WALTER HAMILTON,

Some things are very good, pick out the best, Good wits compiled them, and I wrote the rest; If thou dost buy it, it will quit the cost, Read it, and all thy labour is not lost. John Taylor, the Water Poet.

Before the beginning of years There came to the making of man Time, with a gift of tears; Grief, with a glass that ran; Pleasure, with pain for leaven! Summer, with flowers that fell; Remembrance fallen from heaven, And madness risen from hell; Strength without hands to smite: Love that endures for a breath; Night, the shadow of light, And life the shadow of death. And the high gods took in hand Fire, and the falling of tears, And a measure of sliding sand From under the feet of the years: And froth and drift of the sea; And dust of the labouring earth; And bodies of things to be In the houses of death and of birth; And wrought with weeping and laughter, And fashioned with loathing and love. With life before and after, And death beneath and above, For a day and a night and a morrow, That his strength might endure for a span With travail and heavy sorrow, The holy spirit of man. For the winds of the north and the south They gathered as into strife; They breathed upon his mouth, They filled his body with life; Eyesight and speech they wrought For the veils of the soul therein, A time for labour and thought, A time to serve and to sin; They gave him light in his ways, And love, and a space for delight, And beauty and length of days, And night, and sleep in the night. His speech is a burning fire; With his lips he travaileth; In his heart is a blind desire, In his eyes foreknowledge of death; He weaves, and is clothed with derision; Sows, and he shall not reap; His life is a watch or a vision Between a sleep and a sleep. * * * * * A. C. Swinburne.

American Parody. Before the beginning of years, There went to the making of man Nine tailors with their shears, A coupe and a tiger and span, Umbrellas and neckties and canes, An ulster, a coat, and all that— But the crowning glory remains, His last best gift was his hat. And the mad hatters took in hand Skins of the beaver, and felt, And straw from the isthmus land, And silk and black bear’s pelt: And wrought with prophetic passion, Designed on the newest plan, They made in the height of fashion The hat for the wearing of man.

A Poet’s Valentine. Before the beginning of post There came to the making of love Rhyme and of follies a host; Ducks with a dart and a dove; 2 Flow’rs with initials beneath, Cupid conceal’d in a cell, Lovers alone on a heath. A Parson pulling a bell. Follies all fetched afar, Mirth for a maid and a man, Jokes that jingle and jar, And lines refusing to scan. And still with the change of things The annual craze comes back With knocks and riotous rings From the post piled up with a pack. Still letters of love and laughter, And verse in various time, With roars that reach to the rafter, And sheets of scurrilous rhyme. Of old we counted our money And played but a note for a kiss, But now we send hampers of honey And boxes of boisterous bliss. Fun. February 15, 1868.

“Now in the railway years There come to the making of books Crime with its gift of fears, Dream with mesmeric looks, Nihilist Czar-abhorrence, Acres of ‘snowy sward,’ Ouida, bottled in Florence, And Broughton in Oxenforde; Length, to deserve twelve pence; Plot, to atone for pith; Not a shadow of sense, And boys the shadows of Smith. And the tourist takes in hand Paper with creasy back, And a type he can understand, As he sways with his rolling rack, And froth and drift of the French, And mirth that is meet to sell, And bodies of things that drench The diversions of Max O’Rell. They are wrought with weeping for laughter, And in fashion for chap and cove, With Life before and after, And Truth beneath and above. For a day, for a night, for a nuisance That the novice may fling his flukes, And the publisher reap his usance— The ‘Shillingsworth’ plague of books.” Christmas Number of The World. 1885.

“For winter’s rains and ruins are over, And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the night that wins.”

“For Mayfair’s balls and ballets are over, And all the ‘Season’ of drums and dins; The maids dividing lover and lover, The wight that loses, the knight that wins; And last month’s life is a leaf that’s rotten, And flasks are filled and game bags gotten, And from green underwood and cover Pheasant on Pheasant his flight begins.”

The sea gives her shells to the shingle, The earth gives her streams to the sea; They are many, but my gift is single, My verses, the first-fruits of me. Let the wind take the green and the grey leaf, Cast forth without fruit upon air; Take rose-leaf and vine-leaf and bay-leaf Blown loose from the hair. * * * * * Though the world of your hands be more gracious And lovelier in lordship of things, Clothed round by sweet art with the spacious Warm heaven of her imminent wings; Let them enter, unfledged and nigh fainting, For the love of old loves and lost times, And receive in your palace of painting This revel of rhymes. * * * * * Though the many lights dwindle to one light, There is help if the heaven has one; Though the skies be discrowned of the sunlight, And the earth dispossessed of the sun, They have moonlight and sleep for repayment When refreshed as a bride, and set free, With stars and sea-winds in her raiment, Night sinks on the sea.

When waters are rent with commotion Of storms, or with sunlight made whole, The river still pours to the ocean The stream of its effluent soul; You, too, from all lips of all living Of worship disthroned and discrowned, Shall know by these gifts of my giving That faith is yet found. 3 By the sight of my song-flight of cases That bears on wings woven of rhyme Names set for a sign in high places By sentence of men of old time; From all counties they meet and they mingle, Dead suitors whom Westminster saw; There are many, but your name is single, The flower of pure law. When bounty of grantors was gracious To enfeoff you in fee and in tail, The bounds of your land were made spacious With lordship from Sale unto Dale; Trusts had you, and services loyal, Lips sovereign for ending of strife, And the names of the world’s names most royal For light of your life. Ah desire that was urgent to Romeward, And feet that were swifter than fate’s, And the noise of the speed of them homeward For mutation and fall of estates! Ah the days when your riding to Dover Was prayed for and precious as gold, The journeys, the deeds that are over, The praise of them told. But the days of your reign are departed, And our fathers that fed on your looks Have begotten a folk feeble-hearted, That seek not your name in their books; And against you is risen a new foeman, To storm with strange engines your home, We wax pale at the name of him Roman, His coming from Rome. * * * * * Yet I pour you this drink of my verses, Of learning made lovely with lays, Song bitter and sweet that rehearses The deeds of your eminent days; Yea, in these evil days from their reading Some profit a student shall draw, Though some points are of obsolete pleading, And some are not law. Though the Courts that were manifold dwindle To divers Divisions of one, And no fire from your face may rekindle The light of old learning undone; We have suitors and briefs for our payment, While so long as a Court shall hold pleas, We talk moonshine, with wigs for our raiment, Not sinking the fees.

First Prize. A burden of foul weathers. Dim daylight And summer slain in some sad sloppy way, And pitiless downpour that comes by night, And watery gleam that has no heart by day, And change from gray to black, from black to gray, And weariness that doth at each repine; Grief in all work, and pleasure in no play— Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine. The burden of vain blossoms. This is sore A burden of false hope in fruit-bearing: Upon thy strawberry-bed, behold, threescore— Threescore dead blooms for one that’s ripening; And if that one to fulness thou dost bring, Thy shuddering lips the scanty feast decline, For ’tis a pallid and insipid thing— Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine. The burden of set phrases. Thou shalt hear The same drear murmurs breathed from every side: ‘Something is wrong with the Gulf Stream, I fear.’ ‘Through cycle wet the decade now doth glide.’ ‘The sun is “spot”-less, and ashamed would hide.’ Dull ign’rance with long words did aye combine! And thou shalt half believe and half deride Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine. The burden of lost leisure. Thou shalt grieve By rain-vexed stream, drenched moor, or seashore dead; And say at night, ‘Would I had had no leave!’ And say at dawn, ‘Would that my leave were sped!’ The water of affliction and the bread For food and for attire shall then be thine, Goloshed beneath, umbrellaed overhead, Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine. The burden of cold hearthstones. Thou shalt see Pale willow shreds and gold above the green; And as the willow so thy face shall be, And no more as the thing before-time seen. And thou shalt say of sunshine, ‘It hath been,’ And, chilling, watch the chilly light decline; And shivering-fits shall take thy breath between Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine. The burden of sad sayings. In that day Thou shalt tell all thy summers o’er, and tell Thy joys and thy delights in each, and say How one was calm and one was changeable, And sweet were all to hear and sweet to smell; But now of passing hours scarce one doth shine Of twenty. In the rest deep gloom doth dwell. Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine. The burden of mixed seasons. Snow in spring, Thaw, and then frost, with each its miseries; No summer, though the days be shortening; No autumn-promise from the fields and trees; With sad face turned towards Christmas, that foresees 4 Huge bills for fuel, (and yet for fires doth pine;) Rheumatics, pleurisy, and lung-disease, Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine. The burden of umbrellas. In thy sight Dawn’s gray or vesper’s red may promise much, Yet shalt thou never venture day nor night Without that ‘little shadow’ in thy clutch. Horn of rhinoceros and ebon crutch Shall unmolested in their stand recline; Thy trusty Penang shall forget thy touch, Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine. The burden of sham gladness. In desire (The substance lost) for shadows of delight, Though underfoot the trodden lawn be mire, Tea, tennis, and Terpsichore invite. Go, then! and let thy face with smiles be dight, To hollow joy’s ordeal thyself resign Till dreary daylight yield to drearier night, Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine. L’ENVOY. Brave hearts, and ye whom hope yet quickeneth, Hope on; next summer may perchance be fine. The life grows short, and soon will come the death Anni Salutis eighteen seventy-nine. Ziegelstein. (Goymour Cuthbert.)

Second Prize. The burden of strange seasons. Rain all night, Blown-rain and wind co-mingling all the day; Perchance we say the morrow will be bright; But lo, the morrow is as yesterday: With sullen skies and sunsets cold and gray, With lights reverse, the heavy hours retire; And so the strange sad season slips away— I pray thee put fresh coals upon the fire. The burden of rheumatics. This is sore Damp, and east wind maketh it past bearing; When thy life’s span has stretched to threescore, No rest hast thou at dawn or evening. The shivering in thy bones, the shivering In all thy marrows through this season dire, Makes summer seem a shameful wretched thing— For God’s love put fresh coals upon the fire. The burden of dead apples. Lo, their doom, Decay and blight upon the tender trees, All fruit made fruitless, blossom bloomless bloom An eastern wind of many miseries. Naught has survived save pale-green gooseberries, The food in fools, of fools, who such desire. God wot, no lack have we of fooleries— I prithee put fresh coals upon the fire. The burden of bad harvests. For the gods, Who change the springing corn from green to red, Have scourged us for our sins with many rods, And left our grain and oil ungarnerèd. The market-men heap ashes on their head, And cry aloud and rend their best attire; The gods are just, prayers are unanswerèd— I pray thee put fresh coals upon the fire. The burden of lost peaches. Ah, my sweet, This year I seek them in the sunny South, To press them to thy sharp white tooth to eat, To kiss thy amorous hair and curled-up mouth. Lust and desire are dust and deadly drouth, For lust is dust and deadly drouth desire, And time creeps over all with wingèd feet— For love’s sake put fresh coals upon the fire. The burden of dull colours. Thou shalt see Strange harmonies in brown and olive-green, In curious costumes fashioned cunningly, And all unlike the things in summer seen; And thou shalt say of summer, it hath been. Or if unconsciously thou wouldst inquire What these my mournful music-measures mean, I bid thee heap fresh coals upon the fire. L’ENVOY. Tourists and ye whom Cook accomp’nies, Heed well before from him ye tickets hire— This season is a mist of miseries; So once more heap fresh coals upon the fire. Floreant-Lauri (J. M. Lowry).

Ballade of Cricket. The burden of long fielding: when the clay Clings to thy shoon, in sudden shower’s down-pour, And running still thou stumblest; or the ray Of fervent suns doth bite and burn thee sore, And blind thee, till, forgetful of thy lore, Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a skyer, And lose a match the gods cannot restore— This is the end of every man’s desire! The burden of loose bowling: when the stay Of all thy team is collared—swift or slower— When bowlers break not in the wonted way And “yorkers” come not off as heretofore; When length-balls shoot no more, ah! never more, And all deliveries lose their wonted fire, When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door— This is the end of every man’s desire! The burden of free hitting; slog away, Here shalt thou make a five, and there a four. And then thy heart unto thy heart shall say That thou art in for an exceeding score; Yea, the loud Ring, applauding thee shall roar. And thou to rival Hornby shalt aspire, And lo! the Umpire gives thee “leg before.” This is the end of every man’s desire! ENVOY. Alas, yet rather on youth’s hither shore Would I be some poor player, on scant hire, Ahan King among the old, who play no more. This is the end of every man’s desire. A. L. St. James’s Gazette. June 27, 1881.

Ballade of Cricket. (To T. W. Lang.) The burden of hard hitting: slog away! Here shalt thou make a “five” and there a “four,” And then upon thy bat shalt lean and say, That thou art in for an uncommon score. Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar, And thou to rival Thornton shalt aspire, When low, the Umpire gives thee “leg before,”— “This is the end of every man’s desire!” The burden of much bowling, when the stay Of all thy team is “collared,” swift or slower, When “bailers” break not in their wonted way, And “yorkers” come not off as heretofore. When length balls shoot no more, ah never more, When all deliveries lose their former fire, When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door— “This is the end of every man’s desire!” The burden of long fielding, when the clay Clings to thy shoon in sudden showers downpour, And running still thou stumblest, or the ray Of blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore, And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore, Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a “skyer” And lose a match the Fates cannot restore,— “This is the end of every man’s desire!” Envoy. Alas, yet liefer on youth’s hither shore Would I be some poor Player on scant hire Than king among the old who play no more,— “This is the end of every man’s desire!” Andrew Lang.

A Ballad of Burdens. The burden of Old Women. They delight In bulky bundles, always in the way; In ’busses close they wedge you tight at night, In railway trains they jam you up by day. Plump dames with pulpy cheeks and locks of grey, In weariness they waddle, puff, perspire. To banish them for ever one would say, This must be every busy man’s desire. * * * * * The burden of Sad Colours. Thou shalt see Gold tarnished, ghostly grey, and livid green, And lank and languorous thy face must be To harmonise with the lugubrious scene. And thou shalt say of scarlet, “It have been,” And sighing of old tints and tones shalt tire. To bring back brightness and to banish spleen, This must be every cheerful man’s desire. The burden of Smart Sayings. In this day All wish as cynic wits to bear the bell. Men mock at honour, justice, love, and say The end of life “good stories” is to tell. The cad’s coarse jest, the cackle of the swell Are much alike, things that the most admire. To patter slang and tell side-splitters well, This is the end of every fool’s desire. The burden of Bad Seasons. Rain in Spring, Chill rain and wind among the budding trees, A Summer of grey storm-clouds gathering, Damp Autumn one dull mist of miseries, With showers that soak, and blasts that bite and freeze; A drenching Winter with north-easters dire. To make an end of seasons such as these, This must be every suffering man’s desire. The burden of Strange Crazes. Woman’s right To throng the polls, and join the spouting bands; Theosophy and astral bodies, sleight Of cunning jugglers from far foreign lands; Buddhistic bosh which no one understands, A thousand fads that ’gainst good sense conspire. To gag the crotcheteers and tie their hands, This must be every sober man’s desire. L’Envoy. Donkeys, and ye whom frenzy quickeneth, Heed well this rhyme. Life’s many burdens tire. To lighten them a little, ere our death, This must be every kindly man’s desire. Punch. August 7, 1886.

Pain and Travel. Perpetual swaying of steamers, Oh, terrible tumble of tides— More dear than the drowsing of dreamers, Who ramble by rustic road-sides! Oh, lips that are pale with the anguish, Let me see you again and again; They are yours when so seasick they languish, Our Lady of Pain! I gloat on the grins and the groaning, The torments that torture—not kill: And music to me is the moaning Of travellers terribly ill. A rapture I cannot unravel, Their throes set a-thrill in my brain: These—these are my pleasures of travel, Our Lady of Pain! And on landing I lose not the longing, That mingles my manhood with mud: For the merry mosquitos come thronging, With lips that laugh blithely in blood: And fleas, with their kisses that burn me, Bite till cruel red mouths show the stain— Into poesy passionate turn me, Our Lady of Pain! And the donkeys Egyptian and spiteful Shall share in the shame of my hymns, For the jolting that brands the delightful Dark bruises on delicate limbs. 6 And the Alps shall be ranked with the asses For the fracture, the frostbite, the sprain, And the mangling of flesh in crevasses, Our Lady of Pain! And if—leaving me, though, unshattered— An accident fell should betide, And the train that I ride in is scattered In ruin on every side— Dislocations and discolourations, And gush of bright gore, not in vain Shall awake in me languid sensations, Our Lady of Pain! Thus I roam through the universe vasty, O’er mountain, vale, meadow, and wood; And I venerate all that is nasty, And gird against all that is good; In the mire my delight is to linger, Although I to the heights might attain: Aut you don’t catch me scratching my finger, Our Lady of Pain! Fun. October 12, 1867.

My Lady Champagne. Wayward, soft, luscious, and tender, Lightsome, and spotless from stain, Graceful of figure and slender, Decked with a golden crown’s splendour— Our Lady Champagne. Brilliantly sparkling and creaming, Haughty and lovely and vain, Gay ’midst the froth lightly beaming, Swift o’er the crystal edge streaming— Our Lady Champagne. Bubbling and seething and springing, Solace and soother of pain, Joys of an outer world bringing, Sweets to the air gaily flinging— Our Lady Champagne. Proud in the depth of deep scorning, Haughty and grand with disdain, Rosy as soft clouds at dawning, Fresh as the breeze of the morning— Our Lady Champagne. Kisses seductive in greeting, Falling like soft summer rain, Rapturous bliss of lips meeting, Sighing a woe at retreating— Our Lady Champagne. Frothy, light, bubbly and beady, Life to the overworked brain; Beer for the humble and needy, Wine for the wealthy and greedy— Our Lady Champagne! Judy. May 26, 1880.

The Southern Cross. A Frustration. Four stars on Night’s brow, or Night’s bosom, Whichever the reader prefers; Or Night without either may do some, Each one to his taste or to hers. Four stars—to continue inditing, So long as I feel in the vein— Hullo! what the deuce is that biting? Mosquitos again! Oh glories not gilded but golden, Oh daughters of Night unexcelled, By the sons of the North unbeholden, By our sons (if we have them) beheld; Oh jewels the midnight enriching, Oh four which are double of twain! Oh mystical—bother the itching! Mosquitos again! You alone I can anchor my eye on, Of you and you only I’ll write, And I now look awry on Orion, That once was my chiefest delight. Ye exalt me high over the petty Conditions of pleasure and pain, Oh Heaven! Here are these maladetti Mosquitos again! The poet should ever be placid. Oh vex not his soul or his skin! Shall I stink them with carbolic acid? It is done and afresh I begin. Lucid orbs!—that last sting very sore is; I am fain to leave off, I am fain; It has given me uncommon dolores— The Latin for pain. Not quite what the shape of a cross is— A little lop-sided, I own— Confound your infernal proboscis, Inserted well nigh to the bone! Queen-lights of the heights of high heaven, Ensconced in the crystal inane— Oh me, here are seventy times seven Mosquitos again. Oh horns of a mighty trapezium! Quadrilatoral area, hail! Oh bright is the light of magnesium!— Oh hang them all, female and male! At the end of an hour of their stinging, What shall rest of me then, what remain? I shall die as the swan dieth, singing, Mosquitos again! Shock keen as the stroke of the leven! They sting, and I change as a flash From the peace and the poppies of heaven To the flame and the firewood of—dash! Oh Cross of the South, I forgot you! These demons have addled my brain. Once more I look upward———Od rot you! You’re at it again. There! stick in your pitiless brad-awl, And do your malevolent worst! Dine on me and when you have had all, Let others go in for a burst! Oh silent and pure constellation, Can you pardon my fretful refrain? Forgive, oh forgive my vexation— They’re at it again! Oh imps that provoke to mad laughter, Winged fiends that are fed from my brow, 7 Bite hard! let your neighbours come after, And sting where you stung me just now! Red brands on it smitten and bitten, Round blotches I rub at in vain! Oh Crux! whatsoever I’ve written, I’ve written in pain. Ye chrysolite crystalline creatures, Wan watchers the fairest afield, Stars, and garters, are these my own features In the merciless mirror revealed? They are mine, even mine and none other, And my hands how they slacken and strain! Oh my sister, my spouse, and my mother! I’m going insane! From Miscellaneous Poems, by J. Brunton Stephens.

Brandy and Soda. Mine eyes to mine eyelids cling thickly; My tongue feels a mouthful and more; My senses are sluggish and sickly; To live and to breathe is a bore. My head weighs a ton and a quarter, By pains and by pangs ever split, Which manifold washings with water Relieve not a bit. My longings of thirst are unlawful, And vain to console or control, The aroma of coffee is awful, Repulsive the sight of the roll. I take my matutinal journal, And strive my dull wits to engage, But cannot endure the infernal Sharp crack of its page. What bad luck my soul had bedevilled, What demon of spleen and of spite, That I rashly went forth, and I revelled In riotous living last night? Had the fumes of the goblet no odour That well might repulse or restrain? O insidious brandy and soda, Our Lady of Pain. Thou art golden of gleam as the summer That smiled o’er a tropical sod, O daughter of Bacchus, the bummer, A foamer, a volatile tod! But thy froth is a serpent that hisses, And thy gold as a balefire doth shine, And the lovers who rise from thy kisses Can’t walk a straight line. I recall, with a flush and a flutter, That orgie whose end is unknown; Did they bear me to bed on a shutter, Or did I reel home all alone? Was I frequent in screams and in screeches? Did I swear with a forcéd affright? Did I perpetrate numerous speeches? Did I get in a fight? Of the secrets I treasure and prize most Did I empty my bacchanal breast? Did I button-hole men I despise most, And frown upon those I like best? Did I play the low farmer and flunkey With people I always ignore? Did I caricole round like a monkey? Did I sit on the floor? O longing no research may satiate— No aim to exhume what is hid! For falsehood were vain to expatiate On deeds more depraved than I did; And though friendly faith I would flout not On this it were rash to rely, Since the friends who beheld me, I doubt not, Were drunker than I. Thou hast lured me to passionate pastime, Dread goddess, whose smile is a snare! Yet I swear thou hast tempted me the last time— I swear it; I mean what I swear! And thy beaker shall always forebode a Disgust ’twere not wise to disdain, O luxurious brandy-and-soda; Our Lady of Pain. Hugh Howard. 1882.

With dark eyes that flash like a jewel, And red lips that flame like a flower Capricious, coquettish and cruel, When flirting in boudoir or bower; So shine Spanish girls in old stories. But thou’rt of a different strain, Oh learned and lucky Dolores, Our M.D. of Spain. Thy studies commencing, sweet virgin, At College when scarce more than seven, Now past mistress scalpel and purge in A full-blown Physician! Great Heaven! Sangrados no more to our sorrow Our veins shall deplete; the control Of our hearts goes to girls, whence we borrow Much hope—on the whole. It startles us, though, the reflection That you are not twenty to-day, Yet our tongues may invite your inspection, Our pulses your touch may assay. Thou, a girlish she-Galen, arisest: In faith thou may’st fairly feel vain, O young among women yet wisest, Our M.D. of Spain! Will you “fee” in the fearless old fashion, And dose like a horse-drenching Vet.? Ah! it is not alone the Caucasian Who’s nearly played out, I regret. However, unless luck desert you, Barcelona its fame may regain. Let us hope Hahnemann mayn’t convert you, Our M.D. of Spain. (Five verses omitted.) Punch. July 31, 1886.

Octopus.[1] Strange beauty, eight-limbed and eight-handed, Whence camest to dazzle our eyes? With thy bosom bespangled and branded With the hues of the seas and the skies; Is thy home European or Asian, Oh mystical monster marine? Part molluscous and partly crustacean, Betwixt and between. Wast thou born to the sound of sea trumpets? Hast thou eaten and drunk to excess Of the sponges—thy muffins and crumpets, Of the seaweed—thy mustard and cress? Wast thou nurtured in caverns of coral, Remote from reproof or restraint? Art thou innocent, art thou immoral, Sinburnian or Saint? Lithe limbs, curling free, as a creeper That creeps in a desolate place, To enrol and envelop the sleeper In a silent and stealthy embrace; Cruel beak craning forward to bite us, Our juices to drain and to drink, Or to whelm us in waves of Cocytus, Indelible ink! Oh breast, that ’twere rapture to writhe on! Oh arms ’twere delicious to feel Clinging close with the crush of the Python, When she maketh her murderous meal; In thy eight-fold embraces enfolden, Let our empty existence escape; Give us death that is glorious and golden, Crushed all out of shape! Ah thy red lips, lascivious and luscious, With death in their amorous kiss! Cling round us, and clasp us, and crush us, With bitings of agonised bliss! We are sick with the poison of pleasure, Dispense us the potion of pain; Ope thy mouth to its uttermost measure, And bite us again! The Light Green. Cambridge, 1872.

Procuratores. O vestment of velvet and virtue, O venomous victors of vice, Who hurt men who never have hurt you, Oh, calm, cruel, colder than ice; Why wilfully wage ye this war? Is Pure pity purged out of your breast? O purse-prigging Procuratores, O pitiless pest! Do you dream of what was and no more is, When fresher and freer than air? Does it pain you, proud Procuratores, These badges of bondage to bear? In your youth were you greener than grass is, And fearful of infinite fines, Or casual, careless of classes, Frequenters of wines? Was it woe for a woman who jilted, Or dread of your debts or a dun? Or was it your nose was tip-tilted, Or a frivolous fancy for fun? Did duty, dark despot, decide you, That fame to the dogs must be hurled Or was it a whim, woe betide you, To worry the world? Five shillings ye fine the frail freshmen, Five shillings, which cads call a crown, Men caught in your merciless mesh, men Who care not for cap or for gown. When ye go grandly garbed in your glories, With your coarse, callous crew of canines, O pitiless Procuratores, Inflictors of fines. We have smote and made redder than roses, With juice not of fruit nor of bud, The truculent town’s-people’s noses, And bathed brutal butchers in blood; And we, all aglow with our glories, Heard you not in the deafening din, And ye came, O ye Procuratores, And ran us all in. I write not as one with no knowledge, Unaware of your weird, wily ways, For you’ve often inquired my college, And fined me on subsequent days. Oft stopped, I have stuffed you with stories, When wandering wildly from wines; Pawned property, Procuratores, To find you your fines. E. B. Iwan-Müller.

A Song. Oh, vanished benevolent Bobby! Ah, beautiful wearisome beats, Where rascals range, ready to rob ye, In dim and disconsolate streets! When I meet with a murderous nature, And welcome thy bludgeon would be, Two dirty hens tearing a ’tatur Are all that I see. In cosy recesses of kitchens, Secure from the shrieking of slums; Where cook’s so uncommon bewitching, And the infinite tea kettle hums. Yet art thou misled and mistaken, Though served with celestial cheer, Though feasted on liver and bacon, And beauty and beer. Oh, leisurely, helmeted Bobby! Hast never with jealousy shook; Lest Mercury, Jeames in the lobby, Should chisel thee out of thy cook? Ah, mark thou what mischief is hatching, By love who doth nothing by halves; What chance hast thou, Bobby, of matching Those marvellous calves! 9 Oh, there are more perilous places Than horrible hovering seas! Come! Radiant the area space is With the beams of the emerald cheese. Thou art bold and thy uniform nobby, But subtle are Syrens, and sweet! Oh, fiery, melodious Bobby, Come back to thy beat! The Figaro. October 11, 1876.

Foam and Fangs. O, Nymph with the nicest of noses; And finest and fairest of forms; Lips ruddy and ripe as the roses That sway and that surge in the storms; O, buoyant and blooming Bacchante, Of fairer than feminine face, Rush, raging as demon of Dante— To this, my embrace! The foam, and the fangs, and the flowers, The raving and ravenous rage, Of a poet as pinion’d in powers, As condor confined in a cage! My heart in a haystack I’ve hidden, As loving and longing I lie, Kiss open thine eyelids unbidden— I gaze and I die! I’ve wander’d the wild waste of slaughter, I’ve sniff’d up the sepulchre’s scent, I’ve doated on devilry’s daughter, And murmur’d much more than I meant; I’ve paused at Penelope’s portal, So strange are the sights that I’ve seen, And mighty’s the mind of the mortal, Who knows what I mean! From Patter Poems, by Walter Parke, London, Vizetelly & Co., 1885.

If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather, Blown fields or flowerful closes, Green pleasure or gray grief; If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf. If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune, With double sound and single Delight our lips would mingle, With kisses glad as birds are That get sweet rain at noon; If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune. * * * * * If you were April’s lady, And I were lord in May, We’d throw with leaves for hours And draw for days with flowers, Till day like night were shady, And night were bright like day; If you were April’s lady, And I were lord in May. If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain, We’d hunt down love together, Pluck out his flying-feather, And teach his feet a measure, And find his mouth a rein; If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain. A. C. Swinburne.

A Catch. (By a Mimic of Modern Melody.) If you were queen of bloaters, And I were king of soles, The sea we’d wag our fins in Nor heed the crooked pins in The water dropt by boaters, To catch our heedless joles; If you were queen of bloaters And I were king of soles. If you were Lady Mile-End, And I were Duke of Bow, We’d marry and we’d quarrel, And then, to point the moral Should Lord Penzance his file lend, Our chains to overthrow; If you were Lady Mile-End, And I were Duke of Bow. If you were chill November, And I were sunny June; I’d not with love pursue you; For I should be to woo you (You’re foggy, pray remember) A most egregious spoon; If you were chill November, And I were sunny June. If you were cook to Venus And I were J. 19; When missus was out dining, Our suppetites combining, We’d oft contrive between us To keep the patter clean; If you were cook to Venus And I were J. 19. If you were but a jingle, And I were but a rhyme; We’d keep this up for ever, Nor think it very clever, 10 A grain of sense to mingle At times with simple chime; If you were but a jingle And I were but a rhyme. Tom Hood, the younger. Fun. December 30, 1871.

If life were never bitter, And love were always sweet, Then who would care to borrow A moral from to morrow— If Thames would always glitter, And joy would ne’er retreat, If life were never bitter, And love were always sweet! If care were not the waiter Behind a fellow’s chair, When easy-going sinners Sit down to Richmond dinners, And life’s swift stream flows straighter— By Jove, it would be rare, If care were not the waiter Behind a fellow’s chair. If wit were always radiant, And wine were always iced, And bores were kicked out straightway Through a convenient gateway; Then down the year’s long gradient ’Twere sad to be enticed, If wit were always radiant, And wine were always iced. Mortimer Collins.

The University Election. A Candidates Carol. If you were an elector, And I a candidate, I’d send you round a notice, And say “I trust your vote is A thing I may expect, or Request at any rate.” If you were an elector, And I a candidate. If you were influential, And I of no renown, I’d say, “It is a pity You’re not on my committee, Your name is consequential So let me put it down,” If you were influential, And I of no renown. If I were well supported, And you of little weight, I’d say, “I hope to rank you Among my voters—thank you.” Your promise once extorted, I’d leave you to your fate; If I were well supported, And you of little weight. If you were at the polling, And I were in the booth, And if your vote you gave, or Recorded in my favour, I’d find it both consoling, And powerful to soothe, If you were at the polling, And I were in the booth. If you should vote against me, And I were standing by, I might be forced to fell you, And then should simply tell you That having so incensed me You ought to mind your eye; If you should vote against me, And I were standing by. If I were not elected, And you would keep alive, You oughtn’t to come nigh me, But shun, avoid, and fly me, And go about protected (For vide stanza 5). If I were not elected, And you would keep alive. If you were not a voter, Nor I a candidate, I would not give a penny, To know your views (if any), Contingency remoter I can’t enunciate, If you were not a voter, Nor I a candidate.

A Matcher. If you were what your nose is, And I were like the red, Then should we glow together, Sunned in the singing weather, Blown well as winter closes, And colds come in the head— If you were what your nose is, And I were like the red. If I were what your words are, And you H aspirate, We ne’er should dwell together; For you would snap your tether, And leave me where the birds are, And drop at hailstone rate— If I were what your words are, And you H aspirate, If you were “call to-morrow,” And I an unpaid bill, You’d meet me at all seasons, With plaintive looks and reasons, And leave me then to sorrow, And all unsettled still— If you were “call to-morrow.” And I an unpaid bill, 11 If you were what’s called “shady,” And I were quarter-day, You’d take French leave some hours Ere I arrived; no powers, Could make you meet me, Lady, Nor make me stay away— If you were what’s termed “shady” And I were quarter-day. If you were Queen of Pleasure, And I were King Champagne, We’d hunt the bard together, Pluck out his inked goose-feather, And leave him “feet” and “measure,” But muddle his poor brain— If you were Queen of Pleasure, And I were King Champagne.

A Philistine to an Æsthete. (By an Oxford Under grad who “makes hay” in an Æsthete’s room “while the sun shines.”) If I were big Nat Langham, And you the Suffolk Pet, I’d strike out from the shoulder, Between your eyes, you’ll bet, And give you such a drubbing, As you would not forget; If I were big Nat Langham, And you the Suffolk Pet. If I were Jockey Archer, And you my racing horse, I’d give you such a breather Across a stiff race-course, That you would think your fortunes Had altered for the worse; If I were Jockey Archer, And you my racing-horse. * * * * * If I were a wild Indian, And you were my canoe, I’d shoot with you the rapids, Like the wild Indians do, And care not if by drowning Myself I could drown you; If I were a wild Indian, And you were my canoe. Punch. April 1, 1882.

I am your Dr. Jekyll And you’re my Mr. Hyde, On my head mortals wreak ill, (I am your Dr. Jekyll) Of me they often speak ill, By you left undenied,— I am your Dr. Jekyll And you’re my Mr. Hyde! They say I’ve turned my coat, sir, ’Tis you should bear the blame, Sold England for a vote, sir, They say I’ve turned my coat, sir, Made friends with “Skin the Goat,” sir. Or Ford, who’s much the same; They say I’ve turned my coat, sir, ’Tis you should bear the blame. Be either you or I, sir, Be Jekyll please, or Hyde, The Statesman pure and high, sir, (Be either you or I, sir) Or cast your virtues by, sir, And take the darker side, Be either you or I, sir, Be Jekyll, please, or Hyde.

Days dawn on us that make amends for many Sometimes, When heaven and earth seem sweeter even than any Man’s rhymes, Light had not all been quenched in France, or quelled In Greece, Had Homer sung not, or had Hugo held His peace, Had Sappho’s self not left her word thus long For token, The sea round Lesbos yet in waves of song Had spoken. And yet these days of subtler air and finer Delight, When lovelier looks the darkness, and diviner The light, The gift they give of all these golden hours, Whose urn Pours forth reverberate rays or shadowing showers In turn, Clouds, beams, and winds that make the live day’s track Seem living— What were they did no spirit give them back Thanksgiving? Dead air, dead fire, dead shapes and shadows, telling Time nought, Man gives them sense and soul by song, and dwelling In thought. In human thought their being endures, their power Abides: Else were their life a thing that each light hour Derides. The years live, work, sigh, smile, and die, with all They cherish; The soul endures, though dreams that fed it fall And perish. 12 In human thought have all things habitation; Our days Laugh, lower, and lighten past, and find no station That stays. But thought and faith are mightier things than time Can wrong, Made splendid once with speech, or made sublime By song, Remembrance, though the tide of change that rolls Wax hoary, Gives earth and heaven, for song’s sake and the soul’s Their glory. A. C. Swinburne.

Lays dawn on us that have few charms for many, Sometimes, Sure heaven and earth were seldom rack’d for any Worse rhymes. Light would not all be quench’d were bards compelled To cease, Had Tennyson sung not, or Swinburne held His peace— Had Algy’s self not writ these lines so long And broken: ’Tis sad to see our Swinny rave in song Mad spoken! And yet few lays or subtler airs give finer Delight, Or soar from out the darkness with diviner A flight, Than his whose gift, in his most golden hours, Can earn Reverberate praise for all his varied powers In turn; Grand, grave or gay, that make his verse at times Seem living, But where are they who yield him for these rhymes Thanksgiving? Dull verse, queer style, dim tropes and rhythm, telling Us nought; One looks for sense and shape in song, compelling Sweet thought! In this what thought there is all clouded o’er Abides, And ev’ry one the more he reads the more Derides! The words start, jump and jerk, and rise and fall So funny, That one endures, yet deems such stuff is all For money! A poet’s thoughts should please in all their stages. This lay Seems cobbled up to find a home in pages That pay. But thought and rhythm flighty have this time Gone wrong, Though splendid once his speech, and oft sublime His song! (Remembrance tells the powers of poet-souls Wax hoary) This song may give him guineas, but enrols No glory! Herbert L. Gould.

The Ladies. Faces we see that make amends for many Most plain, When English girls seem sweeter e’en than any From Spain, Beauty had not been rare with us, or quelled In Greece, Had Tom Moore sung not, or Anacreon held His peace. Had Aphrodite never cleft the sea, In splendour, Our modern belles would still as winsome be And tender. And so these girls of gentle air and manner Delight: Who lovelier looks than Hilda, as you scan her? Sweet sight! The gleam that shines from every golden tress, Whose wealth The sunbeam kisses, or the winds caress By stealth. Hair, lips, and eyes, with which our nymphs prepare For action— What were they, did no esprit give them rare Attraction? Dead lips, dead eyes, dead silken tresses, telling Men nought; Wit only gives them life and soul and dwelling In thought. In memory must their grace endure, their spell Abide: Else were their sway a thing that we might well Deride. The “darlings” flirt, sigh, smile, wax old, with none To cherish; Their hope endures, though charms fail one by one And perish. In faces sweet seek all men consolation; Our “fair” Laugh, lisp, and lighten life, and find flirtation A snare. But wit and soul are mightier things than Time Can wrong, Linked with a silv’ry voice that is sublime In song. Dreams of fair girls illume, like stars on pall, Life’s story; Give rapture rare, and our soft slumbers all Their glory. F. B. Doveton.

Truths take live forms that make a hope for labour, Though rare, When life seems sweeter with each bright hope’s neighbour— Dreams fair. Progress had not been crushed nor lost its spell For men, Had Rousseau never found the tyrant’s knell, His pen. Had Gladstone’s self ne’er poured the words that burn For token, The voice of Right for myriads who earn Had spoken. 13 And yet these truths which show to us immortal To-day, When swart Injustice sees through its last portal Decay; The joy these truths can give to heart and soul, And pour Glory on prophets gone who filled the roll Of yore; Truths, gifts, and hopes that make our life’s hard track Worth living— What were they did no voices thunder back Thanksgiving? Mere thoughts, mere hopes, mere dreams, mere visions showing No form; The statesman gives their shape in language glowing Heart-warm. In deathless speech their life is found, their power Is seen, Else were their names the shadows of an hour That’s been. Mere theories rise, fall, and fade, though all May cherish. The fact endures, free speech forbids its fall To perish. In champions’ tongues has truth its full progression: Bare thought Dawns, shines, and fades, through finding no expression, Though sought. But speech and Press are mightier than all sway Can bind, Made potent by wide utterance their way To find. Progress and Freedom, though Time’s tide that rolls Wax hoary, Give to a nation’s life, both mind’s and soul’s, Its glory. A. Pratt.

Lofty Lines. (By a Swinburnean Lofty Liner.) Imparadised by my environment, In rhymes impeccably good, Let me scribble, as poor proud Byron meant To have scribbled, if he could! I’ll strain, as the sinuous cameleopard Strains after the blossomy bough, And with faculties that develop hard Let me write—I can’t say how. Impish idiom’s idiosyncrasy Shall my verse festoon with flowers; In a kingdom of pen-and-inkrasy I shall wield prosodian powers. Through innumerous apotheoses The future my name shall learn, And like passionate plethoric peonies My perpetual poems burn. Let my glory grow as the icicle Accrues between night and morn; As the bicyclist rides his bicycle Let me on my metre be borne. Flashing thus on verses vehicular, With Pegasus ’neath my touch, My method can’t be too particular, Nor the public see too much. The critics are all anthropophagous, And feed on poetic flesh; My heart nestles in my esophagous, To think I’ve been in their mesh. As vessels that sail on the Bosphorus Catch Constantinople’s beams, So my soul from prosody’s phosphorus Still gathers Dædalian gleams. Funny Folks, May 11, 1878.

There is glee in the groves of the Galilean— The groves that were wont to be gray and glum— And a sound goes forth to the dim Ægean, To Helen hopeless and Dido dumb— The sound of a noise of cab or carriage, A rhythm of rapture, a mode of marriage. Sing “Hallelujah!” Shout “Io Pæan!” Hymen—O Hymen, behold, they come! What shall I sing to them? How shall I speak to them? Whose is the speech that a groom thinks good? Oh that a while I might gabble in Greek to them— Gabble and gush and be understood, Gush and glow and be understanded, Apprehended and shaken-handed! Yea, though a minute should seem a week to them, I would utter such words as I might or could! For winter’s coughs and cossets are over, And all the season of sniffs and snows, The rheums that ravish lover from lover, The eyes that water, the nose that blows; And time forgotten is not remembered, And cards are wedded and cake dismembered, And in the Abbey, closed, under cover, Blooms and blossoms and breaks love’s rose.

Home, Sweet Home. As Algernon Charles Swinburne might have wrapped it up in Variations. (’Mid pleasures and palaces—) As sea-foam blown of the winds, as blossom of brine that is drifted 14 Hither and yon on the barren breast of the breeze, Though we wander on gusts of a god’s breast shaken and shifted, The salt of us stings, and is sore for the sobbing seas. For home’s sake hungry at heart, we sicken in pillared porches Of bliss made sick for a life that is barren of bliss, For the place whereon is a light out of heaven that sears not nor scorches, Nor elsewhere than this. (An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain—) For here we know shall no gold thing glisten No bright thing burn, and no sweet thing shine; Nor Love lower never an ear to listen To words that work in the heart like wine. What time we are set from our land apart, For pain of passion and hunger of heart, Though we walk with exiles fame faints to christen, Or sing at the Cytherean’s shrine. (Variation: An exile from home.) Whether with him whose head of gods is honorèd With song made splendent in the sight of men Whose heart most sweetly stout, From ravished France cast out, Bring firstly hers, was hers most wholly then— Or where on shining seas like wine The dove’s wings draw the drooping Erycine. (Give me my lowly thatched cottage—) For Joy finds Love grow bitter, And spreads his wings to quit her, At thoughts of birds that twitter Beneath the roof-tree’s straw— Of birds that come for calling, No fear or fright appalling, When dews of dusk are falling, Or day light’s draperies draw. (Give me them, and the peace of mind.) Give me these things then back, though the giving Be at cost of earth’s garner of gold; There is no life without these worth living, No treasure where these are not told. For the heart give the hope that it knows not, Give the balm for the burn of the breast— Ior the soul and the mind that repose not, O, give us a rest! H. C. Bunner.

A Swinburnian Interlude. Short space shall be hereafter Ere April brings the hour Of weeping and of laughter, Of sunshine and of shower, Of groaning and of gladness, Of singing and of sadness, Of melody and madness, Of all sweet things and sour. Sweet to the blithe bucolic Who knows nor cribs nor crams, Who sees the frisky frolic Of lanky little lambs: But sour beyond expression To one in deep depression Who sees the closing session, And imminent exams. He cannot hear the singing Of birds upon the bents. Nor watch the wild-flowers springing. Nor smell the April scents. He gathers grief with grinding, Foul food of sorrow finding In books of beastly binding And beastlier contents. Our hope alone sustains him, And no more hopes beside, One only trust restrains him From shocking suicide: He will not play nor palter With hemlock or with halter, He will not fear nor falter, Whatever chance betide. He knows examinations Like all things else have ends, And then come vast vacations And visits to his friends: And youth with pleasure yoking, And joyfulness and joking, And smilingness and smoking, For grief to make amends.

Vaccine. Written after reading “Faustine.” Hail! sacred salutary nymph, Fair freckless queen; Pure and translucent flows thy lymph, Potent Vaccine! “Each shapely silver arm” receives The lancet keen; E’en warriors trembling raise their sleeves For thee, Vaccine. “Let me go over your good gifts,” That plain are seen; Thou sav’st the face from scars and rifts, Clear-browed Vaccine. Belovèd maid of many charms, Calm and serene, Fondly we take thee in our arms, Lovely Vaccine! Virtue of inoculation, To try we mean; We’re now a humour-us nation, You’ll own, Vaccine. Doctors, like ancient knights again, With lances keen, Daily go “pricking o’er the plain,” With thee, Vaccine. 15 It would have gladdened Jenner’s heart, Could he have seen Such thousands suffering from the smart Of thee, Vaccine. And Jenner-ations yet to be Seen on life’s scene, Shall pæans sing in praise of thee, Saving Vaccine! The Day’s Doings. March 4, 1871.

La Belle Dame Sans Merci (A.D. 1875). Oh, what can ail thee, seedy swell, Alone, and idly loitering? The season’s o’er—at operas No “stars” now sing. Oh, what can ail thee, seedy swell, So moody! in the dumps so down? Why linger here when all the world Is “out of town?” I see black care upon thy brow, Tell me, are I.O.U.’s now due? And in thy pouch, I fear thy purse Is empty, too. “I met a lady at a ball, Full beautiful—a fairy bright; Her hair was golden (dyed, I find!) Struck by the sight— “I gazed, and long’d to know her then: So I entreated the M.C. To introduce me—and he did! Sad hour for me. “We paced the mazy dance, and too, We talked thro’ that sweet evening long, And to her—it came to pass, I breathed Love’s song. “She promised me her lily hand, She seemed particularly cool: No warning voice then whispered low, ‘Thou art a fool!’ “Next day I found I lov’d her not, And then she wept and sigh’d full sore, Went to her lawyer, on the spot, And talked it o’er “She brought an action, too, for breach Of promise—’tis the fashion—zounds! The jury brought in damages Five thousand pounds! “And this is why I sojourn here Alone, and idly loitering, Tho’ all the season’s through and tho’ No ‘stars’ now sing!” The Figaro. September 15, 1875.

A Song after Sunset. The breeze o’er the bridge was a-blowing, O’er wicked and wan Waterloo, The busses buzzed, coming and going, As busses will do. Amid the cold coigns of the causeway. I secretly, silently sat, Aloof, out of laughter’s and law’s way, Hard-holding my hat. In crowds that seemed never to cease, men Heaved, hurtled, home-hurried and howled, While pestilent prigs of policemen, Persistently prowled. From pockets that penniless sounded Two tickets I’d drearily drawn, They prated of pledges impounded In pitiless pawn. They seemed with a cynical sorrow, To sing the same sedulous strain: “Pay up, and redeem us to-morrow, Your watch and your chain! We know you of old, sworn tormentor! You thriver on thriftless and thief! Spout-spider!—on spoiling intent, or Rapacious relief! Avuncular author of anguish, We damn you with deepest disdain! We linger, we long, and we languish For freedom again.” I smiled on the speakers unheeding, I grinned at their garrulous games— When the breeze blew them, splendidly speeding, Right into the Thames. They scattered, as seed that is sown, or The fringe of the fast flowing foam, And their hungry, hysterical owner Went hopelessly home. Judy. June, 16, 1880.

The Mad, Mad Muse. Out on the margin of moonshine land, Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs, Out where the whing-whang loves to stand, Writing his name with his tail on the sand, And wipes it out with his oogerish hand; Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs. Is it the gibber of gungs and keeks? Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs, Or what is the sound the whing-whang seeks, Crouching low by winding creeks, And holding his breath for weeks and weeks? Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs. Anoint him the wealthiest of wealthy things! Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs. ’Tis a fair whing-whangess with phosphor rings, And bridal jewels of fangs and stings, And she sits and as sadly and softly sings; Is the mildewed whir of her own dead wings; Tickle me, dear; tickle me here; Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs. Robert J. Burdette.

16 Studies in Exotic Verse. A Ballade of the Nurserie. (After Mr. Swinburne’s “Dreamland.”) She hid herself in the soirée kettle Out of her Ma’s way, wise wee maid! Wan was her lip as the lily’s petal, Sad was the smile that over it played. Why doth she warble not? Is she afraid Of the hound that howls, or the moaning mole? Can it be on an errand she hath delayed? Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul! The nightingale sings to the nodding nettle In the gloom o’ the gloaming athwart the glade: The zephyr sighs soft on Popòcatapètl, And Auster is taking it cool in the shade: Sing, hey for a gutta serenade! Not mine to stir up a storied pole, No noses snip with a bluggy blade— Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul? Shall I bribe with a store of minted metal? With Everton toffee thee persuade? That thou in a kettle thyself should’st settle, When grandly and gaudily all arrayed! Thy flounces ’ill foul and fangles fade. Come out, and Algernon Charles ’ill roll Thee safe and snug in Plutonian plaid— Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul. Envoi. When nap is none and raiment frayed, And winter crowns the puddered poll, A kettle sings ane soote ballade— Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul. John Twig.

On Marriage with a Deceased Wife’s Sister. O blood-bitten lip all aflame, O Dolores and also Faustine, O aunts of the world worried shame, Lo your hair with its amorous sheen Meshes man in its tangles of gold; O aunts of the tremulous thrill, We are pining—we long to enfold The Deceased Wife’s Fair Relative Bill. G. R. Sims.

A Parody. If it be but a dream or a vision, The life which is after the grave, The moil of the metaphysician Is vain,—but an answer I crave, Amid bright intellectual flambeaux I shall find no light clearer than thee, O sable and sensual Sambo, The servant of me! I beheld thee beholding the ballet, Dumps doleful display’d deep despair, Thou didst think of thine own land, my valet, The land in which nought thou didst wear. * * * * * O statue, us Philistines loathing, Of Phœbus!—our tailors we fear, Come down, and redeem us from clothing, O nude Belvidere! We are wise—and we make ourselves hazy, We are foolish—and, so, go to church; While Sambo but laughs, and is lazy, (Vile Discipline! lend me thy birch); He dreams of no life save the present, His virtue is but when it suits; Sometimes, which is not quite so pleasant, I miss coat or boots. Anonymous. Once a Week. January 16, 1869.

Gillian. Jacke and Jille I have made me an end of the moods of maidens, I have loosed me, and leapt from the links of love; From the kiss that cloys and desire that deadens, The woes that madden, the words that move. In the dim last days of a spent September, When fruits are fallen, and flies are fain; Before you forget, and while I remember, I cry as I shall cry never again. Went up a hylle Where the strong fell faints in the lazy levels Of misty meadows, and streams that stray; We raised us at eve from our rosy revels, With faces aflame for the death of the day; With pale lips parted, and sighs that shiver, Low lids that cling to the last of love: We left the levels, we left the river, And turned us and toiled to the air above. to fetch a paile of water, By the sad sweet springs that have salved our sorrow, The fates that haunt us, the grief that grips— Where we walk not to-day nor shall walk to-morrow— The wells of lethe for wearied lips. With souls nor shaken with tears nor laughter, With limp knees loosed as of priests that pray, We bowed us and bent to the white well-water, We dipped and we drank it and bore away. Jacke felle downe The low light trembled on languid lashes, The haze of your hair on my mouth was blown, Our love flashed fierce from its fading ashes, As night’s dim net on the day was thrown. What was it meant for, or made for, that minute, But that our lives in delight should be dipt? Was it yours, or my fault, or fate’s, that in it Our frail feet faltered, our steep steps slipt? And brake his crowne, and Jille came tumblynge after. Our linked hands loosened and lapsed in sunder, Love from our limbs as a shift was shed, But paused a moment, to watch with wonder The pale pained body, the bursten head. While our sad souls still with regrets are riven, While the blood burns bright on our bruisèd brows, I have set you free, and I stand forgiven— And now I had better go and call my cows.

How Jack Harris became Æsthetic. Ye Muses nine that in Arcadia dwell, Quit Pindus and the cold Castalian well, And me your lowliest follower inspire With such clear flame as long ago did fire The mighty lips of Blackstone; so may I, A feeble trump of truth that cannot die, Clearly proclaim and on the roll of fame Inscribe, however humbly, my poor name. Jack Harris before his Conversion. Come down to me, cling to me, lay thy red lips on me, love, Let me drown in thy bountiful beauty, O glorious consecrate dove, Made fit for the vigil of Venus, made fair by the Cyprian dame, Made fair in the form of a maiden, a medley of music and flame; For the world grows giddy around us, and swoons, and the pale souls preach Poor fables of sorrow and virtue, and all that the grey gods teach, But we clasp and we bite and we madden, and I worship your throat and your hair. We have strayed in the cold sea places, we have laughed on the altar stair, We have eaten and drunken of love, and the lesson of living is this, That the high sky bends above us, and life is a curse and a kiss. Make me glad, O thou rare hand-maiden, with the sound of thy passionate sighs, While I sing of thy body’s white beauty and live in the light of thine eyes, For save me there’s no man living made worthy to utter thy praise, Who art come as new moon to our night-tide, new sun toour days. Jack Harris after his Conversion.

The Lay of Macaroni. As a wave that steals when the winds are stormy From creek to cove of the curving shore, Buffeted, blown, and broken before me, Scattered and spread to its sunlit core: As a dove that dips in the dark of maples To sip the sweetness of shelter and shade, I kneel in thy nimbus, O noon of Naples, I bathe in thine beauty, by thee embayed. What is it ails me that I should sing of her? The queen of the flashes and flames that were! Yea, I have felt the shuddering sting of her, The flower-sweet throat and the hands of her! I have swayed and sung to the sound of her psalters, I have danced her dances of dizzy delight, I have hallowed mine hair to the horns of her altars, Between the nightingale’s song and the night! What is it, Queen, that now I should do for thee? What is it now I should ask at thine hands? Blow of the trumpets thine children once blew for thee? Break from thine feet and thine bosom the bands? Nay, as sweet as the songs of Leone Leoni, And gay as her garments of gem-sprinkled gold, She gives me mellifluous, mild macaroni, The choice of her children when cheeses are old! And over me hover, as if by the wings of it, Frayed in the furnace by flame that is fleet, The curious coils and the strenuous strings of it, Dropping, diminishing down, as I eat: Lo! and the beautiful Queen, as she brings of it, Lifts me the links of the limitless chain, Bidding mine mouth chant the splendidest things of it, Out of the wealth of my wonderful brain! Behold! I have done it: my stomach is smitten With sweets of the surfeit her hands have unrolled. Italia, mine cheeks with thine kisses are bitten: I am broken with beauty, stabbed, slaughtered, and sold! No man of thy millions is more macaronied, Save mighty Mazzini, than musical Me: The souls of the Ages shall stand as astonied, And faint in the flame I am fanning for thee! From Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor.

I. I hid my heart in a nest of roses, Out of the sun’s way, hidden apart; In a softer bed than the soft white snow’s is, Under the roses I hid my heart. Why should it sleep not? why should it start, When never a leaf of the rose tree stirred? What made sleep flutter his wings and part? Only the song of a secret bird. * * * * * III. The green land’s name that a charm encloses, It never was writ in the traveller’s chart, And sweet as the fruit on its tree that grows is, It never was sold in the merchants’ mart. The swallows of dreams through its dim fields dart, And sleep’s are the tunes in its tree tops heard; No hound’s note wakens the wild wood hart, Only the song of a secret bird. * * * * * A. C. Swinburne.

A Ballad of after Dinner. A Month after Swinburne. I hid my head in a rug from Moses, From the clatter of moving dishes apart, And curled up my feet for forty dozes, Just for to soothe my beating heart. Why did it sleep not? Why did it start, When never a dish remained to shock? What made the fluttering doze depart? Only the tick of an eight day clock. Be still, I said, for hope pre-supposes A still mild mood for the sleep-slain hart; Be still, for the wind, with its curled-up toes, is Silent and quieter yet than thou art. Doth a wound in thee deep as a thorn’s wound smart? Dost thou fretfully languish for Clicquot and hock? What bids the lids of thy sleep dispart; Only the tick of an eight-day clock. 18 I wait in vain for the charm that encloses The green land of dreams in sleep’s mystical chart, For the fruit of its trees and the breath of its roses, More sweet than are sold in the merchants’ mart. So close to its border, why fails my heart? What holdeth it back, tho’ my dim brain rock? Without, the noise of the nightman’s cart, Within, the tick of an eight-day clock. Envoi. Erewhile in hope I had chosen my part, To sleep for a season as sound as a block, With never a thought of a nightman’s cart, Or the hateful tick of an eight-day clock.

A Ballad of Dreamland. The sorest stress of the Season’s over; Out of it’s crush I am lying alone, My face to the sky, and my back in the clover. Hark to that lark! Its jubilant tone Is a cheery change from St. Stephen’s drone; And ah! that whift from the wind-swept brine! With nought to do but absorb ozone— Should there be ballad more blythe than mine? Song of a haven-welcoming lover! Rare rose-scents from our garden blown Reach me here, and my eyes discover, Shimmering there, in a tangle thrown, Sunny locks. “She is coming, my own!” The green bowers sever, her blue eyes shine. Sweet love nearing, sore labour flown,— Should there be ballad more blythe than mine? What to me though weariness hover Still o’er Town where the toilers groan? Lazy lounger, leisurely lover, What care I for the Members’ moan At the Irish incubus, heavy as stone? For Biggar’s bullying, Whalley’s whine? Peace unchequered, and care unknown, Should there be ballad more blithe than mine? Envoi. Eh! What! Drowsing? A dream? Ochone! St. Patrick’s curse on those Irish swine, Who have burst the bubble by slumber blown, And broken a ballad so blithe as mine! Punch. August 11, 1877.

To Ada. So must the sinewy Centaur snort and rear, As some sweet maiden-mare trots wickedly Across his pagan path, burning his very heart; Flicking the flies from off her heaving flanks, The amorous flies who fill their lips with blood; And while his life-blood riots in his hocks, She spreads her cunning heels and whisks her tail; Then kicks the bitter sand into his eyes, Still gazing smarting on the supple form— For I have felt a joy new-born to pain! For I have seen that silken syren glide Across the desert, hight old Astley’s Fane. My breast could hardly flutter as she came Bare-backed before my timorous sight; my nails Curved inward to my palms, and such a sweet Soft tremor crept around my nervous knees. I swooned but for the kindly guardian of the box, Who brought me welcome water at my wish, And damped my throbbing temples. On my bed I rolled and rioted in frenzied fret, For turn howe’er I would, upon the walls, Across the sheets, the beauteous Ada rode, Scenting the air with black-head clustering hair, Loading the senses with soft-thrilling sighs; While through the rosy lips pale pearls of teeth Flashed hungrily. Strapped to her showy steed, She bites her charger in the side, till lips Run red with the brave beast’s blood; and as the sting Of her small fangs urges his wild career, So this hot flame that chars me to the bones, Spreads out the fire of jealousy, and cries, Mazeppa flies across the sea to greet Great Athos-Porthos-Aramis.

St. Simeon Stylites. * * * * * Talking of bards, one day a pagan poet Approach’d the pillar, and began to sing; The blessed Simeon could not choose but know it, So high the minstrel pitch’d his voice and string. This bard was Greek in sentiment and style; A Venus-worshipper—profuse of curses On those who deem’d his ethics loose and vile: I give you a translation of his verses:— Stylites. “Closed eyelids that hide like a shutter, Hard eyes that have visions apart, The grisly gaunt limbs, and the utter And deadly abstraction of heart; Whence all that is joyous and bright is Expell’d as both vicious and vain O, stony and stolid Stylites, Our Patron of Pain!” “There can be but warfare between us, For thine is a spiritual creed, And mine is the worship of Venus, On “raptures and roses” I feed; Self-torture’s thine only employment, We both feel the bliss and the bane, For woe will oft spring from enjoyment, Our Patron of Pain!” 19 “Can joys be of Martyrdom’s giving? Men seek them, and change at a breath The leisures and labours of living, For the ravings and rackings of death: To stand all alone on that height is An action unsought and insane, O, moveless and morbid Stylites, Our Patron of Pain!” “There are those who still offer to Bacchus, There are men who Love’s goddess still own, What right have new faiths to attack us? And why are our shrines overthrown? There are poets, inspired by Castalia, Whose lyres have Anacreon’s strain, Whose lives are one long saturnalia, Our Patron of Pain!” “We sing of voluptuous blisses, Of all that thy rigour would spurn, Of “biting” and “ravenous” kisses, Of bosoms that beat and that burn; To all that is earthy and carnal, Our votaries’ souls we would chain, We breathe of the chamber and charnel Our Patron of Pain!” “Oho! for the days of sweet vices, The glory of goddess and Greek! (For all that most naughty and nice is Most purely and surely antique). Oho! for the days when Endymion Thro’ love o’er Diana did reign! These, these were Elysian, St. Simeon, Our Patron of Pain!” “We’ll crown us with myrtle and laurel, We’ll wreathe us in Paphian flowers, To be and make others immoral, We’ll ply our poetical powers; Our worship shall be Aphrodite’s, To woman the wine we will drain, O, loveless and lonely Stylites, Our Patron of Pain!” “By the hunger thine abstinence causes, By the thirst of unbearable heat, By thy pray’rs which have very few pauses, By thy lodging devoid of a seat, By sleep that so meagre at night is, ’Twere better awake to remain, Come down from thy pillar, Stylites, Our Patron of Pain!” The holy man, it need not be remark’d, Turn’d as deaf ear to such lascivious singing As when a serpent hiss’d or wild dog barked, Or raven croak’d around his column winging; Immovable in body as in mind, He bore his life’s insufferable tedium, Ft seems a pity that he could not find ’Twixt vice and virtue’s height some “happy medium.”

Peisthetairus. Gentlemen: Happy to see you in the Realms of Air As yet the worthy Mayor and Aldermen And Councillors of the Town have not decided Whether they want a Poet Laureate. But, if ’twill ease your minds to sing a little, I’ll try and listen. As my memory Fails me entirely in regard to names, Let me without the least discourtesy Name you by your appearance. Amorous Naso Was named from his chief feature. So I beg To call you Hair, and Beard, and Brow. The three Poets. Agreed. Euelpides. For this delightful tourney of rhyme I hunger: Who’s to begin, my master? Peisthetairus. Why, the younger. For the topic—as ’tis tropic Heat at present—perhaps ’twere pleasant If each Paladin His ballad in Put salad in. But there must be no single metre, please That’s not allowed by Dr. Guest, of Caius, Brow. (Swinburne.) “O cool in the summer is salad, And warm in the winter is love; And a poet shall sing you a ballad Delicious thereon and thereof. A singer am I, if no sinner, My Muse has a marvellous wing, And I willingly worship at dinner The Sirens of Spring. Take endive—like love it is bitter; Take beet—for like love it is red; Crisp leaf of the lettuce shall glitter, And cress from the rivulet’s bed: Anchovies foam-born, like the lady Whose beauty has maddened this bard, And olives, from groves that are shady; And eggs—boil ’em hard.” Beard. (Browning.) Waitress, with eyes so marvellous black, And the blackest possible lustrous gay tress, This is the month of the Zodiac When I want a pretty deft-handed waitress. Bring a china-bowl, you merry young soul; Bring anything green, from worsted to celery; Bring pure olive-oil from Italy’s soil— Then your china-bowl we’ll well array. When the time arrives chip choicest chives, And administer quietly chili and capsicum— 20 Young girls do not quite know what’s what ’Till as a Poet into their laps I come). Then a lobster fresh as fresh can be (When it screams in the pot I feel a murderer); After which I fancy we Shall want a few bottles of Heidsieck or Roederer. Hair. (Tennyson.) King Arthur, growing very tired indeed Of wild Tintagel, now that Launcelot Had gone to Jersey or to Jericho, And there was nobody to make a rhyme, And Cornish girls were christened Jennifer, And the Round Table had grown rickety, Said unto Merlin (who had been asleep For a few centuries in Broceliande, But woke, and had a bath, and felt refreshed): “What shall I do to pull myself together?” Quoth Merlin, “Salad is the very thing, And you can get it at the Cheshire Cheese” King Arthur went there; verily, I believe That he has dined there every day since then. Have you not marked the portly gentleman In his cool corner, with his plate of greens? The great knight Launcelot prefers the Cock, Where port is excellent (in pints), and waiters Are portlier than kings, and steaks are tender, And poets have been known to meditate— Ox-fed orating ominous ostasticks.

“There was an Ape in the days that were earlier; Centuries passed, and his hair became curlier; Centuries more gave a thumb to his wrist— Then he was Man, and a Positivist.”

(Matched.) If I were Anglo-Saxon, And you were Japanese, We’d study storks together, Pluck out the peacock’s feather And lean our languid backs on The stiffest of settees; If I were Anglo-Saxon, And you were Japanese. If you were Della-Cruscan, And I were A.-Mooresque, We’d make our limbs look less in Artistic folds, and dress in What once were tunics Tuscan In Dante’s days grotesque; If you were Della-Cruscan, And I were A.-Mooresque. If I were mock Pompeian, And you Belgravian Greek, We’d glide ’mid gaping Vandals In shapeless sheets and sandals, Like shades in Tartarean Dim ways remote and bleak; If I were mock Pompeian, And you Belgravian Greek. If you were Culture’s scarecrow, And I the guy of Art I’d learn in latest phrases Of either’s quaintest crazes To lisp, and let my hair grow, While yours you’d cease to part; If you were Culture’s scarecrow, And I the guy of Art. If I’d a Botticelli, And you’d a new Burne-Jones, We’d doat for days and days on Their mystic hues, and gaze on With lowering looks that felly We’d fix upon their tones; If I’d a Botticelli, And you’d a new Burne-Jones. If you were skilled at crewels, And I, a dab at rhymes, I’d write delirious “ballads,” While you your bilious salads Where stitching upon two ells Of coarsest crass, at times; If you were skilled at crewels, And I, a dab at rhymes. If I were what’s “consummate,” And you were quite “too too,” ’Twould be our Eldorado To have a yellow dado, Our happiness to hum at A teapot tinted blue; If I were what’s “consummate,” And you were quite “too too.” If you were what “intense” is, And I were like “decay,” We’d mutely muse or mutter In terms distinctly utter, And find out what the sense is Of this Æsthetic lay; If you were what “intense” is, And I were like “decay.” If you were wan, my lady, And I, your lover, weird, We’d sit and wink for hours At languid lily-flowers, 21 Till, fain of all things fady, We faintly—disappeared! If you were wan, my lady, And I, your lover, weird.

Between the Sunset and the Sea. An American Imitation. Between the gate post and the gate I lingered with my love till late; And what cared I for time of night Till wakened by the watch dogs bite, And thud of leathering boxtoed fate Between the gate post and the gate. Between the seaside and the sea I kissed my love and she kissed me; But rapturous day was grewsome night And what is love but bloom and blight? And what is kiss of mine to thee Between the seaside and the sea. Between the sunshine and the sun I saw a face that hinted fun; But what is fun and what is face When driven at life’s killing pace? I simply say that I have none Between the sunshade and the sun. Between the bumble and the bee Full many a soul has had to flee; And what is love may I inquire When asked to build the kitchen fire? Or who would not leap in the sea Between the bumble and the bee. Between the tea store and the tea There is a wide immensity; A dollar twenty five a pound And not a nickel to be found; Then what has fate in store for thee Between the tea store and the tea. R. W. Answell.

A Song after Sunset. (Being a Word from the Hanley Dog by the Cynic Poet Laureate, Alg-rn-n Sw-nb-rne.) Lo, from my Black Country flung for thee, Raving, red-eyed, scarred and seared; To a bran-new sensation tune sung for thee, With red lips, white teeth, underhung for thee, Beauty begrimed and blood-smeared! Vice-jawed, retractile, snub-snouted— Tushes for fists swift to smite; Round by round felled but not routed, Rare of bark, bitter of bite! If with grapplings and pluckings asunder— If with throat-thirst for worry unslaked— If with rush on growl, flash on low thunder— Knocked over, but ne’er knocking under— With cash on me lavishly staked— If eye against eye glimly glaring, Biped Brummy could quadruped scan, Ring and chain with me, blood with me, sharing,— Say which was brute, which was man? * * * * * Punch. August 1, 1874.