restore, And make him a good feed once more. ’Twas no ardour scientific of immense results prolific, Nor a questioning of his fortunes by the ancient heathen lore, Still our much depressed hero, whose luck surely was at zero, Was examining quite closely Cocky’s crop upon the floor, Was inspecting it minutely on his knees upon the floor, Close and closer, more and more. Then he rose in great elation, no swell owner of a station Could wear a more triumphant air than now our miner wore, For while he had been dissecting he’d been curiously prospecting, And Cocky’s crop had yielded yellow grains of golden ore. “No bad prospect,” quoth our miner, “a good show of golden ore, And around there must be more.” When the morrow’s sun had lighted up the heavens, our miner dighted In his clay-stained looking raiment sought the ground the fowls pecked o’er, And with them he went a picking, and by dint of closely sticking To his feathered mates he picked up quite a lot of golden ore— Picked up nuggets large as brickbats, glorious lumps of golden ore, Made a pile, and nothing more. Newcastle Paper, April, 1880.

Quart Pot Creek. (Australasian.) On an evening ramble lately, as I wandered on sedately, Linking curious fancies, modern, mediæval, and antique,— Suddenly the sun descended, and a radiance ruby-splendid, 55 With the gleam of water blended, thrilled my sensitive physique,— Thrilled me, filled me with emotion to the tips of my physique, Fired my eye, and flushed my cheek. Heeding not where I was going, I had wandered, all unknowing, Where a river gently flowing caught the radiant ruby-streak; And this new-found stream beguiling my sedateness into smiling, Set me classically styling it with Latin names and Greek. Names Idalian and Castalian such as lovers of the Greek, Roll like quids within their cheek. On its marge was many a burrow, many a mound, and many a furrow, Where the fossickers of fortune play at Nature’s hide-and-seek; And instead of bridge to span it, there were stepping-stones of granite,— And where’er the river ran, it seemed of hidden wealth to speak. Presently my soul grew stronger, and I, too, was fain to speak:— I assumed a pose plastique. “Stream,” said I, “I’ll celebrate thee! Rhymes and Rhythms galore await thee! In the weekly ‘poets corner’ I’ll a niche for thee bespeak: But to aid my lucubration, thou must tell thine appellation, Tell thy Naiad-designation—for the Journal of next week— Give thy sweet Pactolian title to my poem of next week. Whisper, whisper it—in Greek!” But the river gave no token, and the name remained unspoken, Though I kept apostrophising till my voice became a shriek;— When there hove in sight the figure of a homeward-veering digger, Looming big, and looming bigger, and ejecting clouds of reek— In fuliginous advance emitting clouds of noisome reek From a tube beneath his beak. “Neighbour mine,” said I, “and miner,”—here I showed a silver shiner— “For a moment, and for sixpence, take thy pipe from out thy cheek. This the guerdon of thy fame is; very cheap, indeed, the same is; Tell me only what the name is—(’tis the stream whereof I speak)— Name the Naiad-name Pactolian! Digger, I adjure thee, speak!” Quoth the digger, “Quart Pot Creek.” Oh, Pol! Edepol! Mecastor! Oh, most luckless poetaster! I went home a trifle faster, in a twitter of a pique; For we cannot help agreeing that no living rhyming being Ever yet was cursed with seeing, in his poem for the week, Brook or river made immortal in his poem for the week, With such a name as “Quart Pot Creek!” * * * * * But the river, never minding, still is winding, still is winding, By the gardens where the Mongol tends the cabbage and the leek; And the ruby radiance nightly touches it with farewell lightly, But the name sticks to it tightly,—and this sensitive physique, The already-mentioned (vide supra) sensitive physique, Shudders still at “Quart Pot Creek!” Miscellaneous Poems. By J. Brunton Stephens. London (Macmillan and Co.) 1880.

The Spirits. Lately on a midnight dreary, Sitting by the fire so cheery, Listening to the storm that beat and blew With blustering gust and roar; While I sat serenely smoking, Suddenly there came a knocking As of some one rudely poking, 56 Poking at my chamber-door— “’Tis some dirty ill-bred spirit Knocking at my chamber-door— Only that, and nothing more.” But to face the audacious knocker, I seized the shining poker, While my heart went jumping, thumping, As I never felt before; For through the storm’s loud shrieking I heard high voices speaking— ’Tis some thief’s ghost that is sneaking On the outside of the door— Some vile spirit entrance seeking By the keyhole of the door— This, perhaps, and nothing more. Hesitating then no longer, Presently my legs grew stronger, And, brandishing the poker, I strode towards the door; When, without one word of fable, The ponderous parlour-table Marched as fast as it was able Right across the parlour floor; Danced across the room, and then assumed Its post beside the door— Which is true, and something more. Outside louder grew the knockings, Till I shook within my stockings, And then there came a thundering bang, Far louder than before; While the ponderous parlour table Danced as fast as it was able Kicking up a noise like Babel, Which I could not well explore; Let my legs be firm a moment, And this mystery explore— ’Tis a drunken man, no more. For now I well remember, In the dark days of December, Full many a drouthy crony Proceeds from door to door— Pouring forth the flowing whiskey, And, thereby getting frisky, Plays many a curious plisky, And raises many a splore— It may be spirit rappers On t’other side the door— Only that, and nothing more. So pulling up my breeches, With many tugs and hitches, I turned the key within the lock And opened wide the door, When arose a mighty bawling, And a sudden stick came mauling, That sent me quickly sprawling, Sprawling on the parlour floor; And I said that spirit rapping I very much deplore— I think I rather swore. And, shouting for a bobby, Till my voice rang through the lobby, I made efforts to collect myself Lying spilt upon the floor; But it is a fact outrageous That no guardian beak courageous, With whiskers so umbrageous, Hears, however loud you roar; So, assisted by the poker, I crawled towards the door— Darkness there, and nothing more. Still the table it kept prancing, And a private hornpipe dancing, As if its soul rejoiced to see The sufferings that I bore. Wrathful at the wooden joker, I smashed it with the poker, When the loud tumultuous knocker Fled from my chamber door, Shouting out, to spirit rappers, “Never open wide your door any more.” And I murmured, “Nevermore!”

The Drama Despondent! (A Poe-etical Parody.) As one evening in my study, seated by the firelight ruddy, I was busily absorbing portions of dramatic lore, Suddenly I heard a creaking, as of some one slyly sneaking (Setting both the hinges squeaking), sneaking through my study door. And I murmured, sotto voce, “Who’s that fiddling with the door? Doubtless some unwelcome bore!” “Come in!” I sternly muttered, while my breast with anger fluttered, When there sidled in a Figure, such as ne’er was seen before; Like some stagey apparition, in a woe-begone condition— And it took up its position just inside my chamber-door. “What might be your name?” I asked it. And it answered from the door— “I’m the Drama!”—nothing more! “Oh, indeed!” I said, politely. “Take a chair!” but that unsightly, Not to say dejected Figure, an unwilling manner bore. I remarked, “You seem in sorrow,—still bear up, perhaps to-morrow (Though some trouble has beset you, which at present you deplore) You may meet with better fortune, and be brilliant as of yore.” Quoth the Drama, “Nevermore!” “Why this tone of bitter anguish?” I inquired; “you seem to languish ’Neath some very dreadful burden; state the reason, I implore! Tell me plainly, now, what is it, that has caused this sudden visit— Why the unexpected entrance of your figure through my door? Why that stagey exclamation that you uttered just before,— That expression, ‘Nevermore?’” Still it groaned, and I retreated, as that sentence it repeated. “What! again?” I said. “Pray, drop it; though your grief is doubtless sore, You can’t help trash being written for the theatres of Britain 57 And ‘swells’ won’t be always waiting for their ‘pets’ at each stage-door, And ere long the undressed syrens, may be swept away galore.” Quoth the Drama, “Nevermore!” Then the poor old Drama, sneering, took the cue for disappearing,— And it pulled its mantle round it, and stalked slowly to the door— And its groan was something fearful, as it said in accents tearful, As it sadly bent its optics on the carpet-covered floor— “Look here, old poetic party, I shall bet you ten to four,— ’Twill be better, Nevermore!— That is, hardly evermore!” H. C. N. The Entr’acte, February 11, 1882.

A Voice. In the dusk, within my chamber, I sat and sadly pondered— Pondered o’er life’s problems with my hand upon my brow. “When,” I asked, “will adverse fortune cease to torment and oppress me?” A voice from out the window, shrill and piercing, answered, “Now!” Thrilled and startled by the answer, coming from an unknown being, I said again: “If blessing is in store, oh tell me how Release will come, and joy and peace? Say, when, when will it be?” And through the open casement promptly came the answer “N-n-now!” Half in fear and half in frenzy, for methought the being mocked me, I said: “Unlock the mystery of my fate, or else I vow To curse thee for thy falseness. Tell me when I shall have blessing.” The weird, shrill voice responded still, as ever, only “N-n-ow-w!” To my feet I sprang in anger, flinging wide the casement shutter: “Djinn!” I shrieked, “or devil, or angelic being thou Shalt say when peace wilt come and joy to calm my troubled spirit!” The cat upon the moonlit shed below responded “N‑a‑ow‑w‑w!” Free Press Flashes, 1883.

Once upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered weak and weary Over many a dry and tedious tome of economic lore, Whilst I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a snapping As of some small terrier yapping, yapping at my study-door, ’Tis old Ponto there, I muttered, yapping at my study-door,— Only that, and nothing more. Ah, distinctly I remember it was early in November When to town the wearied Member came, and thought the thing a bore. Eagerly I hoped the morrow Salisbury some sense might borrow, And I thought with ceaseless sorrow of the streamside and the moor, Of the rare and radiant raptures of the streamside and the moor. Heather’s sweep and trout-stream’s roar. Open then I flung the doorway, when, with blast as chill as Norway, In there stepped “Fair Trade” Dunraven, solemn as a monk of yore; Not the least apology made he, though I thought his manners “shady,” But, as stiff as Tate and Brady, stood within my study-door, Underneath a bust of Cobden just above my study-door,— Stood, and scowled, and nothing more. Then this sombre guest, beguiling my tired spirit into smiling By the doctrinaire decorum of the countenance he wore, “Smugly trimmed and deftly shaven, though I trust I’m not a craven, You have startled me, Dunraven,” said I, “yapping at my door. Tell me what your little game is, late at night at this my door?” Quoth Dunraven, “Tax once more!” Much I chuckled (though urbanely) him to hear talk so insanely, For his answer little wisdom, little relevancy bore; And one cannot help agreeing no sane living human being In “Fair Trade” salvation seeing, could come yapping at one’s door, Snapping, late at night in winter, at a fellow’s study-door, Just to bid him, “Tax once more!” But Dunraven, standing lonely under Cobden’s bust, spake only Those same words as though his creed in those few words he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered; calm he looked, and quite unfluttered, Then unto myself I muttered, “Other fads have flown before; Very soon this fad will vanish, as Protection did before.” Quoth Dunraven, “Tax once more!” Startled at the silence broken by reply so patly spoken, “Doubtless,” said I, “what he utters is his only stock and store,— Caught from some bad fiscal master, whom trade-loss or farm-disaster Followed fast and followed faster, till his talk one burden bore,— Till the dirges of his craft one economic burden bore,— Of ‘Tax—tax Corn once more!’ “Prophet,” said I, “of things evil, Trade is going to the devil, Is the plea of you and Lowther, Chaplin, many another bore. Sophists dull, yet all undaunted, do you think the thing that’s wanted By our land, depression-haunted,—tell me truly, I implore,— Is it, can it be Protection? Answer plainly, I implore!” Quoth Dunraven, “Tax once more!” 58 “Prophet,” said I, “of things evil, I don’t wish to be uncivil, But, by heaven! this Fair Trade figment is becoming a big bore. Think you Corn with taxes laden means an economic Aidenn For that somewhat ancient maiden who ‘protected’ was of yore, For that very ancient maiden, Agriculture?” With a roar Yelled Dunraven “Tax once more!” “Then it’s time that we were parting, Parroteer!” I cried, upstarting, “Get thee back to silly Sheffield, twaddle on St. Stephen’s floor, I require no further token of the rot your League hath spoken, Fair Trade phalanx to be broken by experience sad and sore. Take thy Beakey’s words to heart, who said Protection’s day was o’er!” Quoth Dunraven, “Tax once more!” And Dunraven, dolefuller waxing, still stands croaking of Corn-taxing, Underneath the bust of Cobden, just above my study-door, And his talk has all the seeming of a monomaniac’s dreaming— Here I woke, and day was streaming through the lattice on the floor, And I hope that no such vision e’er again my ears will bore With the burden “Tax once more!” Punch, November 22, 1884.

The Ravenous Bull and the Bicycle. (With Apologies.) My name is William Rory, and I’m going to tell a story, Tell the story of an accident I’ve never told before. How when coming home from Dover I felt myself in clover, And I will say, moreover, that my feet were rather sore; The landlord said, “You’ll rue it,” But I said, “I mean to do it.” But I’ll do it nevermore. And right well do I remember, ’twas early in September, When that landlord said, “I’d rue it,” as he stood against the door, When my feet were sore with walking for that day I had been stalking Up and down the streets of Dover, where I’d never been before, And I squinted at that landlord, and his warning did ignore. But I’ll do it nevermore. So says I, “You’re only joking, and at me it’s fun you’re poking.” But the landlord looked quite solemn, and spat upon the floor. And says he, “You must be silly to attempt a road so hilly. And see the time for starting, why it’s just now striking four! Pray, sir, now do not do it, but stay over, I implore.” This he oft had said before. But then he looked more willing, as I threw to him a shilling To drink my health in whisky, as oft I’d done before. And then I took my spanner, and all the bolts did hammer, And tightened up the nuts, an operation I abhor, Then I jumped into my saddle, shouting to him “au revoir.” Only this, and nothing more. And as I felt aweary, the road to me seemed dreary Drearier than ever it had seemed to me before, But I was weary’s master, and round the wheel went faster, And like a wingèd demon, along the road I tore, In an hour and three-quarters I had done of miles a score. This I’d done, and nothing more. And every minute faster, dreaming of no disaster, Along the road, ’mid dust and stones, my bike her master bore. While I my way was winging, I betook myself to singing, When all my nerves were palsied by a distant sullen roar; And that roaring stopped my singing, and thinks I it is a boar. This I thought, and something more. Just then a corner turning, my blood went through me burning, For there in front, with fiery eyes, a bull straight for me tore. A moment he stood eyeing, then bike and me sent flying, The perspiration trickled down my skin from every pore, And I rather think that in my flight I must have somehow swore. Merely swore, and nothing more. After such a fearful riot, I laid there on the quiet, For he treated me so lively, and I wished the joke was o’er. He had pitched me in a gutter, and my nerves were in a flutter, And into a thousand pieces my new uniform he tore, And says I he must be waiting for a taste of human gore. This I said, and nothing more. While in the gutter lying, I saw that bull go flying Along the road, at such a speed he’d never gone before. So I let him go and curs’d him, and prayed the fates might burst him, For my bicycle he’d humbugged, and he’d made me “awful” sore, And I felt he’d quite undone me, but he’d never do so more. And I muttered nevermore. I collected up the ruins of that nasty mad bull’s doin’s, And straightway did I take them unto my cottage-door. And my wife, when she espied me, said I wasn’t looking tidy. And I told the awful story to the wife whom I adore, And she said, “My dear, stop riding; do give up for evermore.” And I have, for evermore. A. J. Freeland. Wheeling Annual, 1885.

The End of “The Raven.” You’ll remember that a Raven in my study found a haven On a plaster bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door; And that with no sign of flitting, he persisted there in sitting Till, I’m not above admitting, that I found that bird a bore. Found him, as he sat and watched me, an indubitable bore, With his dreary “Never more.” But it was, in fact, my liver caused me so to shake and shiver, And to think a common Raven supernatural influence bore; I in truth had, after dining, been engaged some hours in “wining”— To a grand old port inclining—which its date was ’44! And it was this crusted vintage, of the season ’44, Which had muddled me so sore. But next morn my “Eno” taking, for my head was sadly aching, I descended to my study, and a wicker cage I bore. There the Raven sat undaunted, but I now was disenchanted, And the sable fowl I taunted as I “H-s-s-h-d!” him from my door, As I took up books and shied them till he flew from off my door, Hoarsely croaking, “Never more!” “Now, you stupid bird!” I muttered, as about the floor it fluttered. “Now you’re sorry p’raps you came here from where’er you lived before?” Scarcely had I time to ask it, when, upsetting first a casket, My large-size waste-paper basket he attempted to explore, Tore the papers with his beak, and tried its mysteries to explore, Whilst I ope’d the cage’s door. Ever in my actions quicker, I brought up the cage of wicker, Placed it on the paper basket, and gave one loud “H-s-s-h!” once more. When, with quite a storm of croaking, as though Dis himself invoking, And apparently half choking, in it rushed old “Never more!”— Right into the cage of wicker quickly popped old “Never more!” And I smartly shut the door. Then without the least compunction, booking to St. John’s Wood Junction, To the “Zoo” my cage of wicker and its sable bird I bore. Saw the excellent Curator, showed him the persistent prater— Now in manner much sedater—and said, “Take him, I implore! He’s a nuisance in my study, take him, Bartlett, I implore!” And he answered, “Hand him o’er.” “Be those words our sign of parting!” cried I, suddenly upstarting, “Get you in amongst your kindred, where you doubtless were before. You last night, I own, alarmed me (perhaps the cucumber had harmed me!), And you for the moment charmed me with your ceaseless ‘Never more!’— Gave me quite a turn by croaking out your hollow ‘Never more!’ But ‘Good-bye!’ all that is o’er!” * * * * * Last Bank Holiday, whilst walking at the Zoo, and idly talking, Suddenly I heard low accents that recalled the days of yore; And up to the cages nearing, and upon the perches peering— There, with steak his beak besmearing, draggle-tailed, sat “Never more!” Mutual was our recognition, and, in his debased condition, he too thought of heretofore; For anon he hoarsely muttered, shook his draggled tail and fluttered, drew a cork at me and swore— Yes, distinctly drew three corks, and most indubitably swore! Only that, and nothing more! Funny Folks Annual, 1884.

Fires within my brain were burning, Scorning life, despairing, yearning; Hopeless, blinded in my anguish; Through my body’s open door Came a Raven, foul and sable, Like those evil birds of fable, Downward swooping where the drooping Spectres haunt the Stygian’s shore. Ghosts of agonies departed, Festering wounds that long had smarted, Broken vows, returnless mornings, Griefs and miseries of yore, By some art revived, undaunted, I gazed steadfast; the enchanted, Black, infernal Raven uttered A wild dirge—not Evermore. Gazing steady, gazing madly On the bird, I spoke, and sadly Broke down, too deep for scorning, Sought for mercy to implore. Turning to the bird, I blessed it— In my bosom I caressed it; Still it pierced my heart, and revelled In the palpitating gore. I grew mad; the crowning fancies, Black weeds they—not blooming pansies— Made me think the bird a spirit. Bird, I cried, be bird no more; Take a shape—be man, be devil, Be a snake; rise in thy revel! From thy banquet rise—be human! I have seen thee oft before; Thou art a bird, but something more. 60 Tapping, tapping, striking deeper, Rousing pain, my body’s keeper, Thou hast oft ere while sought entrance At the heart’s great palace door; Leave me, leave me, gloomy demon, Fiend or spirit, most inhuman; Strike me through, but first unveiling, Let me scan thee o’er and o’er— Thou art a bird, but something more. Still with sable pinions flapping, The great Raven tapping, tapping, Struck into my breast his talons. Vast his wings outspread, and o’er All my nature cast a pallor, But I strove with dying valor, With the poinard of repulsion, Striking through the form it wore— Of a bird, and something more. Oh! thou huge, infernal Raven, Image that Hell’s King hath graven, Image growing more gigantic, Nursed beyond the Stygian shore, Leave me, leave me, I beseech thee, I would not of wrong, impeach thee; I cried madly, then earth opened, With a brazen earthquake roar. Downward, downward, circling, speeding, Cries of anguish still unheeding, Striking through me with his talons, Still the Raven shape he bore; Unto Erebus we drifted, His huge wings by thunder lifted, Beat ’gainst drifts of white-flamed lightning, Sprinkled red with human gore— ’Twas a bird, but demon more. I’m no bird, “an angel brother,” A bright spirit and none other, I have waited, blissful tended Thee for thirty years and more. In thy wild, illusive madness; In thy blight, disease and sadness, I have sounded, tapping, tapping At thy spirit’s Eden door, Not a bird, but angel more. In my Palmyrenian splendor, In Zenobian regnance tender, More than Roman thought Aurelian, Were the kingly name I bore; I have left my angel-palace, Dropping in thy sorrow’s chalice Consolation; oh! ’twas blessed, Sweet thy pillow to bend o’er, Not a bird, love’s angel more. Shining down with light Elysian Through the pearly gate of vision, On thy tranced soul lighted fancy, When across thy chamber-floor, Fell the spirit moonlight laden, Laden with soft dews from Aidenn, Shaken downward, still Nepenthe Drunk by dreaming bards of yore. Eden is life’s mocking fever, Where through citron groves for ever Blow the spice winds, and the love-birds Tell their raptures o’er and o’er, From earth’s hell by Afrits haunted, From its evil disenchanted, I have borne thee, gaze upon me, Didst thou see me ne’er before? Then I wakened, if to waken Be to dwell by grief, forsaken, With the God who dwelt with angels In the shining age of yore. And I stood sublime, victorious, While below lay earth with glorious Realms of angels shining, Crown-like on her temples evermore, Not on earth, an Eden more. Earth, I cried, thy clouds are shadows From the Asphodelian meadows Of the sky-world floating downward, Early rains that from them pour; Love’s own heaven thy mother bore thee, And the Father God bends o’er thee, ’Tis His hand that crowns thy forehead, Thou shalt live for evermore, Not on earth, an Eden more. As a gem has many gleamings, And a day hath many beamings, And a garden many roses Thrilled with sweetness to the core; So the soul hath many ages, And the life’s book many pages, But the heart’s great gospel opens Where the Seraphims adore, Not on earth, an Eden more. I will write a book hereafter, Cheerful as a baby’s laughter When its mother’s breast o’er leans it, On the sainted spirit shore; Like Apollo, the far data, I, the poet and the martyr, Will chant paeans of soul music That shall live for evermore, Not a friend, a brother more. American Paper.

Isadore. “Thou art lost to me for ever, I have lost thee, Isadore,— Thy head will never rest upon my loyal bosom more. Thy tender eyes will never more gaze fondly into mine, Nor thine arms around me lovingly and trustingly entwine: Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!” “My footsteps through the rooms resound all sadly and forlore; The garish sun shines flauntingly upon the unswept floor; The mocking-bird still sits and sings a melancholy strain, For my heart is like a heavy cloud that overflows with rain. Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore.” * * * * * “Thou art gone from me for ever, I have lost thee, Isadore! And desolate and lonely shall I be for evermore. If it were not for our children’s sake, I would not wish to stay, But would pray to God most earnestly to let me pass away,— And be joined to thee in Heaven, Isadore.”

Annabel Lee. I. It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. II. I was a child, and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea; But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the wingèd seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. III. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came, And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. IV. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me; Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. V. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we— Of many far wiser than we; And neither the angels in Heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. VI. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life, and my bride, In the sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea. Edgar Allan Poe. (First published after the author’s death.)

Samuel Brown. It was many and many a year ago, In a dwelling down in town, That a fellow there lived whom you may know, By the name of Samuel Brown; And this fellow he lived with no other thought Than to our house to come down. 62 I was a child, and he was a child, In that dwelling down in town, But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Samuel Brown,— With a love that the ladies coveted, Me and Samuel Brown. And this was the reason that, long ago, To that dwelling down in town, A girl came out of her carriage, courting My beautiful Samuel Brown; So that her high-bred kinsmen came, And bore away Samuel Brown, And shut him up in a dwelling-house, In a street quite up in the town. The ladies not half so happy up there, Went envying me and Brown; Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, In this dwelling down in town), That the girl came out of the carriage by night, Coquetting and getting my Samuel Brown. But our love is more artful by far than the love Of those who are older than we,— Of many far wiser than we,— And neither the girls that are living above, Nor the girls that are down in town, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Samuel Brown. For the morn never shines, without bringing me lines From my beautiful Samuel Brown; And the night’s never dark, but I sit in the park With my beautiful Samuel Brown. And often by day, I walk down in Broadway, With my darling, my darling, my life and my stay, To our dwelling down in town, To our house in the street down town. Poems and Parodies. By Phœbe Carey (Ticknor, Reed, and Fields), Boston, United States, 1854.

The Cannibal Flea. I. It was many and many a year ago, In a District styled E.C., That a monster dwelt whom I came to know By the name of Cannibal Flea; And the brute was possessed with no other thought Than to live,—and to live on me! II. I was in bed, and he was in bed, In the District named E.C., When first in his thirst, so accursed he burst Upon me the Cannibal Flea! With a bite that felt as if some one had driven A bayonet into me! III. And this is the reason why long ago, In that District called E.C., I tumbled out of my bed, willing To capture the Cannibal Flea, Who all the night, until morning came, Kept boring away at me! It wore me down to a skeleton, In the District hight, E.C. IV. From the hour that I sought my bed—eleven— Till daylight he tortured me,— Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know, In that District named E.C.), I so often jumped out of my bed by night, Willing the killing of Cannibal Flea. V. But his hops they were longer by far than the hops Of creatures much larger than he,— Of parties more long-legged than he; And neither the powder nor turpentine drops, Nor the persons engaged by me, Were so clever as ever to stop me the hop Of the terrible Cannibal Flea. VI. For at night with a scream I am waked from my dream, By the terrible Cannibal Flea, And at morn I ne’er rise without the bites,—of such size!— From the terrible Cannibal Flea; So I’m forced to decide I’ll no longer reside In the District—the District—where he doth abide, The locality known as E.C.— That is postally known as E.C.! Tom Hood, the younger.

[3]The L. C. D. and the L. S. D. It was many and many a year ago— How many boots little to me— That a railway was made, which you may know By the name of the L. C. D. Crowns have tottered, and armies have fought, And Empires have ceased to be, Since that line from city to sea was brought— Absorbing much L. S. D. A friend of my youth, long under the turf, In a cinque port by the sea, Once walking beside the rolling surf On the sands thus spoke to me: “A dear old Nunky, who sleeps in peace In a sepulchre here by the sea, Was graciously pleased on his decease, To leave me some L. S. D. “In Bank Consols, which are safe and sound, But yield only percentage three, While seven at least, all the season round Might be shared from the L. C. D.” I was a child, and he was a child, And precious noodles we, Who might as well in the ocean wild Have scattered our L. S. D. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of many far wiser than we, Who declared the first dividend meeting would prove The last from the L. C. D. But when through the hills and valleys of Kent Our railway reached the sea, We hoped at length our capital spent Would return us some L. S. D. 63 But neither the increase of traffic and fares, Nor the strangers from over the sea, Did ever dissever a coin from our shares In the profitless L. C. D. Yet the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of a dividend yet to be, After centuries past, to gladden at last Our descendants with L. S. D. Joseph Verey. Hornet, February 5, 1873.

St. Rose of Lima, Peru (A.D. 1617.) It was many and many a year ago, In a World they call the New, That a maiden there lived whom you may know As the blessed St. Rose of Peru; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than the penances she could do. She was a child, yet never a child Did holiness so pursue, By morning and night, and by candle-light In wisdom and grace she grew, And ever would strive to all earthly faults And pleasures to say adieu. An angel in beauty, she thought it was right To spoil it to mortals’ view, She scratch’d it with briars, and burnt it in fires, Until she was known by few; (O maidens whose charms you but live to adorn This never would do for you!) But her fear of the world was more than her fear Of loveliness losing its due— Of tortures that thrill’d her through: And neither the sackcloth she wore to her skin, Nor her spiky belt thereto, Could ever elicit the faintest complaint From the blessed St. Rose of Peru. When Love drew near with its honey’d words, And tenderly tried to woo, The name of wife and the joys of life She rigidly would eschew. She prick’d, for her sins, her head with pins, And the blood in streamlets drew, And tears they were spilt for her fancied guilt, By the blessed St. Rose of Peru. And oft she would fast, but to eat at last The bitterest herbs she knew, And all that was pleasant and good to the taste In horror away she threw; She stripp’d her garden of all sweet flowers, And sow’d it with thorns and rue. And angels would come and make her one (In dreams) of their seraph crew, And often the Fiend, in his beauty screen’d, Her spirit would fain subdue, But evil could only fail to prevail With the blessed St. Rose of Peru. And these are the reasons her fame would grow In the World they call the New, But youth wasn’t past ere the wintry blast The flame of her life out-blew; There issued a breath from the mouth of Death Chilling and killing the Rose of Peru. And many and many a year flew by In that World they call the New, While marvels divine were wrought at the shrine Of the blessed St. Rose of Peru. (I should beat my breast and be much distress’d If you call’d this part untrue.) But my teeth never ache but I think, as I wake, Of the blessed St. Rose of Peru; And my corns never shoot, but the woes I compute Of the blessed St. Rose of Peru; And so I decide my pangs to abide Like her who suffer’d—and braved—and died In the capital of Peru, The region they call Peru. Lays of the Saintly. By Walter Parke (Vizetelly and Co.), London, 1882.

Beautiful B. It was many and many a year ago, By a theatre known as P. That a little boy stood, whom now we know By the name of Wilson B. Whose soul was filled with no other thought Than to act the Prince of D. He was a boy, and still like a boy, In that theatre known as P., He plays in a play, that is not mere play, And as Hamlet Prince of D., With many a clutch at his manly breast, And a smile that is sweet to see. For this is the reason some time ago, At his theatre known as P., In “Lights of London” and “Romany Rye,” And the “Silver King” did he Lead up to the higher “Claudian” rôle Of poetic tragedee, Till he’d raised the taste of that theatre To Hamlet, Prince of D. For Irving, o’er sated with London’s praise Went once more across the sea. Yes! that was the reason, as all men know, And not the mere L. S. D. That the Lyceum company, touring, had left The coast clear for Wilson B. But his rôle was more youthful by far than the rôle Of actors more thrilling than he Of parties intenser than he; And neither the posing, nor withering smile, Of a smothered agonee, Can ever confuse his rôle with the rôle Of the actor now over the sea. The play never plays, without crowding the ways To that theatre we’ve named P. And the lamps are not lit, ’ere the crowd at the pit Are waiting for Wilson B. And all the night long he is there with his stride Of his youth, his beauty, in lime-light’s pride In the theatre there you still may see Beautiful B. as Prince of D. J. W. G. W., November, 1884.

Annabel Lee. ’Twas more than a million years ago, Or so, it seems to me, That I used to prance around and beau The beautiful Annabel Lee. There were other girls in the neighbourhood But none was a patch to she. And this was the reason that long ago, My love fell out of a tree, And busted herself on a cruel rock; A solemn sight to see, For it spoiled the hat and gown and looks Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. We loved with a love that was lovely love, I and my Annabel Lee, And we went one day to gather the nuts That men call hickoree— And I stayed below in the rosy glow While she shinned up the tree. But no sooner up than down kerslup Came the beautiful Annabel Lee. And the pallid moon and the hectic noon Bring gleams of dreams for me, Of the desolate and the desperate fate Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. And I often think as I sink on the brink Of slumber’s sea, of the warm pink link That bound my soul to Annabel Lee; And it wasn’t just best for her interest To climb that hickory tree. For had she stayed below with me, We’d had no hickory nuts, may be, But I would have had my Annabel Lee. Mr. and Mrs. Spoopendyke. By Stanley Huntley, of the “Brooklyn Eagle.”

Ulalume. I. The skies they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were crispèd and sere,— The leaves they were withering and sere; It was night in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year; It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, In the misty mid region of Weir,— It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. II. Here once, through an alley Titanic Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul,— Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. These were days when my heart was volcanic As the scoriac rivers that roll,— As the lavas that restlessly roll Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek In the ultimate climes of the pole,— That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek In the realms of the boreal pole. III. Our talk had been serious and sober, But our thoughts they were palsied and sere,— Our memories were treacherous and sere; For we knew not the month was October, And we marked not the night of the year! (Ah, night of all nights in the year!) We noted not the dim lake of Auber (Though once we had journeyed down here), Remembered not the dark tarn of Auber, Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. * * * * * VIII. Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, And tempted her out of her gloom— And conquered her scruples and gloom; And we passed to the end of the vista, But were stopped by the door of a tomb— By the door of a legended tomb, And I said, “What is written, sweet sister, On the door of this legended tomb?” She replied, “Ulalume—Ulalume— ’Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!” * * * * * Edgar A. Poe.

Then I looked round for Sukey, and missed her; But back she came bounding right soon; And I said, “What’s the matter, sweet Sister?” She pointed at once to the moon, To the silvery sheeny full moon. “Hang it, Sukey,” I cried, “you’re a twister! What’s that? To explain were a boon.” She replied, “Paralune! Paralune! ’Tis the moonshade, the new Paralune.” Then she said, “She’s a danger is Dian, A Satellite Ladies mistrust, To the skin she is terribly tryin’, And makes one’s complexion like dust. Red, freckled, or dingy as dust— Nay, tanned like the tawny-maned Lion.” “What nonsense!” cried I, in disgust. Sukey sobbed, “You’re unjust, you’re unjust! And carry a moonshade I must!” Then I melted, and tried to look pleasant, And tempted her out ’neath the moon! Explained the full disc and the crescent, Each scoriac rock and lagoon; And her moonshade she dropped very soon; But next morning her nose was rubescent, Her temper was much out of tune; And she wailed, “Paralune! Paralune! ’Tis the fault of my lost Paralune!” Punch, September 10, 1881.

The Willows. The skies they were ashen and sober, The streets they were dirty and drear; It was night in the month of October, Of my most immemorial year; Like the skies I was perfectly sober, As I stopped at the mansion of Shear,— At the Nightingale,—perfectly sober, And the willowy woodland, down here. Here, once in an alley Titanic Of Ten-pins, I roamed with my soul,— Of Ten-pins,—with Mary, my soul; They were days when my heart was volcanic, And impelled me to frequently roll, And made me resistlessly roll, Till my ten-strikes created a panic In the realms of the Boreal pole, Till my ten-strikes created a panic With the monkey atop of his pole. I repeat, I was perfectly sober, But my thoughts they were palsied and sear,— My thoughts were decidedly queer; For I knew not the month was October, And I marked not the night of the year; I forgot that sweet morceau of Auber That the band oft performed down here, And I mixed the sweet music of Auber With the Nightingale’s music of Shear. And now as the night was senescent, And the star-dials pointed to morn, And car-drivers hinted of morn. At the end of the path a liquescent And bibulous lustre was born; ’Twas made by the bar-keeper present, Who mixéd a duplicate horn,— His two hands describing a crescent Distinct with a duplicate horn. And I said: “This looks perfectly regal, For its warm, and I know I feel dry,— I am confident that I feel dry; We have come past the emeu and eagle, And watched the gay monkey on high; Let us drink to the emeu and eagle,— To the swan and the monkey on high,— To the eagle and monkey on high; For this bar-keeper will not enveigle,— Bully boy with the vitreous eye; He surely would never inveigle,— Sweet youth with the crystalline eye.” But Mary, uplifting her finger, Said, “Sadly this bar I mistrust,— I fear that this bar does not trust. O hasten! O let us not linger! O fly,—let us fly,—ere we must!” In terror she cried, letting sink her Parasol till it trailed in the dust,— In agony sobbed, letting sink her Parasol till it trailed in the dust,— Till it sorrowfully trailed in the dust. Then I pacified Mary and kissed her, And tempted her into the room, And conquered her scruples and gloom; And we passed to the end of the vista, But were stopped by the warning of doom,— By some words that were warning of doom, And I said, “What is written, sweet sister, At the opposite end of the room?” She sobbed, as she answered, “All liquors Must be paid for ere leaving the room.” Then my heart it grew ashen and sober, As the streets were deserted and drear,— For my pockets were empty and drear; And I cried, “It was surely October, On this very night of last year, That I journeyed—I journeyed down here,— That I brought a fair maiden down here, On this night of all nights in the year, Ah! to me that inscription is clear; Well I know now, I’m perfectly sober, Why no longer they credit me here,— Well I know now that music of Auber, And this Nightingale, kept by one Shear.” Bret Harte.

What is in a Name. (From “Ravings,” by E. A. Poe—t.) The autumn upon us was rushing, The parks were deserted and lone— The streets were unpeopled and lone; My foot through the sere leaves was brushing, That over the pathway were strown— By the wind in its wanderings strown. I sighed—for my feelings were gushing Round Mnemosyne’s porphyry throne, Like lava liquescent lay gushing, And rose to the porphyry throne— To the filigree footstool were gushing, That stands on the steps of that throne— On the solid stone steps of that throne. I cried—“Shall the winter leaves fret us?” Oh, turn—we must turn to the fruit, To the freshness and force of the fruit! To the gifts wherewith autumn has met us— Her music that never grows mute (That maunders but never grows mute), The tendrils, the vine branches net us, The lily, the lettuce, the lute— The esculent, succulent lettuce, And the languishing lily, and lute;— Yes;—the lotos-like leaves of the lettuce; Late lily and lingering lute. “Then come—let us fly from the city! Let us travel in orient isles— In the purple of orient isles— Oh, bear me—yes, bear me in pity To climes where a sun ever smiles— Ever smoothly and speciously smiles! Where the swarth-browed Arabian’s wild ditty Enhances pyramidal piles: Where his wild, weird, and wonderful ditty Awakens pyramidal piles— Yes:—his pointless perpetual ditty Perplexes pyramidal piles!” Vere Vereker’s Vengeance, by Thomas Hood. J. C. Hotten, London, 1865.

You’ll Resume! Air (more or less) “Ulalume.” Premier sings— I had passed through a Session Satanic, And Irish, with “Pussy,”[4] sleek Peer. Those were the days of explosion volcanic, The nights of delirium drear, Long speeches, and labours Titanic, Pat outrage, Egyptian panic, Rude ruction, Obstruction, and fear, French shirking, and shyness Germanic— A most unforgettable year! The Session, in fact, was a twister, Had filled us with doubt and with gloom; But we’d got to the end of its vista,[5] For starry-eyed Hope there seemed room. We could flee from Big Ben’s heavy boom. Yet Forecast, Hope’s heavy-browed sister, Kept whispering words of dark doom In my ear, “You’ll resume! You’ll resume! In two months from to-day, you’ll resume!” “We are off!” Pussy cried. “This is pleasant! How jolly! From Westminster far!” “Ah, precisely,” said I, “for the present!” Cried he, “What a croaker you are! What a—well Grand old Croaker you are! Let us think of the grouse and the pheasant, And not of St. Stephen’s war, Of popping at partridge and pheasant, Not worry, and Warton, and war.” Then I said, “My dear Pussy, be sober! Remember we’re bound to be here By the end of the month of October, Of this unforgettable year— By the twenty-fourth day of October. This very identical year. Ha! doesn’t that make you feel queer?” “We shall yet have to work, Puss, like winking. Tourists? Cloture-ists also I trust. Obstruction to fight without shrinking Will call us all back—come we must, To St. Stephens’s shindy and dust.” “Oh, hang it!” cried Puss, his face sinking; “That bothering Cloture be—bust!” Then I pacified Pussy, and chid him For giving vulgarity room. And he promised to do as I bid him, But there passed o’er his features a gloom— A settled and sable-hued gloom— As black as the pall o’er a tomb. And I said—of it hoping to rid him— “Dear Puss, what’s the cause of this gloom?” He replied, “You’ll resume! You’ll resume! ’Tis the thought of those words, You’ll resume!” Punch, August 26, 1882.

King Phœbus came forth in his splendour Bedight in his garments of gold, And round the young treelings so tender, His raiments of rays did enfold— Round Hebe, the young and the slender, His mantle of magic he roll’d, To keep her from blight and defend her From sorrow, temptation, or cold. And while he with Hebe was walking— Whose face in the flow’rs was seen— In the rosebud with red in between— Violet-veined Venus came talking— Oh! talking with Love came his queen,— With Cupid she talking was seen; With Cupid for hearts she was hawking— Was hawking o’er Hebe’s own green, To snare the warm heart of the Sun-king From Hebe, its self-chosen queen. And while the young pair were still parting, To Phœbus came blue-eyed Love; To the Sun-king came Venus’s dove, And then, from the bushes, upstarting, Soared into a cloudlet above. Then came from his bow swiftly darting An arrow—the arrow of Love. With the pain King Phœbus was sobbing, When Venus came by with her balms, And eased the Sun-king of his throbbing, As he lay in her beautiful arms; The wound of its pain quickly robbing; She sooth’d him with nepenthè calms; She sooth’d the Sun-king in his sobbing, By the sound of her Letheian psalms. Then King Phœbus with poppies she crown’d, While Somnus o’erwhelm’d him with sleep; And with slumber his senses they drown’d, And they soundly his senses did steep; And Venus her arms then unwound, While out of his heart Love did leap, And they left him alone on the ground— They left him alone in deep sleep. * * * * * Fair Hebe was haunted with sorrow While, alas! on the sad to-morrow, Phœbus trod through the dreamy hours— Sought alone the blighted bowers. Not a glimpse of hope could he borrow— Ever lost to this world of ours! While Venus ne’er stayed to console him But fled in the night and the gloom; E’en Love never stayed to condole him, But fled when young Hope lost her bloom; E’en Somnus no more can control him— Death’s darkness before him doth loom, And pale death must soon be his doom; And they’ll bury him deep in Hope’s tomb. And fair Hebe no more can return, Until the death of life is done, Until the race of life is run, And the future vanquish’d, yet won, And the goal eternal won— Till she’s drunk of the Letheian river, And Phœbus and Hope have for ever Mingled their beings in one.

LENORE. I. Ah! broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown for ever! Let the bell toll! a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river; And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?—weep now, or nevermore! See, on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love Lenore! Come, let the burial rite be read, the funeral song be sung; An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young,— A dirge for her, the doubly dead, in that she died so young. II. “Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride, And when she fell in feeble health ye blessed her, that she died! How shall the ritual, then, be read—the requiem how be sung, By you—by yours, the evil eye—by yours, the slanderous tongue, That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young.” III. Peccavimus; but rave not thus; and let a Sabbath song Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong: The sweet Lenore hath “gone before,” with Hope, that flew beside, Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride; For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies, The life upon her yellow hair, but not within her eyes,— The life still there upon her hair, the death upon her eyes. IV. “Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise, But waft the angel on her flight with a pæan of old days. Let no bell toll; lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth, Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damnèd earth. To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven; From hell unto a high estate far up within the heaven, From grief and groan, to a golden throne beside the King of heaven.” Edgar Allan Poe.

THE SUPPER OF THE FOUR. Remiges quinque a Nunehamo reversi in Ricardi hospitis cœnaculum intrant, ex quibus quidam sic loquitur: “Ah! ’pon my word, you fellows, I’m as tired as I was ever! For supper shout, and let the scout know we’re come from the river; And a cushion quick! a cushion, Dick, give now or nevermore, For on this bare cane-bottom chair I will not sit: I’m sore. Come let the mackerel soused be brought, the pigeon-pie, the tongue, The cider-cup and straws, and let the radishes be young; Oh! William, bring the radishes, and William, bring them young.” Cui Speculator. “Commons for five, sir, pigeon-pie, I’m ordered to provide, And beer as usual, I suppose, and cider-cup beside. The mackerel soused, sir, shall be brought, and ham, and lamb, and tongue, And potted meats, and salad too, and radishes, sir, young; I’ll get them if I can, and, sir, I’ll try to get them young.” Horrenda post cœnam voce cantantes cœteros sic excipit Ricardus hospes: “Cœnavimus; but howl not thus: let our Noachian song Float on the air so tunefully the dean may feel no wrong.” Noachii Carminis epitome: “St. James’s Park received the ark on its primeval tide,[6] All creatures wild thereto beguiled were stabled safe inside; By ones, by pairs, they mount the stairs, they mount by threes and fours, Fowls came from perches, beasts from lairs, and thronged about the doors, By five, by six, by seven, by eight, by nine, by ten, by scores.” Tum solito hilarior factus hospes olim tristissimus exclamat: “Hurrah! to-night my heart is light! no blues I’ll conjure up, But drown the demons out of sight in a draught of cider-cup; We’ll drain it dry, then let us try to soothe our temperate mirth, The comfort of post-prandial pipe, ere each one seek his berth, May health to all our friends and bane to all our foes be given!” Propinant omnes. Now for the pipe and then to sleep, like to the sleepers seven, From toil and boose to snore and snooze sound as the sleepers seven. Odd Echoes from Oxford, by A. Merion, B.A. London, J. C. Hotten, 1872.

FOR ANNIE. I. Thank Heaven, the crisis, The danger is past, And the lingering illness Is over at last; And the fever called “living” Is conquered at last. II. Sadly I know I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move As I lie at full length; But no matter; I feel I am better at length. * * * * * VIII. And, ah! let it never Be foolishly said That my room it is gloomy And narrow my bed; For man never slept In a different bed— And, to sleep, you must slumber In just such a bed. * * * * * Edgar A. Poe.

Tristan and Isolde. (By one who does not appreciate Wagner.) Thank heaven the music Is silent at last, And the howling trombones Have ended their blast; And the opera called ‘Tristan’ Is finished at last. Sadly I know Of its “wonderful strength” As I dared not to move Through its wearisome length; But no matter I feel It is quiet—at length. For I could not be dozing, Nor yet nod my head, Lest any stall holder Should fancy me dead; To the beauty of Wagner (Alas! I was dead.) The moaning and groaning, The shrieking and sobbing, All quieted now With that horrible throbbing Of fiddles,—that horrible Horrible throbbing. The noise and the bluster, The leitmotif’s pain; The pitiless torture Of melody vain; The “melody endless,” That torturing strain. For oh! of all tortures, That motif was worst, That creepingly crawling Motif at first; That writhed like a serpent And did all its worst To crush all one’s senses Of tune, from the first. The music roared on An inferno of sound, That’s heard by a few Very far underground,— In a place that’s not quoted Far under the ground. And oh! let it never Be foolishly said, That Wagner’s not gloomy, Altho’ he be dead,— And nothing but good Should be said of the dead; Yet that were too awful A lie, tho’ he’s dead. Tho’ my heart is a stout one And feels passing bold, a World full of perils I’d dare, but for gold, a Fortune past counting I’d shrink to behold, a— Again that mad opera Tristan and Isolde. J. W. G. W., 1884. (Written expressly for this collection).

Covent Garden. By a Lover of Poe-try. A Garden of gardens it teaches The bard, ever blatant, to bless The pumpkins, the plums, and the peaches, The salads not easy to dress;— Pears, pumpkins, and pulpiest peaches, Camelia, cabbage, and cress, The pumpkins, the pippins, the peaches Cut cabbage, and crisply curled cress! Oh, of luscious luxurious lunches, The poet loves one lunch, and that’s Of bananas in bountiful bunches, And melons as big as your hats, Black currants, bananas in bunches, And cocoa nuts, mothers of mats— For of science if you are a lover You’ll know they’re the mothers of mats, That the cocoa nut’s cortical cover Machinery makes into mats, Into fuscous and fibre-fringed mats. Fun, July 20, 1867.

Hygiea! Hygiea! Most exigent one! I have an idea Thou pokest thy fun. Oh! is it thy will To make noodles of us, By urging us still So to worry and fuss Concerning our bodies, What’s eaten, what’s drunk, Until we’re mere noddies In chronic blue funk? Hygiea, thou’rt clever; But, ’twixt you and me, To fidget for ever Is fiddle-de-dee. We mustn’t eat this, And we mustn’t drink that, Lest sound health we should miss, Grow too thin or too fat, Must go in for analysis Of all “grub” about Lest we court cramp, paralysis, Fever, or gout; Mustn’t travel by rail, Must shun riding in cabs; Must,—but time would quite fail To tell half of thy “fads.” If a mortal (I think) Could such vigilance keep, He would ne’er eat or drink, He would ne’er toil or sleep. Sanitas sanitatum Is all very fine; But my ultimatum Is this—I must dine! And if I stop grubbing Till all’s fair and clear, I shall do nought but “tubbing” For many a year. Esculapius’ daughter, With thee I agree, Pure air and cold water, Are needful to me; But perpetual worry ’Bout stomachs and nerves, And this, that, and ’tother, No good purpose serves. “Nine Systems,” Hygiea, Perhaps I possess, Though I’d an idea The number was less. But to square work and feast By the rules thou art giving, Would take nine lives at least, And not one much worth living. Punch, October 23, 1880.

The Demon of the Doldrums. One night I lay a-dreaming, In the moonlight that was streaming In a flood of liquid glory, Pouring on my counterpane; Up and down were goblins tumbling, On the slanting beams, and crumbling ’Twixt their fingers all the moonlight In a shower of golden rain. And some a crimson liquor Caught and poured it in a bicker Crowned with crystal listel pistils Of some rare and wondrous rose, Whose penetrative fragrance, In its sinuous mystic vagrance, Filled my chamber with an odor That none merely mortal knows. Ah! that odor—who can tell it? None but ghouls and angels smell it Oinoglyphic, soporific, Hedonific, and divine. And it seemed as if a censer Full of pastiles, but immenser Than a tun of old Madeira Had been emptied of its wine. Then methought that with a wobblin’ Strode a lynx-eyed mouse-backed goblin Down from off the ebon footboard And along the silken quilt, And within the moonlight glinting Capered with a demon squinting, And a winking and a drinking, And a horrid, nasty lilt. Ah! my lips were as dry as paper When I saw the demon caper, As with finger pointing ever At the opalescent bowl He kept laughing, he kept quaffing, With his nose much more than half in That liquor, which did flicker Like a burning human soul. Ah! I longed but once to taste it (As I saw the demon waste it), And my coppers, hot as stoppers Of a bowl of molten lead, Ached to quaff that golden liquor, From the bicker quick and quicker, And to roll it down my gullet, As I tossed upon my bed. 70 Swift I stretched my hand to seize it, When I heard a voice cry “Cheese it!” And my head against the bed-post Falling, crashing, came ca-bunk; And the demons did evanish, Like to spirits walking Spanish, And I heard much lively chinning ’Bout a man who would get drunk.

“Once upon a midnight dreary, as I ponder’d weak and weary Over many a weary volume of recent published lore— While I nodded o’er ‘The Sleeper,[7]’ suddenly I heard a creeper, As of some one peering deeper-deeper in my chamber door; ’Tis some author new, I mutter’d, or some other midnight bore; Only this and nothing more!” “Oh! distinctly I that volume do remember in its solemn And sleepy double column as it fell upon the floor— Eagerly I wished to borrow from ‘Cooper’s Last’ of sorrow, Or my own dark books of horror—horror for having more! A sure cure for the blues, which were darkly creeping o’er My ‘Dream,’ and nothing more.” “And the bleak and dread re-over turning of each volume cover Chill’d me—filled me with fantastic poems, never penned before, So that, to still the rushing of my thoughts towards the head-in, I said, “tis an author sure, entreating entrance through the key-hole door; A waylaid child of Poetry on a midnight ‘bust,’ or more, Or else some other bore.’” “Presently my pen grew fiery,—hesitating an inquiry, ‘Sir,’ said I (or Madman!), ‘truly your late visit I deplore; For the fact is, I’m inditing a piece of murky writing, And so unseeming you came lighting, lighting on my chamber door, Which was never done before’—here he bolted in the door, And sat down upon the floor.” “Then this strange trick beguiling my phrenzy into smiling, By the cool audacious impudence his brazen features wore— Tho’ thy hat is old and napless, thou, I said, art sure not sapless, Young and tender in thy hapless wand’rings from thy mother’s shore; Tell me why thy business here is on this dark and dismal floor?” Quoth the Author, ‘Read this o’er.’” “Much I wonder’d this ambitious youth to see an act so vicious, Tho’ its answer good deal meaning, I voted him a bore— For we cannot help believing that no genius living grieving Ever yet was blind in seeing a Manuscript read o’er By the ‘Reader’ in a book-shop, or Book-boy in a store, Yet he cried on, ‘Read it o’er!’” “Startled at the stillness broken by reply so greenly spoken, Said I, ‘Before like Poe you flutter you should like Bryant soar Forc’d from some disaster—perhaps you think to master Something in the Markette faster, faster than was ever sold before Till the bird-en of your hopes is ‘Read it o’er—read it o’er.’ Quoth the Author, ‘Nothing more!’” “But the Author still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I plac’d the faded Manuscript in front of Author, book and door, Then into its beauties sinking, I betook myself to thinking What this young aspiring Author with his Manuscript, and more; What this bold, presumptuous Youth, with his head bor’d through a bore, Meant in saying, ‘Read it o’er!’” “Thus I sat, engaged in reading, but no syllable revealing, To the Youth, whose fiery eyes roll’d a fiery phrenzy o’er, And o’er its pages turning, with thoughts of mystic learning, I began a critique burning on its Mathews style and more, When coming to a chapter, which I heartily did deplore, Cried the Author, ‘Read it o’er.’” 71 “Then methought the style grew duller, and the hero rather fuller Of thoughts which even Blue-pard never gloated o’er. ‘Man!’ I cried, ‘thy brain has turn’d thee—by this chapter I have learn’d thee; ‘Re-write—re-write—and re-pen thee these pages blotted o’er— ‘Take-oh! take it, and re-pen-t thee—and correct these pages more: Cried the author, ‘Read it o’er.’” “‘Author!’ said I, ‘Imp of Evil—Author great, or Good or Devil, Whether Putnam sent or Harper toss’d thee here ashore, Dull and stupid, yet undaunted—on this sheet romantic wasted— On this floor by volumes haunted—tell me plainly, I implore, Is there—is there sense in this? tell me, tell me, I implore; Quoth the author, ‘Read it o’er!’” “‘Author!” said I, “thing of peril—of paper, ink and ferrel, By that Public which looks over us—by that Fame we both adore, Tell this head with furies laden if, within the distant trade-en It shall find in man or maiden one to read its pages o’er, And yet the chorus of your melody is ‘Read it o’er—read it o’er.’ Quoth the Author, ‘Nothing more!’” “Be that word our sign of parting, Author, Fiend, ‘I shrieked upstarting, Get thee back unto the Harpers on Cliff Street’s Plutonian shore, Leave no blank page as a token of that word thy tongue has spoken, Leave my murky thoughts unbroken—quit the threshold of my door, Take thy Manuscript ‘out’ with thee and take thyself from out my door.’ Quoth the Author, ‘Read it o’er!’” “And the Author never flitting still is sitting, still is sitting On a bust of pallid Manuscripts just above my chamber door; And his pen has all the seeming of an engine ever teeming, And the smoke that’s from it streaming throws his shadow on the floor And the only words this engine repeats is ‘Read it o’er, Read it o’er,’ And nothing more.”

THE GOBLIN GOOSE. A Christmas Nightmare. Once, it happened I’d been dining, on my couch I slept reclining, And awoke with moonlight shining brightly on my bedroom floor; It was in the bleak December, Christmas night as I remember, But I had no dying ember, as Poe had; when near the door, Like a gastronomic goblin just beside my chamber door, Stood a bird,—and nothing more. And I said, for I’m no craven, “Are you Edgar’s famous raven, Seeking as with him a haven—were you mixed up with Lenore?” Then the bird uprose and fluttered, and this sentence strange he uttered— “Hang Lenore,” he mildly muttered; “you have seen me once before, Seen me on this festive Christmas, seen me surely once before. I’m the Goose,”—and nothing more. Then he murmured, “Are you ready?” and with motion slow and steady, Straight he leapt upon my bed. I simply gave a stifled roar; And I cried, “As I’m a sinner, at a Goose Club I was winner, ’Tis a mem’ry of my dinner, which I ate at half-past four; Goose well stuffed with sage and onions, which I ate at half-past four.” Quoth he hoarsely, “Eat no more!” Said I, “I’ve enjoyed your juices, breast and back; but tell me, Goose, is This revenge, and what the use is of your being such a bore? For goose-flesh I will no more ‘ax’ if you’ll not sit on my thorax. Go, try honey mixed with borax, for I hear your throat is sore; You speak gruffly though too plainly, and I’m sure your throat is sore.” Quoth the nightmare, “Eat no more!” “Goose!” I shrieked out, “Leave, oh, leave me! surely you don’t mean to grieve me? You are heavy, pray reprieve me, now my penance must be o’er; Though to-night you’ve brought me sorrow, comfort surely comes to-morrow. Some relief from thee I’d borrow at my doctor’s ample store, There are pills of purest azure in that doctor’s ample store.” Quoth the goblin, “Eat no more!” And that fat Goose, never flitting, like a nightmare still is sitting With me all the night, emitting words that thrill my bosom’s core; Now, throughout the Christmas season, while I lie and gasp and wheeze, on Me he sits, until my reason nothing surely can restore, I am driven mad, and reason nothing surely can restore; While that Goose says, “Eat no more.” Punch, January 1, 1881.

The College Craven. Once when in the evening walking, with my darling softly talking, Wandering by the shining river, as we’d often done before; While the clear full moon was beaming, on the flowing waters gleaming, And the little waves were streaming, streaming, rippling towards the shore Like small bars of silver dancing, gliding in towards the shore, Noiseless save for splash of oar. 72 Oh, distinctly I remember ’twas in bright and clear September Soon after I had returned to this ancient seat of lore, Vainly I had sought to borrow from my books surcease to sorrow, Fearing, dreading that the harrow would pass over me once more, Little hoped I for Testamur, dreading to be ploughed once more, Ploughed perhaps for evermore. So I pondered deeply thinking, fancy into fancy linking, Balmy air of cool night drinking soothingly through every pore. Whilst I wandered with my dearest, and the moon was at her clearest, Earth to heaven seemed the nearest it had ever been before; Life was sweeter at that moment than it had ever been before, Than it will be evermore. Thus while we were gently strolling, pleasant thoughts our minds enrolling, Suddenly I heard a footstep that I had not heard before, And I felt my blood run colder, and in fact was no way bolder, As I felt upon my shoulder the “bulldog’s” hand I so abhor, Then he said with gleeful malice those old words I so abhor “The proctor wants you,” nothing more. “Bulldog,” cried I, “thing of evil, how I wish you at the devil,” But the “bulldog,” most ferocious, never let me from his paw, But before the proctor hurried, who my wits completely flurried, Since they were already worried, “Your name and college I implore, And your presence in the morning I must earnestly implore,” Quoth the proctor, nothing more. In the morning by fears riven, though against them I had striven, That the penalty was heavy I in no way could ignore. But my case being duly stated, I was most severely rated, And within the college gated, gated till the term was o’er, Ne’er to wander forth at even till the weary term was o’er, Only this, and nothing more. P. G. S. Wadham College, Oxford, Nov., 1884.

The (C) raven Student. Once upon a morning dreary, through my lodging window smeary, Came the cold and blacks and street-cries making getting up a bore! And I wished I still were napping: suddenly I heard a tapping, As of some one pertly rapping, rapping at my chamber door! “’Tis,” growled I, “that maid of all-work rapping at my chamber-door— What on earth can it be for.” But too well do I remember that hungriest, dreariest November; Not a single blessèd ember cast its glow upon the floor, Nor dared I hope that on the morrow I could venture more to borrow On my books, which, to my sorrow, had been carried by the score “To my uncle’s,” by the slattern whom the Missis called Lenore— Why, I could not say, I’m sure. And the shiv’ring, cold, uncertain rustling of each paper curtain Told me of a bleaker draught than I had ever felt before; So that, while to rise objecting, I turned again and lay reflecting, Through the crazy rattling sashes as the rain now came by dashes,— I began to think the knocking at the panel of my door Was the wind, and nothing more. Soon again it came, and stronger; hesitating then no longer,— “Girl,” I cried, “had you but listened, you could well have heard me snore, “For the fact is, I was napping when so rudely you came rapping; And if you again come tapping, tapping at my chamber door, I will give you such a slapping as you never had before!” Shrieked the maiden:—“Never, sure!” By the Author of “Flemish Interiors.”

THE FIRE-FIEND. A Nightmare. I. In the deepest depth of midnight, while the sad solemn swell Still was floating, faintly echoed from the Forest Chapel Bell— Faintly, falteringly floating o’er the sable waves of air That were through the Midnight rolling, chafed and billowy with the tolling— In my chamber I lay dreaming by the fire-light’s fitful gleaming, And my dreams were dreams foreshadowed on a heart fore-doomed to Care! II. At the last long lingering echo of the midnight’s mystic chime— Lifting through the sable billows to the Thither Shore of time— Leaving on the starless silence not a token nor a trace— In a quivering sigh departed; from my couch in fear I started: Started to my feet in terror, for my Dream’s phantasmal error Painted in the fitful fire a frightful, fiendish, flaming face! III. On the red hearth’s reddest centre, from a blazing knot of oak, Seemed to gibe and grin this Phantom when in terror I awoke, And my slumberous eyelids straining as I staggered to the floor, 74 Still in that dread Vision seeming, turned my eyes toward the gleaming Hearth, and—there! oh, God! I saw it! and from out its flaming Jaw it Spat a ceaseless, seething, hissing, bubbling, gurgling stream of gore! IV. Speechless; struck with stony silence; frozen to the floor I stood, Till methought my brain was hissing with that hissing, bubbling, blood:— Till I felt my life-stream oozing, oozing from those lambent lips:— Till the Demon seemed to name me; then a wondrous calm o’ercame me, And my brow grew cold and dewy, with a death-damp stiff and gluey, And I fell back on my pillow in apparent soul-eclipse! V. Then, as in Death’s seeming shadow, in the icy Pall of Fear I lay stricken, came a hoarse and hideous murmur to my ear:— Came a murmur like the murmur of assassins in their sleep:— Muttering, “Higher! Higher! Higher! I am Demon of the Fire! I am Arch-Fiend of the Fire! and each blazing roof’s my pyre, And my sweetest incense is the blood and tears my victims weep!” VI. “How I revel on the Prairie! How I roar among the Pines! How I laugh when from the village o’er the snow the red flame shines, And I hear the shrieks of terror, with a Life in every breath! How I scream with lambent laughter as I hurl each crackling rafter Down the fell abyss of Fire, until higher! higher! higher! Leap the High Priests of my Altar in their merry Dance of Death!” VII. “I am monarch of the Fire! I am Vassal-King of Death! World-encircling, with the shadow of its Doom upon my breath! With the symbol of Hereafter flaming from my fatal face! I command the Eternal Fire! Higher! higher! higher! higher! Leap my ministering Demons, like Phantasmagoric lemans Hugging Universal Nature in their hideous embrace!” VIII. Then a sombre silence shut me in a solemn shrouded sleep, And I slumbered like an infant in the “Cradle of the Deep,” Till the Belfry in the Forest quivered with the matin stroke, And the martins, from the edges of its lichen-lidden ledges, Shimmered through the russet arches where the Light in torn files marches, Like a routed army struggling through the serried ranks of oak. IX. Through my ivy fretted casement filtered in a tremulous note From the tall and stately linden where a Robin swelled his throat:— Querulous, quaker breasted Robin, calling quaintly for his mate! Then I started up, unbidden, from my slumber nightmare ridden, With the memory of that Dire Demon in my central Fire On my eye’s interior mirror like the Shadow of a Fate! X. Ah! the fiendish Fire had smouldered to a white and formless heap, And no knot of oak was flaming as it flamed upon my sleep; But around its very centre, where the Demon Face had shone, Forked shadows seemed to linger, pointing as with spectral finger To a Bible, massive, golden, on a table carved and olden— And I bowed, and said, “All Power is of God, of God alone!”