WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 4)

A Ballade of Five o’clock Tea. Served in most delicate ware, Dresden or Sévres—where you spy Dainty devices and rare, Hues that enrapture the eye: Hands that are shapely and white, Pour out the fragrant Bohea, Beauty presides at this rite— This is your Five O’clock Tea. Perched in the midst of the fair, Masher resplendent, yet shy, Awkwardly shifts in his chair, He will gain courage by and bye. Beaux so antique, most polite, Prattle in garrulous glee, Here in their element quite— This is your Five O’clock Tea. Characters melt into air; Good reputations must die; Think you “My Lady” will spare For all that you murmur, “Oh Fy?” Colloquies vapid and trite, Slanderous tongues running free, Small emanations of spite— This is your Five O’clock Tea. Envoy. Sugar and cream can excite Envy and malice, we see; Satirists cry with delight— “This is your Five O’clock Tea!” Orchis (F. B. Doveton).

Ballade of Pôt-Pourri. Oriental, and fragile, and old Is the pôt-pourri bowl you see there; Dreamy odours—romances untold It confides to this latter-day air. Ghosts of laughter, of love, and despair, Dim strains of a quaint minuet Bnd a gallant’s low words to his fair— “Our Lady of Roses—Coquette!” * * * * * Premier Pas. Truth. March 8, 1888.

Ballade of Five o’clock Tea—(Five thus). Ballade of the Amateur Reciter. Ballade of Leap year—(Two thus). Fashion’s Fig-leaf. Our Whistling Drawing-room Man. Ballade of an Axe—(The G. O. M.’s Axe). On the modern method of shaking hands. Our grand Fancy Fair. Pat the Patriot. Ballade of a Primal cigar. Ballade of a Programme. A “Blue” Ballade—(“These are the ’Varsity Crews”). Ballade of Pôt-Pourri. Ballade for Diogenes. A Ballade of Girls and Wedding. Girls’ Gossip.

An Idyll in the Conservatory. (Inserted with the Author’s permission.) Nellie. If I were you, when ladies at the play, Sir, Beckon and nod, a melodrama through, I would not turn abstractedly away, Sir, If I were you! Frank. If I were you, when persons I affected, Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew, I would at least pretend I recollected, If I were you! Nellie. If I were you, when ladies are so lavish, Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two, I would not dance with odious Miss McTavish, If I were you! Frank. If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer Whiff of the best,—the mildest “honey dew,” I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer, If I were you! Nellie. If I were you, I would not, Sir, be bitter, Even to write the “Cynical Review;”— Frank. No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter. If I were you! Nellie. Really! You would? Why, Frank, you’re quite delightful,— Hot as Othello, and as black of hue; Borrow my fan. I would not look so frightful, If I were you! Frank. “It is the cause.” I mean your chaperon is Bringing some well-curled juvenile. Adieu! I shall retire. I’d spare that poor Adonis, If I were you! 63 Nellie. Go, if you will. At once! And by express, Sir; Where shall it be? To China—or Peru? Go. I should leave inquirers my address, Sir, If I were you! Frank. No—I remain. To stay and fight a duel Seems, on the whole, the proper thing to do— Ah, you are strong,—I would not then be cruel, If I were you! Nellie. One does not like one’s feelings to be doubted,— Frank. One does not like one’s friends to misconstrue,— Nellie. If I confess that I a wee-bit pouted? Frank. I should admit that I was piqué, too. Nellie. Ask me to dance. I’d say no more about it, If I were you! (Waltz. Exeunt.) Austin Dobson.

An Idyll of the Lobby. Liberal Seceder. If I were you, when friends electioneering Wish to preserve consistency of view, I would forewarn when Hawarden gales are veering— If I were you. Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone. If I were you, when issuing addresses, I would observe the simple rule of two Meanings in a sentence—tip for safe successes— If I were you. L. S. If I were you, when older friends reveal a Freedom in spending time and money too, I would not rush to dance a jig with Healy— If I were you. W. E. G. If I were you, who swear you cannot suffer Plutocrat and peer, landlord and Jew, I would not tilt against the people like a duffer— If I were you. L. S. I would not go at such an awful rate, or Friends may forsake you—thing they’re apt to do— W. E. G. I would remember the fate of such a traitor— If I were you. L. S. Surely you never—call a party meeting; Try to arrange that each may get his due; Keep the dear Irish; I’d avoid a beating, If I were you. W. E. G. No, I depart, I must consult the people, Chamberlain’s coming—Randolph with him too— I wouldn’t pray ’neath Chamberlainic steeple, If I were you. L. S. Go, if you will; my faith is not so flabby; Cowards in midlands happily are few. Stay! I would take that little trick from Labby— If I were you. W. E. G. Done! I remain—Brummagem to pound well. Leave it till autumn—now, of course, you’re true? Wouldn’t smash the party (surely doesn’t sound well) If I were you. L. S. One does not like that Caucus-pressure leaning. W. E. G. Yes, I was sorry—had to use the screw. L. S. If I confess that I mistook your meaning— W. E. G. I will allow ’twas fair to misconstrue. Late L. S. Ask me to vote. You’ve got to put the green in, And cannon off the blue: I’d chalk my cue If I were you. K. The Pall Mall Budget. June 3, 1886.

The Prodigals. (After Mr. Austin Dobson’s famous ballade.) [Dedicated to Mr. Chaplin, M.P., and Mr. Richard Power, M.P., and 223 who followed them.] Ministers!—you, most serious, Critics and statesmen of all degrees, Hearken awhile to the motion of us,— Senators keen for the Epsom breeze! Nothing we ask of posts or fees; Worry us not with objections pray! Lo,—for the Speaker’s wig we seize Give us—ah! give us—the Derby Day. Scots most prudent, penurious! Irishmen busy as humblebees! Hearken awhile to the motion of us,— Senators keen for the Epsom breeze! For Sir Joseph’s sake, and his owner’s, please! (Solomon raced like fun, they say) Lo for we beg on our bended knees,— Give us—ah! give us—the Derby Day. Campbell-Asheton be generous! (But they voted such things were not the cheese) Sullivan, hear us, magnanimous! (But Sullivan thought with their enemies.) And shortly they got both of help and ease For a mad majority crowded to say— “Debate we’ve drunk to the dregs and lees; Give us—ah! give us—the Derby Day.” Envoi. Prince, most just was the motion of these And many were seen by the dusty way, Shouting glad to the Epsom breeze Give us—ah! give us—the Derby Day. W. E. Henley.

Bored by the Ballade, vexed by Villanelle, Of Rondeau tired, and Triolet as well! The Ballade. (In Bad Weather). Oh! I’m in a terrible plight— For how can I rhyme in the rain? ’Tis pouring from morn until night: So bad is the weather again, My language is almost profane! Though shod with the useful galosh, I’m racked with rheumatical pain— I think that a Ballade is bosh I know I am looking a fright; That knowledge, I know, is in vain; My “brolly” is not water-tight, But hopelessly rended in twain And spoilt by the rude hurricane! Though clad in a stout mackintosh, My temper I scarce can restrain— I think that a Ballade is bosh! Oh, I’m an unfortunate wight! The damp is affecting my brain; My woes I would gladly recite, In phrases emphatic and plain, Your sympathy could I obtain. I don’t think my verses will wash, They’re somewhat effete and inane— I think that a Ballade is bosh! Envoy. I fancy I’m getting insane, I’m over my ankles in slosh; But let me repeat the refrain— I think that a Ballade is bosh!

A Ballade of Old Metres. When, in the merry realm of France, Bluff Francis ruled and loved and laughed, Now held the lists with knightly lance, Anon the knightly beaker quaffed; Where wit could wing his keenest shaft With Villon’s verse or Montaigne’s prose, Then poets exercised their craft In ballades, triolets, rondeaux. O quaint old times! O fitting chants! With fluttering banners fore and aft, With mirth of minstrelsy and dance, Sped Poesy’s enchanted craft; The odorous gale was blowing abaft Her silken sails, as on she goes, Doth still to us faint echoes waft Of ballades, triolets, rondeaux. But tell me with what countenance Ye seek on modern rhymes to graft Those tender shoots of old Romance— Romance that now is only chaffed? O iron days! O idle raft Of rhymesters! they are ‘peu de chose,’ What Scott would call supremely “saft” Your ballades, triolets, rondeaux. Envoy. Bards, in whose vein the maddening draught Of Hippocrene so wildly glows, Forbear, and do not drive us daft With ballades, triolets, rondeaux. The Century.

A Young Poet’s Advice. You should study the bards of to-day Who in England are now all the rage; You should try to be piquant and gay; Your lines are too solemn and sage. 65 You should try to fill only a page, Or two at the most with your lay; And revive the quaint verse of an age That is fading forgotten away. Study Lang, Gosse, and Dobson, I pray— That their rhymes and their fancies engage Your thought to be witty as they. You must stand on the popular stage. In the bars of an old fashioned cage We must prison the birds of our May, To carol the notes of an age That is fading forgotten away. Now this is a ‘Ballade’—I say, So one stanza more to our page, But the “Vers de Société,” If you can are the best for your ‘wage.’ Though the purists may fall in a rage That two rhymes go thrice in one lay, You may passably echo an age That is fading forgotten away. Envoy. Bard—heed not the seer and the sage, ‘Afflatus’ and Nature don’t pay; But stick to the forms of an age That is fading forgotten away. C. P. Cranch.

The law books are standing in dingy array, They fill every shelf from ceiling to floor, Old guides to a silent and grass-covered way Which never a traveller now shall explore, Save delvers for antiquarian lore, Who painfully search where their treasures lie hid, In pages that else had been closed evermore, Forgotten for aye, like the wonderful Tidd! Great Blackstone is put up aloft, far away (The Whig, first edition, in calf, volumes four); The Doctor and Student alike are at play; And Perkins is now but a profitless bore. Old Viner’s abridgment is over the door ’Mid dust-begrimed wines that fetch never a bid; Even Fearne on Remainders we vainly deplore Forgotten for aye, like the wonderful Tidd! Oblivion has fallen on the frequent Ca. sa., And Cursitor Street is untrod as of yore; We turn not the leaves of Les Termes de la Ley, Or these ancient Reports, ah, many a score, Of a dulness as deadly as dread hellibore, Of their Latin and law we are joyfully rid. Let them stand, as we peacefully slumber and snore, Forgotten for aye, like the wonderful Tidd. Envoy. How quickly the summers and winters are o’er! They linger not now as in childhood they did. Soon we shall be treading yon shadowy shore, Forgotten for aye like the wonderful Tidd!

Ballade of the Honest Lawyer. The “noble savage” of long ago Within a hundred tomes we find; The foreigner acute we know, And “general readers,” looks resigned; The “law of nature,” left behind By a simpler age, has ceased to be Aught but examination grind; “The honest lawyer,” where is he? * * * * *

Ballade of Leading Cases. When August crowns the legal year, When clients leave an hour for play, But—your examination near— You’re doomed in London town to stay; When, tired of our prosaic day, You’d catch a glimpse of old-world faces, Put statutes, text-books, all, away— Read, mark, and learn the Leading Cases. * * * * *

Ballade of the Timid Bard. (To Angelica, who bids him publish.) In Memory’s mystical hazes I see a vast Gander and grey, I see the small boy that he chases At the head of a hissing array: How I wept when they brought me to bay, How I pleaded in vain for a truce! Too frightened too shoo them away, I could never say Boh to a Goose! * * * * * Punch, October 22, 1887.

(With Vexation.) I do not like the Villanelle, I think it somewhat of a bore— This tinkle of a Muffin-bell! 66 The reason why I cannot tell; Each day I fancy, more and more, I do not like the Villanelle! It makes me stamp and storm and yell, It makes me wildly rage and roar: This tinkle of a Muffin-bell! I look upon it as a sell, Its use I constantly deplore; I do not like the Villanelle! Poetic thoughts it must dispel, It very often tries me sore: This tinkle of a Muffin-bell! For this I know, and know full well— Let me repeat it o’er and o’er— I do not like the Villanelle, This tinkle of a Muffin-bell!

J’ay perdu ma tourterelle; Est-ce-point ells que i’oy?[2] Je veux aller après elle. Tu regrettes ta femelle; Hélas! aussy fay-je moy: J’ay perdu ma tourterelle. Si ton amour est fidèle, Aussy est ferme ma foy; Je veux aller après elle. Ta plainte se renouvelle? Toujours plaindre je me doy: J’ay perdu ma tourterelle. En ne voyant plus la belle Plus rien de beau je ne voy: Je veux aller après elle. Mort, que tant de fois j’appelle Prens ce qui se donne à toy: J’ai perdu ma tourterelle, Je veux aller après elle.

A Villanelle. After Mr. Oscar Wilde.) Commissioner of Lunacee! An inquirendo come and hold; For Oscar Wilde hath need of thee! Flings to the world in wild frenzee A poem on “a wattled fold,” Commissioner of Lunacee. In his strange verse none sense can see; He raves of “limbs and beards of gold”; He really hath great need of thee! Anon he says, “A hell I see!” And talks of satyrs dead and cold: Commissioner of Lunacee. And many an untold idiocee, With little meaning, is enrolled: He verily hath need of thee, A Bedlamite as mad as he No open doors should ever hold. Commissioner of Lunacee, You see he has great need of thee! Frank Danby. The Whitehall Review, September 30, 1880.

The Street Singer. (Villanelle from my window.) He stands at the kerb and sings. ’Tis a doleful tune and slow, Ah me, if I had but wings! He bends to the coin one flings, But he never attempts to go,— He stands at the kerb and sings. The conjurer comes with his rings. And the Punch-and-Judy show. Ah me, if I had but wings! They pass like all fugitive things— They fade and they pass, but lo! He stands at the kerb and sings. All the magic that Music brings Is lost when he mangles it so— Ah me, if I had but wings! But the worst is a thought that stings! There is nothing at hand to throw! He stands at the kerb and sings— Ah me, if I had but wings! Austin Dobson.

Culture in the Slums. Now ain’t they utterly too-too (She ses, my missus mine,[3] ses she), Them flymy little bits of Blue. Joe, just you kool ’em—nice and skew Upon our old meogginee, Now ain’t they utterly too-too? They’re better than a pot ’n’ a screw, They’re equal to a Sunday spree, Them flymy little bits of Blue! Suppose I put ’em up the flue, And booze the profits, Joe? Not me. Now ain’t they utterly too-too? I do the ’Igh Art fake, I do. Joe, I’m consummate; and I see Them flymy little bits of Blue. 67 Which, Joe, is why I ses te you— Æsthetic-like, and limp, and free— Now ain’t they utterly too-too, Them flymy little bits o’ Blue? W. E. Henley.

In Wain! (A Villanelle of Vexations. By B * * * y P * * g.) Addressed to all true Jingoes. In wain would I the British Lion wake! In wain I’d rouge the brute to wilent springing; His tail won’t wag, his mane declines to shake. In wain my daily ’larum-bell I take, Till his ears tingle with its brazen ringing In wain would I the British Lion wake! In wain I warn him of that Northern snake, Who midst our Injun grass will soon be stinging; His tail won’t wag, his mane declines to shake. * * * * * He sleeps as placid as a windless lake; Cold water on my fire his calm is flinging. His tail won’t wag, his mane declines to shake; In wain would I the British Lion wake! Punch. August 11, 1877.

(In a Temper.) A Triolet’s scarcely the thing— Unless you would carol in fetters! If lark-like you freely would sing, A Triolet’s scarcely the thing: I miss the poetical ring, I’m told that it has, by my betters! A Triolet’s scarcely the thing— Unless you would carol in fetters! Punch.

Le premier jour du mois de mai Fut le plus heureux de ma vie: Le beau dessein que je formai, Le premier jour du mois de mai! Je vous vis et je vous aimai. Si ce dessein vous plut, Sylvie, Le premier jour du mois de mai Fut le plus heureux de ma vie. Jacques Ranchin.

A Triolet, (After Mr. Dobson’s “I intended an Ode”) I wished to sing my love; I cannot do so now. (As I remarked above) I wished to sing my love, But Kate crossed with her cow And gave my love a shove. I wished to sing my love; I cannot do so now. John Twig.

How to Fashion a Triolet. As triolets are now the “go,” A charming one I’ll write, Their little niceties to show,— As triolets are now the “go,”— I’m writing one (and à propos, By Webster, I am right); As triolets are now the “go,” A charming one I’ll write. The dictionary teaches me The triolet receipt:— The verses of eight lines must be; The dictionary teaches me The first line, by the recipe, Three times I must repeat. The dictionary teaches me The triolet receipt. The second line must reappear To form the final line; No matter if it soundeth queer. The second line must reappear; When poetry is far from clear It is considered fine! The second line must reappear To form the final line. Now, do you like the triolet? Your true opinion say. It puts me in a horrid pet; Now, do you like the triolet? I wish your real thought to get, So do be candid, pray. Now do you like the triolet? Your true opinion say. W. Best. Detroit Free Press, 1888.

(In a Rage.) Pray tell me why we can’t agree To bid the merry Muse run free? Pray tell me why we should incline To see her in a Rondeau pine, Or sigh in shackled minstrelsy? Why can’t she sing with lark-like glee, And revel in bright jeux d’esprit? Where form can’t fetter or confine— Pray tell me why? Pray tell me why that frisky gee, Called Pegasus, should harnessed be? Why bit and bridle should combine To all his liveliness consign,— To deck the Rondeau’s narrow line— Pray tell me why? Punch.

RONDEAU. Ma foi, c’est fait de moi, car Isabeau M a conjuré de lui faire un rondeau. Cela me met en peine extrême Quoi! treize vers, huit en eau, cinq en eme! Je lui ferais aussitôt un bateau. En voilà cing pourtant en un monceau. Faisons-en huit en invoquant Brodeau, Et puis mettons, par quelque stratagème: Ma foi, c est fait. Si je pouvais encor de mon cerveau Tirer cinq vers l’ouvrage serait beau; Mais cependant je suis dedans l’onzième; Et ci je crois que je fais le douzième; En voila treize ajustés au niveau. Ma foi, c’est fait. —Voiture.

You bid me try, BLUE-EYES, to write A Rondeau. What! forthwith?—to-night? Reflect. Some skill I have, ’tis true; But thirteen lines!-and rhymed on two!— “Refrain,” as well. Ah, hapless plight! Still there are five lines—ranged aright. These Gallic bonds, I feared, would fright My easy Muse. They did, till you— You bid me try! “That makes them eight.—The port’s in sight: Tis all because your eyes are bright! Now just a pair to end in “oo,”— When maids command, what can’t we do! Behold! The RONDEAU—tasteful, light— You bid me try!”

A Rondeau. (After Voiture’s “Ma foy c’est fait.”) Why do I wander wildly to and fro? My tyrant bade me twist her a rondeau. Methinks ’twas deleterious to my brain! I loved her (though her name was Mary Jane): She died of D. T. many years ago. A Rondeau? Humph! Ha, hum! Egad, just so! “Five rhymes in ain and eight remain in O.” Eh, no, Voiture! For they be all inane. Why do I wander? White though the head be, red’s the nose below— (Bright beams a light-house spite a roof of snow)— “Why wander goose-like?” doth my love complain? Ah, dear, dead love! Ah, Marie! Ah, ma reine! (Meaning M. J. of course.) Hullo! Gee Wo! Why do I wander?

Culture in the Slums. (Inscribed to an Intense Poet.) “O Crikey, Bill!” she ses to me, she ses. “Look sharp,” ses she, “with them there sossiges. Yea! sharp with them there bags of mysteree! For lo!” she ses, “for lo! old pal,” ses she, “I’m blooming peckish, neither more nor less.” Was it not prime—I leave you all to guess How prime!—to have a jude in love’s distress Come spooning round, and murmuring balmilee, “O crikey, Bill!” For in such rorty wise doth Love express His blooming views, and asks for your address, And makes it right, and does the gay and free. I kissed her—I did so! And her and me Was pals. And if that ain’t good business, O crikey, Bill! W. E. Henley.

A Rondel. (After Mr. Dobson’s “Too hard it is to sing.”) Too hard it is to pipe To an untuneful herd! And berries, while unripe, Repel the prudent bird! The wildly warbling snipe You may, perhaps, have heard— (Too hard it is to pipe To an untuneful herd!) It rarely fed on tripe But mushroom much preferred Lest folk its tail should gripe And salt (which were absurd!) Too hard it is to pipe To an untuneful herd!

Rondel. (Adapted, for the use of the Order of Our Lady of Pain.) Kissing the Heir, I saw him at my feet, Wound round my finger, found him soft and sweet; Made fast his feeble hands, dazzled his eyes,— Like fishes’ optics, no ways clear or wise. With my best dresses made him find me fair— Kissing the Heir! Deep the resources drained by him and me, Deep as Disraeli, or the deeper sea. What wife could draw him thus for her and her’s? What charm have made him more for me disburse?— Ah! if his guardian had not caught me there Kissing the Heir! The Hornet, July 26, 1871.

I. I would that all men my hard case might know; How grievously I suffer for no sin: I, Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, for lo! I, of my landlady am locked in. For being short on this sad Saturday, 69 Nor having shekels of silver wherewith to pay; She has turned and is departed with my key; Wherefore, not even as other boarders free, I sing (as prisoners to their dungeon stones When for ten days they expiate a spree): Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones! II. One night and one day have I wept my woe; Nor wot I when the morrow doth begin, If I shall have to write to Briggs & Co., To pray them to advance the requisite tin For ransom of their salesman, that he may Go forth as other boarders go alway—— As those I hear now flocking from their tea, Led by the daughter of my landlady Piano-ward. This day for all my moans, Dry bread and water have been servéd me. Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones! III. Miss Amabel Jones is musical, and so The heart of the young he-boardér doth win, Playing “The Maiden’s Prayer,” adagio— That fetcheth him, as fetcheth the banco skin The innocent rustic. For my part, I pray: That Badarjewska maid may wait for aye Ere sits she with a lover, as did we Once sit together, Amabel! Can it be That all that arduous wooing not atones For Saturday shortness of trade dollars three? Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones! IV. Yea! she forgets the arm was wont to go Around her waist. She wears a buckle whose pin Galleth the crook of the young man’s elbow; I forget not, for I that youth have been. Smith was aforetime the Lothario gay. Yet once, I mind me, Smith was forced to stay Close in his room. Not calm, as I, was he; But his noise brought no pleasaunce, verily. Small ease he gat of playing on the bones, Or hammering on his stove-pipe, that I see. Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones! V. Thou, for whose fear the figurative crow I eat, accursed be thou and all thy kin! Thee will I show up—yea, up will I shew Thy too thick buckwheats, and thy tea too thin. Ay! here I dare thee, ready for the fray! Thou dost not “keep a first-class house,” I say! It does not with the advertisements agree. Thou lodgest a Briton with a puggaree, And thou hast harboured Jacobses and Cohns, Also a Mulligan. Thus denounce I thee! Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones! Envoy. Boarders! the worst I have not told to ye: She hath stolen my trousers, that I may not flee Privily by the window. Hence these groans, There is no fleeing in a robe de nuit. Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones! H. C. Bunner.

“Why did you melt your waxen man, Sister Helen? To-day is the third since you began.” “The time was long, yet the time ran, Little brother.” (O Mother, Mary Mother, Three days to-day, between Hell and Heaven!) 70 “But if you have done your work aright, Sister Helen, You’ll let me play, for you said I might.” “Be very still in your play to-night, Little brother.” (O Mother, Mary Mother, Third night, to-night, between Hell and Heaven!) “Oh, the waxen knave was plump to-day, Sister Helen; How like dead folk he has dropped away!” “Nay now, of the dead what can you say, Little brother?” (O Mother, Mary Mother, What of the dead, between Hell and Heaven?) * * * * * “Ah! what white thing at the door has cross’d, Sister Helen? Ah! what is this that sighs in the frost?” “A soul that’s lost as mine is lost, Little brother!” (O Mother, Mary Mother, Lost, lost, all lost, between Hell and Heaven!)

After Dilettante Concetti. “Why do you wear your hair like a man, Sister Helen? This week is the third since you began.” “I’m writing a ballad; be still if you can, Little brother, (O Mother Carey, mother! What chickens are these between sea and heaven?”) “But why does your figure appear so lean, Sister Helen? And why do you dress in sage sage, green?” “Children should never be heard, if seen, Little brother! (O Mother Carey, mother! What fowls are a-wing in the stormy heaven!” “But why is your face so yellowy white, Sister Helen? And why are your skirts so funnily tight?” “Be quiet you torment, or how can I write, Little brother? (O Mother Carey, mother! How gathers thy train to the sea from the heaven.”) “And who’s Mother Carey, and what is her train, Sister Helen? And why do you call her again and again?” “You troublesome boy, why that’s the refrain, Little brother! O Mother Carey, mother! What work is toward in the startled heaven?”) “And what’s a refrain? What a curious word, Sister Helen; Is the ballad you’re writing about a sea-bird?” “Not at all! why should it be? Don’t be absurd, Little brother. (O Mother Carey, mother! Thy brood flies lower as lowers the heaven.)” (A big brother speaketh:) “The refrain you’ve studied a meaning had, Sister Helen! It gave strange force to a weird ballàd. But refrains have become a ridiculous ‘fad,’ Little brother. And Mother Carey, mother, Has a bearing on nothing in earth or heaven.” * * * * *

Eve. (An Imitation.) “Dasz ich genossen des Wissens Frucht, Das kannst du nicht mehr aendern.”—[H. Heine.] The serpent tempted thee to shame, Mother Eve. God’s direst vengeance on thee came, Mother Eve. And never may we hope to win That golden garden close hedged in From toil and tempest, strife and sin, Mother Eve. Before thy wondering, wakened eyes, Mother Eve. Clashed shut the gates of Paradise, Mother Eve. Thy wandering feet, thy hands were torn, By briar, wayside weed and thorn, Thy babes in anguish great were born, Mother Eve. And yet God’s vengeance knew no stay, Mother Eve. Thy first-born did his brother slay, Mother Eve. Died not thy heart for woe and dread, When Abel in thine arms lay dead, And Cain red-handed turned and fled, Mother Eve? Methinks I hear thee murmur “Nay,” Mother Eve. “Evil and bitter was my day,” Mother Eve. “Evil and full of pain, but still I am Thy judge—work all Thy will— I judge Thee knowing good from ill.” Mother Eve. “I stretched mine hand unto Thy tree—” Mother Eve. “Not as the sightless beasts are we—” Mother Eve. “The curse has fallen—let it bide— I and my children open-eyed Know Thee, and judge, whate’er betide,” Mother Eve. Mabel Peacock. Detroit Free Press, December 5, 1885.

The Poets at Tea. Rossetti, who took six cups of it. The lilies lie in my lady’s bower, (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost), They faintly droop for a little hour; My lady’s head droops like a flower. She took the porcelain in her hand, (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost), She poured; I drank at her command; Drank deep, and now-you understand! (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost). * * * * * The Cambridge Fortnightly. February, 1888.

A Twilight Fantasy. A woman stood at a garden gate (Sing hey, for the distant spreading sail!) Sing hey, for the dog that hurried by With a kettle tied to his tail. My goodman skurried adown the road. (Sing hey, for the joyous drinking bout!) And after the ochre cur he sped With many a gruesome shout. “Now why this haste, good neighbour?” she cried; “Why after the dog of the umber tint?” But, waking the echoes with yells, he sped Through the twilight’s gleam and glint. A smug-face lad looked over the fence (Sing hey, where the birdlings sing and chirp,) “Why laughest, good mother!” “I laugh,” said she, “To see yon ecru purp.” A smile then smilèd the smug-faced lad. (Sing lack-a-day, for the sunset red,) “Then laugh no more, good gossip, because The kettle is your’n,” he said. The Shooting Times. February 11, 1887.

The Laundress and the Laidy. All on a sofa fair Ada lay, (O, for a brandy and soda, she sighed), It was four in the afternoon, and gay Was the outside world, but Ada must stay In her room, and thus she cried, “Could I but join the happy throng.” (And O, for a brandy and soda she sighed), “That under my windows pass along To Short’s, or to Finch’s, I’d soon be gone, Or to the Inventions glide.” She took down an “afternoon tea-book” to read, (O, for a brandy and soda she sighed), But it interested her little indeed, Such books are tame if you haven’t “teaed.” And no one sat by her side. She went to the window and gazed at the sky, (O, for a brandy and soda she sighed), Then she saw her particular mash pass by, To attract his attention did she try, But in vain, tho’ hard she tried. Her chloral bottle she took in her hand, (O, for a brandy and soda she sighed), “To sleep till the evening will be grand;” And she slept through the strains of a German band, Which was playing in all its pride. “Why didn’t she go for a stroll?” you say, But, reader, I beg you pause; Her friends on a visit were all away, And her laundress forgot to send home that day Her petticoats, stockings, and pockethandkerchiefs. The Sporting Times. June 20, 1885.

The auld wife sat at her ivied door, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) A thing she had frequently done before; And her spectacles lay on her apron’d knees. The piper he piped on the hill-top high, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) Till the cow said “I die,” and the goose ask’d “Why?” And the dog said nothing, but search’d for fleas. The farmer he strode through the square farm-yard; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) His last brew of ale was a trifle hard— The connexion of which with the plot one sees. The farmer’s daughter hath frank blue eyes; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies, As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas. The farmer’s daughter hath ripe red lips; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) If you try to approach her, away she skips Over tables and chairs with apparent ease. The farmer’s daughter hath soft brown hair; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And I met with a ballad, I can’t say where, Which wholly consisted of lines like these.

She sat with her hands ’neath her burning cheeks, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks; Then she follow’d him out o’er the misty leas. Her sheep follow’d her, as their tails did them, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And this song is consider’d a perfect gem, And as to the meaning, it’s what you please.

You, I, and the Post. You,—the British Public; I,—W. E. G. The Post—G. P. O. A statesman sits at Hawarden gate, (Paper and pens and a bottle of ink.) A stalwart man with a shapely pate, And brains to spare, as you rightly think. The live-long day he’s been hacking down trees, (Paper and pens and two bottles of ink.) Toughish work, yet he does it with ease, Nor e’en doth, as Milton would phrase it, “swink.” Who is’t approacheth? ha! ha! The post! (Paper and pens and a pint of ink.) Of letters and post-cards bearing a host— Beneath the load he seems ready to sink. The Statesman opens and reads them all, (Paper and pens and a quart of ink.) Quoth he, “I’ll answer them great and small, This very night ere I sleep a wink.” In he strides to his big bureau, (Paper and pens and a gallon of ink.) And answers fourscore letters or so— (Fourscore’s the minimum number, I think); Some answered by note, and some by card, (Paper and pens and a barrel of ink.) But when the question’s uncommonly hard, The point of the query he’ll deftly shrink. Oh, the postman puffs, and the postman swears, (Paper and pens and a sheet of stamps.) At the load of letters and cards he bears To Hawarden gate in his daily tramps. Oh, you who of letters and answers are fond, (Paper and pens and a grey goose quill.) Write to Hawarden, there beyond— And an answer you’ll get from the People’s Will! Hubert John de Burgh.

“Where are you going to, my pretty Maid?” (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!) “I’m going a-milking, Sir;” she said; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!) “For times are bad, and the farm don’t pay. ’Tis Pasture v. Arable so men say. If still I’d be prosperous this is the way. (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!) “I’m tired of corn-growing that brings little cash, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!) The old business of Ceres seems going to smash. (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!) Free Trade and the Yankee have finished her clean. From furrow and sheaf there seems little to glean, From ploughed land to pasture I’m changing the scene. (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!) “I hope you’ll allow I look fetching like this, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!) A Dairymaid’s dress suits me sweetly, I wis. (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!) Just twig my short petticoats, look at my pail! The bards are all ready a Milkmaid to hail! I mean making prettiness pay,—shall I fail? (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!) “You’ve been to the Dairy Show, Sir, have you not? (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!) Those churners competitive were a sweet lot. (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!) Miss Holmes, and Miss Keel, and Miss Barron, who won, Seemed not a bit fagged when the business was done. I’m sure Butter-making looks capital fun. (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!)” * * * * *

A Christmas Wail. (Not by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.) On Christmas day I dined with Brown. (O the dinner was fine to see!) I drove to his house, right merrily down To a western square of London town. (And I moan and I cry woe’s me!) We dined off turkey and Christmas beef; (O the dinner was fine to see!) My anguish is sore and my comfort brief, And nought but blue pills can ease my grief, (As I moan and I cry woe’s me!) We gorged plum-pudding and hot mince pies, (O the dinner was fine to see!) And other nameless atrocities, The weight of which on my—bosom lies. (And I moan and I cry woe’s me!) We drank dry Clicquot and rare old port, (O the dinner was fine to see!) And I pledged my host for a right good sort In bumpers of both, for I never thought (I should moan and I cry woe’s me!) * * * * * But I woke next day with a fearful head, (O that dinner so fine to see!) And on my chest is a weight like lead, And I frequently wish that I were dead, (And I moan and I cry woe’s me!) And as for Brown—why the truth to tell— (O that dinner so fine to see!) I hate him now with the hate of hell, Though before I loved him passing well, (And I moan and I cry woe’s me!) Truth. December 27, 1883.

Madonna Mia. I would I were a cigarette Between my lady’s lithe sad lips Where Death, like Love, divinely set, With exquisite sighs and sips, Feeds and is fed and is not fain, And Memory married with Regret, And Pleasure amorous of red Pain, In moon-wise musing wax and wane; That with the bitter sweetness of her breath I might somewhile remember and forget (For Life is Love, and Love is Death!) It was my hap—ah well-a-way— To burn my little hour away! I would I were a gold jewèl To fleck my lady’s soft lean throat, Where Love, like Death, lies throned to swell A strange and tremulous note Of yearning vague and void and vain, Delight on flame Desire to quell, And Pleasure fearful of red Pain, And dreams fall in to sear and stain; That in the barren blossom of her breath I might be glad we were not one, but twain (For Love is Life, and Life is Death!) And that without me, well-a-way, She could not choose but pass away.

A Ballad of High Endeavour. Ah night! blind germ of days to be, Ah me! ah me! (Sweet Venus, mother!) What wail of smitten strings hear we? (Ah me; ah me! Hey diddle dee!) Ravished by clouds our Lady Moon, Ah me! ah me! (Sweet Venus, mother!) Sinks swooning in a lady-swoon (Ah me! ah me! Dum diddle dee!) What profits it to rise i’ the dark? Ah me! ah me! (Sweet Venus, mother!) If love but over-soar its mark (Ah me! ah me! Hey diddle dee!) What boots to fall again forlorn? Ah me! ah me; (Sweet Venus, mother!) Scorned by the grinning hound of scorn, (Ah me! ah me! Dum diddle dee!) Art thou not greater who art less? Ah me! ah me! (Sweet Venus, mother!) Low love fulfilled of low success? (Ah me! ah me! Hey diddle dee!)

Song by Mr. Joseph Hubert Hillyer. Art is to me no intellectual fad; (A goodly balance is fair to see!) You don’t catch me o’er culture going mad. (The rarest of letters are £ s. d.!) As soon as I could paint I set my heart On making money (else what good is Art?); In painting show-bills ’twas I made my start. (O, sweet is the chink of cash to me!) 74 I found the public vulgar scenes liked best, (A goodly balance is fair to see!) And so I painted my great “Crowner’s Quest;” (The rarest of letters are £ s. d.!) And when its sordid realism took, I gave them next my “Fair at Donnybrook.” And “Tourists up the Rhine with Mr. Cook.” (O, sweet is the chink of cash to me!) These made my name, and then the Starch firm, Plums, (A goodly balance is fair to see!) To paint them posters gave me lordly sums; (The rarest of letters are £ s. d.!) And there was not a hoarding but did bear (Above my name, writ large,) a dainty pair Of damsels, who starched collarettes did wear. (O, sweet is the chink of cash to me!) Since then I’ve turned my art to fresh accounts, (A goodly balance is fair to see!) And rival razors puffed for large amounts. (O, rarest of letters are £ s. d.!) I’ve painted, too, with realistic tricks, “The Penny Steamboat’s Progress” (set of six), From Old Swan Pier, till at Vauxhall she sticks! (O, sweet is the chink of cash to me!) Truth. Christmas Number, 1882.

London Town. A Lyric à la Mode. Kent-born Helen, England’s pride, (O London Town!) Had a waist a world too wide For the height of her heart’s desire. Vinegar she in vain had tried. (O London Town! Fashion’s thralls ne’er tire!) Helen knelt at Fashion’s shrine, (O London Town!) Saying, “A little boon is mine, A little boon, but my heart’s desire. Here me speak, and make me a sign! (O London Town! Fashion’s thralls ne’er tire!) “Look! my waist is in excess, (O London Town!) I would die to have it less. Shape it to my heart’s desire. Fit for fashionable dress. (O London Town! Fashion’s thralls ne’er tire!) “It is moulded like a Greek’s, (O London Town!) One of Nature’s spiteful freaks. Pinch it to my heart’s desire: I am full of pains and piques. (O London Town! Fashion’s thralls ne’er tire!) “See Bell Fane’s, how slim it is! (O London Town!) Eighteen inches at most, I wis! Poisons the cup of my heart’s desire. O that I should suffer this! (O London Town! Fashion’s thralls ne’er tire!) “Yea, for straitness here I sue! (O London Town!) Antifat I find won’t do; Give me, give me, my heart’s desire, Three inches less, or at least full two.” (O London Town! Fashion’s thralls ne’er tire!) (Eight verses omitted.) Punch. April 24, 1880.

Cimabuella. I. Fair-tinted cheeks, clear eyelids drawn In crescent curves above the light Of eyes, whose dim, uncertain dawn Becomes not day: a forehead white Beneath long yellow heaps of hair: She is so strange she must be fair. II. Had she sharp, slant-wise wings outspread, She were an angel; but she stands With flat dead gold behind her head, And lilies in her long thin hands: Her folded mantle, gathered in, Falls to her feet as it were tin. III. Her nose is keen as pointed flame; Her crimson lips no thing express; And never dread of saintly blame Held down her heavy eyelashes: To guess what she were thinking of, Precludeth any meaner love. IV. An azure carpet, fringed with gold, Sprinkled with scarlet spots, I laid Before her straight, cool feet unrolled: But she nor sound nor movement made (Albeit, I heard a soft, shy smile, Printing her neck a moment’s while); V. And I was shamed through all my mind For that she spake not, neither kissed, But stared right past me. Lo! behind Me stood, in pink and amethyst, Sword-girt and velvet-doubleted, A tall, gaunt youth, with frowzy head, VI. Wide nostrils in the air, dull eyes, Thick lips that simpered, but, ah me! I saw, with most forlorn surprise, He was the Thirteenth Century, I but the Nineteenth: then despair Curdled beneath my curling hair. 75 VII. O, Love and Fate! How could she choose My rounded outlines, broader brain, And my resuscitated Muse? Some tears she shed, but whether pain Or joy in him unlocked their source, I could not fathom which, of course. VIII. But I from missals, quaintly bound, With either and with clavichord Will sing her songs of sovran sound: Belike her pity will afford Such faint return as suits a saint So sweetly done in verse and paint.

“Torn from your parent bough, Poor leaf, all withered now, Where go you?”

Imitazione. Lungi dal proprio ramo, Povera foglia frale Dove vai tu? Dal faggio Là dov’ io nacqui, mi divise il vento. Esso, tornando, a volo Dal bosco alla campagna, Dalla valle mi porta alla montagna Seco perpetuamente; Vo pellegrino, e tutto l’altro ignoro. Vo dove ogni altra cosa Dove naturalmente Va la foglia di rosa E la foglia d’alloro.

De la tige détachée. Pauvre feuille desséchée, Ou vas-tu? Je n’en sais rien. L’orage a brisé le chêne Qui seul etait mon soutien. De son inconstante haleine Le zéphir ou l’acquilon Depuis ce jour me promène De la montagne à la plaine, De la forêt au vallon, Je vais où le vent me mène, Hélas! sans trop m’effrayer; Je vais où va toute chose, Où va la feuille de rose, Où va la feuille de laurier.

Thou poor leaf, so sear and frail, Sport of every wanton gale, Whence and whither dost thou fly Through this bleak autumnal sky? On a noble oak I grew, Green and broad and fair to view; But the monarch of the shade By the tempest low was laid. From that time I wandered o’er Wood and valley, hill and moor; Wheresoe’er the wind is blowing, Nothing caring, nothing knowing. Thither go I whither goes Glory’s laurel, Beauty’s rose.

A Legend of Camelot. Tall Braunighrindas left her bed At cock-crow with an aching head, O Miserie! “I yearn to suffer and to do,” She cried, “ere sunset, something new! O Miserie! “To do and suffer, ere I die, I care not what. I know not why. O Miserie! “Some quest I crave to undertake, Or burden bear, or trouble make.” O Miserie! She shook her hair about her form In waves of colour bright and warm. O Miserie! It rolled and writhed and reached the floor; A silver wedding-ring she wore. O Miserie! She left her tower, and wandered down Into the High street of the town. O Miserie! Her pale feet glimmered, in and out, Like tombstones as she went about. O Miserie! From right to left, and left to right; And blue veins streakt her insteps white; O Miserie! And folks did ask her in the street “How fared it with her long pale feet?” O Miserie! And blinkt, as though ’twere hard to bear The red-heat of her blazing hair! O Miserie! Sir Galahad and Sir Launcelot Came hand in hand down Camelot; O Miserie! Sir Gauwaine followed close behind; A weight hung heavy on his mind. O Miserie! 76 “Who knows this damsel, burning bright,” Quoth Launcelot “like a northern light?” O Miserie! Quoth Sir Gauwaine: “I know her not!” “Who quoth you did?” Quoth Launcelot. O Miserie! Then quoth the pure Sir Galahad; “She seems, methinks, but lightly clad!” O Miserie! “Ah me!” sighed Launcelot where he stood, “I cannot fathom it!” … (Who could?) O Miserie! * * * * *

Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you planned: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for awhile And afterwards remember, do not grieve; For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.

Remember. Remember it, although you’re far away— Too far away more fivers yet to land, When you no more can proffer notes of hand, Nor I half yearn to change my yea to nay. Remember, when no more in airy way, You tell me of repayment sagely planned: Only remember it, you understand! It’s rather late to counsel you to pay; Yet if you should remember for awhile, And then forget it wholly, I should grieve; For, though your light procrastinations leave Small remnants of the hope that once I had, Than that you should forget your debt and smile, I’d rather you’d remember and be sad. Judy. April 18, 1888.

Ding Dong. By Rosina Christelli. Ding Dong, Ding Dong, There goes the gong, Dick, come along, ’Tis time for dinner. Wash your face, Take your place, Where’s your grace You little sinner? “Like an apple?” “Yes, I should. Nice, nice, nicey! Good, good, good!” “Manners, Miss, Please behave. Those you ask Shan’t have.” “Those who don’t, Don’t want. I’ll eat it, You shan’t.” Baby cry, Wipe his eye. Baby good, Give him food. Baby sleepy, Go to bed. Baby naughty, Smack his head! Poor little thrush, Found dead in a bush! When did he die? He is rather high. Bury him deep, He won’t keep. Bury him well, Or he’ll smell. What have horns? Cows and moons. What have crests? Cocks and spoons. What are nice? Ducks and peas. What are nasty? Bites of fleas. What are fast? Tides and times. What are slow? Nursery Rhymes.

Rondel. Behold the works of W. Morris, Epics, and here and there wall-papery, Mild, mooney, melancholy vapoury. A sort of Chaucer minus Horace. Spun out like those of William Loris, Who wrote of amourous red-tapery, Behold the works of W. Morris, Epics, and here and there wall-papery! Long ladies, knights, and earles and choris- ters in the most appropriate drapery, Samite and silk and spotless napery, Sunflowers and apple-blossoms and orris, Behold the works of W. Morris!

In the cushioned Abbey pew There is space for Me and You. Twine the blossoms in my hair; 77 Never mind if people stare— Never mind, for none knowèth If one flirteth after death! Hark—the organ shakes the pew! Would it were for Me and You! Yea, I would indeed it were! Are they staring? Let them stare! Never mind, for none knowèth If one laugheth after death! We will slumber in the pew— I am weary, so are you, And the cushions in repair! Let the British public stare! Never mind, for none knowèth If one sleepeth after death!

All Sides of the River. The Maidens. We, with distaste, across the water wan, The broadcloth of our modern lovers scan; We each prefer a mediæval man. The Youths. We would not reach you, if we could dry-shod; Not one of us would change, for even, his odd; The Girl we like not of the Period. The Mothers. O daughters! make your markets while you can, For bloom soon groweth like the water wan; The early bird picks up the marrying man. The Maidens. Perhaps, O lovers, if we did our hair A la Medea, and if our garments were Draped classically, we should seem more fair. The Youths. By doing this ye would not us befool; Medea! the idea makes our blood run cool, Besides of classics we’d enough at school. The Boys. Come, I say, now, the girls can darn, and hem, And cook a chop, and clean a meerschaum-stem; Our sisters take, we are so tired of them. The Maidens. Perhaps if ruffs around our necks were tied, Or you with idiotic stare we eyed All angles, with our heads upon one side, In short, the middle age style— The Widows. Suitors! stay, We are less far from middle age than they. The Youths. Maidens, we then to you would make our way. The Maidens, Cross ye the water wan, then,— Mr. Swinburne. I demur To “water wan,” it comes too often, sir; Write next, as I should, rhyming, “wan water,” The Maidens. Lovers, we pray you, gaining our consents, Let us, too, have our mediæval bents, Give us, for cricket-matches, tournaments. The Widowers. We are stout, nor will uncomfortably truss Our arms and legs, like fowls; no jousts for us, In armour we should look ridiculous. The Fathers. Of money, tournaments would cost a heap: Humour your sweethearts, sons, with something cheap But look to settlements before you leap. The Youths. O maidens! we in verse will call you queens, And publicly extol your minds and miens, Sending our poems to the magazines. The Maidens. Sith of Life’s arches bloom hath shortest span, We will give up our mediæval man, And meet you half way in the water wan. The Editors. Alas! the maidens have removed their ban, We, vex’d with verses vile, e’en when they scan, Shall very soon be as the water wan. Anonymous. Once a Week. February 20, 1869.

The Monthly Parodies. AN APOLOGY. After William Morris’s “Earthly Paradise.” Of Love or War this is no hour to sing, But I may ease the burden of your fears (Lest you think death to mirth is happening), And quote from wit of past and present years, Till o’er these pages you forget your tears, And smile again, as presently you say Some idle jingle—or forgotten lay. But when a-weary of the hunt for mirth Thro’ comic journals, with a doleful sigh, You feel unkindly unto all the earth, And grudge the pennies that they cost to buy These “weakly comics,” lingering like to die, Remember, then, a little while, I pray, The clever singers of a former day. The pomp and power and grand majestic air That marches thro’ their poems’ stately tread, These idle verses may catch unaware, And by burlesque call back remembered Some rhymes “that living not can ne’er be dead,” Though what is meant by that I cannot say— But Mr. Morris wrote it one fine day. Here grouped are strains of parody in rhyme, Now classified and placed in order straight, Let it suffice it for the present time That some be old, while some are born but late, A careful choice, from all the crowd that wait, Of those that in forgotten serials stay, Or are, in passing journals, tossed away. 78 Folks say a wizard to a common King, One April-tide such wondrous jest did show That in a mirror men beheld each thing, Like, yet unlike, and saw the pale nose glow, While rosy face looked white as fallen snow, Each visage altered in such comic way That those who came to court, remain’d to play. So with these many Parodies it is, If you will read aright and carefully, Not scathing satire, nor malicious hiss For lack of beauty in the themes to see; Nor jeerings coarse, at what men prize, as we But jest to make some little changeling play Its pranks in classic robes, all crowned with bay. Gleeson White.

REQUIESCAT. Tread lightly, she is near, Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daises grow. All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair, Fallen to dust. Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew. Coffin board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast, I vex my heart alone, She is at rest. Peace, peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet, All my life’s buried here, Heap earth upon it.

“All her bright golden air, Tarnished with rust.”

“There’s Oscar Wilde, that gifted chylde, Fair Poesie’s anointed, Has, like a brick, the Atlantic Crossed, to be disappointed. Poor Oscar Wilde, æsthetic chylde; The Atlantic ought to know it! A fault so grave to misbehave, And disappoint a poet!”

“What a shame and what a pity, In the streets of London City Mr. Wilde is seen no more. Far from Piccadilly banished, He to Omaha has vanished, Horrid place, which swells ignore. On his back a coat he beareth, Such as Sir John Bennett weareth, Made of velvet—strange array! Legs Apollo might have sighed for, Or great Hercules have died for, His knee breeches now display. Waving sunflower and lily, He calls all the houses “illy” Decorated and designed. For of taste they’ve not a tittle; They may chew and they may whittle; But they are all born colour blind!”

Paumanokides: Who may this be? This young man clad unusually with loose locks, languorous, glidingly toward me advancing, Toward the ceiling of my chamber his orbic and expressive eyeballs uprolling, As I have seen the green-necked wild fowl, the mallard, in the thunderings of the storm, By the weedy shore of Paumanok my fish-shaped island, Sit down, young man! I do not know you, but I love you with burning intensity, I am he that loves the young men, whosoever and wheresoever they are or may be hereafter, or may have been any time in the past, Loves the eye-glassed literat, loves also and probably more the vendor of clams, raucous-throated, monotonous chanting, Loves the elevated Railroad employée of Manahatta, My city; I suppress the rest of the list of the persons I love, solely because I love you, Sit down, élève, I receive you! Narcissus. O clarion, from whose brazen throat Strange sounds across the seas are blown, Where England, girt as with a moat, A strong sea-lion sits alone! A pilgrim from that white-cliffed shore, What joy, large flower of Western land! To seek thy democratic door, With eager hand to clasp thy hand! Paumanokides. Right you are! Take then the electric pressure of these fingers, O my Comrade! * * * * * Dear son, I have learned the secret of the Universe, I learned it from my original bonne, the white-capped ocean, The secret of the Universe is not Beauty, dear son, Nor is it Art, the perpetuator of Beauty, The secret of the Universe is to admire one’s self. Camerado, you hear me! Narcissus. Ah, I too loitering on an eve of June Where one wan narciss leaned above a pool, 80 While overhead Queen Dian rose too soon, And through the Tyrian clematis the cool Night avis came wandering wearily, I too, Beholding that pale flower, beheld Life’s key at last, and knew That love of one’s fair self were but indeed Just worship of pure Beauty; and I gave One sweet sad sigh, then bade my fond eyes feed Upon the mirrored treasure of the wave, Like that lithe beauteous boy in Tempe’s vale, Whom hapless Echo loved—thou knowest the Heliconian tale! And while heaven’s harmony in lake and gold Changed to a faint nocturne in silvern gray, Like rising sea-mists from my spirit rolled The grievous vapors of this Age of Clay, Beholding Beauty’s re-arisen Shrine, And the white glory of this precious loveliness of mine! * * * * * Haply in the far, the orient future, In the dawn we herald like the birds, Men shall read the legend of our meeting, Linger o’er the music of our words; Haply coming poets shall compare me Then to Milton in his lovely youth, Sitting in the cell of Galileo, Learning at his elder’s lips the truth. Haply they shall liken these dear moments, Safely held in History’s amber clear, Unto Dante’s converse bland with Virgil, On the margin of that gloomy mere! Paumanokides. Do not be deceived, dear son; Amid the chorusses of the morn of progress, roaring, hilarious, those names will be heard no longer. Galileo was admirable once, Milton was admirable, Dante the I-talian was a cute man in his way, But he was not the maker of poems, the answerer! I, Paumanokides, am the maker of poems, the answerer, And I calculate to chant as long as the earth revolves, To an interminable audience of haughty, effusive, copious, gritty, and chipper Americanos! Narcissus. What more is left to say or do? Our minds have met; our hands must part. I go to plant in pastures new The love of Beauty and of Art, I’ll shortly start. One town is rather small for two Like me and you! Paumanokides. So long!

Sainte Margérie. An Imitation. Slim feet than lilies tenderer,— Margérie! That scarce upbore the body of her, Naked upon the stones they were;— C’est ça Sainte Margérie! White as a shroud the silken gown,— Margérie! That flowed from shoulder to ankle down, With clear blue shadows along it thrown; C’est ça Sainte Margérie! On back and bosom withouten braid,— Margérie! In crisped glory of darkling red, Round creamy temples her hair was shed;— C’est ça Sainte Margérie! Eyes like a dim sea, viewed from far,— Margérie! Lips that no earthly love shall mar, More sweet than lips of mortals are;— C’est ça Sainte Margérie! The chamber walls are cracked and bare;— Margérie! Without the gossips stood astare At men her bed away that bare;— C’est ça Sainte Margérie! Five pennies lay her hand within,— Margérie! So she her fair soul’s weal might win, Little she recked of dule or teen;— C’est ça Sainte Margérie! Dank straw from dunghill gathered, Margérie! Where fragrant swine have made their bed, Thereon her body shall be laid;— C’est ça Sainte Margérie! Three pennies to the poor in dole,— Margérie! One to the clerk her knell shall toll, And one to masses for her soul;— C’est ça Sainte Margérie!

Sitting up all Night with a Lily. Oh, fulsome the joy of the fading light! Oh, fainting of lilies with broken stem! When you feel too utterly almost quite, The sunflowers love, yet love not them! Oh, weird is the feeling of thoughtsome doubt When candles, and lamps, and gas are out, And burglarious Philistines prowl about, Chill is the air at four a.m.! Oh, mystic the eyelids all drowsy grown! Oh, fainting of lilies with broken stem! Oh, twitching of limbs that are scarce your own, The sunflowers love, yet love not them! Oh, baleful blessing, the wistful wist Of matters that have not, nor can exist! Oh, say, have you noticed the gladsome list? Chill is the air at four a.m.! You think of your bed with remorseful tears, Oh, fainting of lilies with broken stem! While sounds of the silence attack your ears, The sunflowers love, yet love not them! Oh, mythic deeds by the sightless seen! Oh, lovely past of the has not been! Oh, what in the world do I chance to mean? Chill is the air at four a.m.! Fun’s Academy Skits. 1882.

An Utter Passion uttered Utterly. Meseem’d that Love, with swifter feet than fire, Brought me my Lady crown’d with amorous burs, And drapen in tear-collar’d minivers, Sloped saltire wise in token of desire; My heart she soak’d in tears, and on a pyre Laid, for Love’s sake, in folds of fragrant perse, The while her face, more fair than sunflowers, She gave mine eyes for pasture most entire. Sicklike she seem’d, as with wan-carven smiles Some deal she moved anear, and thereunto Thrice paler wox, and weaker than blown sand Upon the passioning ocean’s beached miles; And as her motion’s music nearer drew My starved lips play’d the vampyre with her hand. John Todhunter. Kottabos. Dublin, William McGee. 1882.

An Æsthete’s Rhapsody. Consummate Dish! full many an ancient crack Is seamed across thy venerable back; And even through to thine æsthetic face Cracks run to lend a more enchanting grace! What matter though the epicure now loses The juice which through thy gaping fissures oozes? Thrice happy Table-cloth, thou knowest not The too-too beauty of yon greasy spot, To think that with a little vulgar butter, This High Art Dish can make thee look so utter. Harper’s Bazaar.

More Impressions. (By Oscuro Wildegoose.) La Fuite des Oies. To outer senses they are geese, Dull drowsing by a weedy pool; 82 But try the impression trick, Cool! Cool! Snow-slumbering sentinels of Peace! Deep silence on the shadowy flood Save rare sharp stridence (that means “quack”). Low amber light in Ariel track Athwart the dun (that means the mud). And suddenly subsides the sun, Bulks mystic, ghostly, thrid the gloom (That means the white geese waddling home), And darkness reigns! (See how it’s done?)

My love is as fair as a lily flower. (The Peacock Hue has a sacred sheen!) Oh, bright are the blooms in her maiden bower. (Sing Hey! Sing Ho! for the sweet Sage Green!) Her face is as wan as the water white. (The Peacock blue has a sacred sheen!) Her eyes are as stars on a moonlit night. (Sing Hey! Sing Ho! for the sweet Sage Green!) The China plate it is pure on the wall. (The Peacock blue has a sacred sheen!) Alack! she heedeth it never at all. (Sing Hey! Sing Ho! for the sweet Sage Green!) * * * * *

The Public House. (With apologies to Oscar Wilde’s “The Harlot’s House.”) We wandered home with weary feet, We lumbered down the lamp-lit street, And stopped beneath a public-house. Outside, in just the usual way, We heard the grand old cornet play A carol to the wild carouse. Like smell of spirits came the blast Of heated air that streetward passed, As “Out yer go” were shoved “the blind.” We watched the reeling roysterers spin From scene of revelry within, Like those who’d left their legs behind. Like idiots they, of foolish face, With grinning, ghastly-pale grimace, They looked so very, very ill! They took each other by the arm, As if in that there were a charm, In short they had had quite their fill. Sometimes a man who out was set Went through the swearing alphabet. Or p’r’aps he’d homeward start and sing. Then turning round to go, I said, “It’s after hours, I’ll home to bed, I will not wait the outward rush!” Just then the Bobby heard the din, And after knocking, entered in, Law passed into the House of Sin. Then suddenly the cornet stopped, The thrumming harp’s drear music dropped, The house it seemed its sails to furl. And down the long and noisy street The staggering legs of “whisky neat” Crawled headlong in a whirl. Tramway Tame. The Sporting Times. June 13, 1885.

Five-and-seventy maidens, free, Bent on dancing, one and all, Did some weeks ago decree They, themselves, would give a ball. Each, they said, would ask five men Who at waltzing were au fait. Settled was their project then, They had even fixed the day! Ah, miserie! For these dancing maidens found That a certain potent Prince, When he heard their details, frowned, His displeasure to evince. “This,” said he, “must not be so!” “That,” he quoth, “should not be thus!” Till the maidens’ tears did flow, As they murmured “Woe to us! Ah, miserie!” These same maidens, though, were wise, And soon ceased to weep or wince; Nor would they their plans revise, E’en to please a potent Prince, But resolved to merry be, Even though he would not come, Much enjoyed their dance, whilst he Had to moan in accents glum— “Ah, miserie!” Truth. July 16, 1885.