Kitabı oku: «Fringilla», sayfa 5

 
 
 
     Pausias
     "Sweet Muse, while thus through heaven's too distant vault,
     Thy great mind roves—how shall we earn our salt?
     Though art is not encouraged as of old,
       She is worth a score of nature; I design
       To manufacture, from these flowers of thine,
     A silver * talent—or perhaps of gold!"
     * Lucullus is said to have given two talents for
     a mere copy of this picture.
 
 
     Glycera
     "Good heavens, how precious is your Worship's time!
     Some minds are lowly, others too sublime.
     Before thee all my simple flowers I spread;
     Long may they live, when Glycera is dead!"
 
 
     Pausias
     "The Gods forefend!
     Fair omen from fair maid—
     Bright tongue, recall the dark thing thou hast said!"
 
 
     Glycera
     "Then long live they, with Glycera to aid!"
 
 
     Pausias
     "And Pausias crowned by Critics, to non-plus
     Euphranor, Cydias, and Antidotus.
     But what are they?   Below my feet they lie;
     Poor sons of pelf.    The son of art am I.
     Now rest thee, maiden, on this pillowy bed,
     With fragrance canopied, with beauty spread;
     Above thee hovers eglantine's caress,
     Around thee glows entangled loveliness;
     Shy primrose smiles, thy gentle smile to woo,
     And violets take thy glances for the dew."
     &Glycera&
     "Then will they pluck themselves, to see me laugh;
     Good flowers bring cash; but who will pay for chaff?
     But haply thus the true poet intervenes,
     To make us wonder what on earth he means."
 
 
     Pausias
     "A poet! We do things in a superior way;
     A painter is a poet, who makes it pay.
     A poet, though deep and mystic as the Sphinx,
     Will ne'er earn half of what he eats and drinks,
     He dreams of Gods, but of himself he thinks."
 

Scene III.—A western slope near Sicyon.    Pausias

has his easel set, Glycera is dressed in white.

 
     Pausias
     "Seven times the moon hath filled her silver horn,
     And twice a hundred suns awoke the morn,
     Since thou and I—for half the praise is thine—
     Began this study of the flowers divine."
 
 
     Glycera
     "Alas! how swiftly have the months gone by!"
 
 
     Pausias
     "Not swift alone, but passing sweet for me."
 
 
     Glycera
     "The world, that was so large, is you and I."
 
 
     Pausias
     "And shall be larger still, when it is 'We.'"
 
 
     Glycera
     (Aside)  "Sweet dual!  Alas, that this shall never be!"
 
 
     Pausias
     "A tear, bright Glycera in those eyes of thine,
     Those tender eyes, that should with triumph shine!
     When I, the owner of that precious heart,
     Am shouting Iö Pæan of high art;
     The noblest picture underneath the sun—
     A few more strokes, and victory is won!"
 
 
     Glycera
     "Nay, heed me not.  True pleasure is not dry;
     The sunrise of the heart bedews the eye."
 
 
     Pausias
     "If that were all—but lately there hath been
     A listless air beneath thy livery mien;
     Thyself art all fair petal, and sweet perfume,
     And smiles that light the damask of thy bloom;
     Yet some, pale distance seems to chill the whole."
 
 
     Glycera
     "Forgive me, love, forgive a timorous soul.
     Through brightest hours untimely vapours rise—
     But while I prate, the lucky moment flies.
     The work, the weather, and the world are fair;
     A few more strokes—and fame flies everywhere."
 
 
     Pausias
     "Who cares for fame, except with love to share?"
 
 
     Glycera
     "To share! Nay every breath of it is mine,
     Whene'er it breathes on thee; for I am thine.
     But pardon now—if I have seemed sometime
     Impatient, glib, too pert for things sublime,
     Remember that I meant not so to sink;
     Forgive your Glycera, when you come to think."
 
 
     Pausias
     "I'll not forgive my Glycera—until
     She hath discovered how to do some ill.
     Now don once more this coronet of bloom,
     While lilies sweet thy sweeter breast illume."
 
 
     Glycera
     (Aside) "Ah me, what brightness wasted upon gloom!
     (Aloud) Oh fling thy sponge across this wretched face,
     A patch uncouth amid a world of grace."
 
 
     Pausias
     "Sweet love, thy beauty far outshineth them;
     The tinsel they are, thou the living gem.
     Great gift of Gods!  Shall flowers of earth despise
     Those flowers of heaven—thy tresses, and thine eyes?
     Away with gloom I let no ill-boding make
     My heart to falter, or my hand to shake.
     One hour is all I crave.  If that be long,
     Sweet lips beguile it with my favourite song."
 
 
     Glycera
     "A song like mine, a childish lullaby,
     Will close—when needed wide-awake—thine eye.
     But since thou so demandest, let me try.
     "In the fresh woods have I been,
       Sprinkled with the morning dew;
     And of all that I have seen,
       Lo, the fairest are for you!
     Take your choice of many a flower,
       Lily, rose, and melilot,
     Lilac, myrtle, virgin's bower,
       Pansy, and forget-me-not.
     Ladies'-tresses, and harebell,
       Jasmin, daphne, violet,
     Meadow-sweet, and pimpernel,
       Maidenhair, and mignonette.
     What is gold, that doth allure
       Foolish hearts from field and flower?
     If you plant them in it pure,
       Will they keep alive an hour?
     What is fame, compared with these,
       Fame of wisdom, sword, or pen?
     Who would quit the meadow breeze,
       For the sultry breath of men?
     These have been my childhood's love,
       These my maiden visions were;
     When I meet their gaze above,
       These will tell me, God is there."
 
 
     Pausias
     "'Tis done!   No more the palsied doubt molests;
     The crown of glory on my labour rests.
     Thy clear voice hath my flagging thoughts supplied,
     My model thou, my teacher, and my bride!
     Now stand, beloved one, where the soft glow lies,
     Yet judge not rashly, ere the colour dries.
     Find every fault, pick every flaw thou canst;
     I'll not be vexed; true art is thus advanced.
     So meek is art, that (when it comprehends)
     It loves the carping of its dearest friends.
     If my own bride condemns my efforts—let her.
     A poor daub? Well let some one do it better."
 
 
     Glycera
     "My love, my lord, my monarch of high art,
     Forgive a tongue held fast and bound by heart.
     Not Orpheus, Linus, or great Hermes could
     Find words to make their rapture understood.
     No Muse, no Phoebus, hath this work inspired,
     But Jove himself, with heaven's own splendour fired.
     I see the nursing fingers of the day,
     And night as well, upon their offspring play—
     The silent glide of moon, that hushed their sleep,
     (As mother at her infant steals a peep)
     Anon, with pearly glances half withdrawn,
     The gentle hesitation of the dawn;
     I see the sun his golden target raise,
     And drive in tremulous ranks the woodland haze;
     Awakened by whose call the flowers arise,
     With tears of joy and blushes of surprise;
     From bulb and bush, from leaf and blade, spring up
     Bell, disk, or star, plume, sceptre, fan, or cup;
     A thousand forms, a thousand hues of bloom
     Fill earth and heaven with beauty and perfume.
     All this, by thine enchantment, liveth here;
     Oh wondrous power, that chills my pride with fear!"
 
 
     Pausias
     "Thy praise, sweet critic, makes thee doubly dear.
     But what of thy fair self—thy form, thy face,
     The flower of flowers, the gracefulness of grace?"
 
 
     Glycera
     "I see why thou hast placed me among these;
     I serve a purpose—'tis to scare the bees.
     Sweet love hath right to place me anywhere;
     And yet I mourn, to find myself so fair."
 
 
     Pausias
     "A maid lament her beauty!  Thou hast shown,
     A thousand times, a wit beyond mine own;
     Yet is it kind to such a love as mine,
     To grudge it refuge in a lovely shrine?"
 
 
     Glycera
     "No shrine, no throne, of earth or heaven above,
     Can be too fair a dwelling-place for love.
     But that which makes me grieve, myself to see,
     Is memory of the bitter loss to thee;
     That earthly charms—as men such things esteem—
     Should tantalize thee, in a weeping dream!"
 
 
     Pausias
     "My own, my only love, what wouldst thou say?
     My heart hath borne a heavy bode, all day."
 
 
     Glycera
     "I durst not tell thee, till thy work was done;
     But now I must, before the setting sun.
     Last night, when life was lapsed in quietude,
     Beside my couch a stately figure stood—
     A virgin form, in garb of chace arrayed,
     With bow and quiver, baldric, and steel blade;
     Majestic as a palm that scorns the wind,
     And taller than the daughters of mankind
     Twas Artemis, close-girt in silver sheen,
     The Goddess of the woods, the Maiden-queen.
     Cold terror seized me, and mute awe, the while
     She oped her proud lips, with an icy smile—
     'Whose votary art thou?  Shall I resign
     'To wanton Cypris this sworn nymph of mine?
     'Have I enfeoffed thee of my holiest glen?
     'To have thee tainted by the lips of men?
     'Shall urchin Eros laugh at my decree?
     'No Hymen torch, no loosened zone for thee I
     'To-morrow, when my crescent tops yon oak,
     'Thou shalt return unto thy proper yoke.'
     She closed her lips, and like the barb of frost,
       Her fingers on my bounding heart outspread:
       My breast is ice, mv soul is of the dead:
       The sod, the cold clay, are my marriage-bed;
     Sweet sun, sweet flowers, sweet Love, forever lost!"
 
 
     Pausias
     "I'll not endure it; it shall ne'er be true;
     If that cold tyrant comes—I'll run her through."
 
 
     Glycera
     "What can'st thou do against the Goddess trine,
     Selene, Artemis, and Proserpine?
     Oh love, thou hast before thee life and fame,
     And some new Glycera with a loftier name.
     So tender is my heart, that it would break,
     To think that thou wert suffering for my sake.
     Be angry with me; doubt my faith—or try;
     And count it for a crime of mine to die:
     Or tell thyself—if still a pain there be—
     That wealth and grandeur were not meant for me.
     Yet think sometimes, when thou art well consoled,
     That no one loves thee, like some one of old."
 
 
     Pausias
     "My life, my soul, my heart of hearts, my all,
     Together let us cling, till death befall."
 
 
     Glycera
     "The sun is gone; the crescent waxeth bright;
     I fly to darkness, or eternal light.
     Great are the Gods; but greater yet is love;
     Here thou art mine, and I am thine above."
 
 
     Pausias
     "Oh fame, and conquest, pomp, and power, and state,
     What are ye, when the heart is desolate?
     A few more years of labour, and slow breath—
     Till death benign hath overtaken death."
 

BUSCOMBE; OR, A MICHAELMAS GOOSE

 
     When I was Head of Blunders school,
       Before the age of stokers,
     Compelled by rank to look a fool
       Betwixt a pair of "chokers,"
 
 
     Tom Tanner's father's wrote, to say
       That we should both of us come,
     To spend Saint Michael's holiday
       At the Vicarage of Buscombe.
 
 
     One trifle marred this merry plan—
       I had contrived, though barr'd up,
     To typify the future man,
       By getting very hard up.
 
 
     Oh bimetallic champion, some
       New ratio doth seem proper,
     When the circulating medium
       Has fallen to half a copper.
 
 
     Vile mammon hence!   Thy low amount
       Too paltry is to mope for;
     The more we have in hand to count,
       The less in heart to hope for.
 
 
     Bright youth itself is golden ore,
       And health the best gold-beater:
     Without a sigh for two pence more,
       We passed the gates of Peter.
 
 
     A nod suffices surly Cop,
       Who grins his bona fides;
     As Cerberus preferred his sop
       To Orpheus and Alcides.
 
 
     But Mother Cop!   Her cooking knack
       Would conquer fifty Catos—
     The Queen of tarts, and tuck, and tack,
       And cream, and fried potatoes.
 
 
     And rashers!   Sweet Ulysses, say
       Old Homer was mistaken;
     The Goddess must have had her way,
       And turned thee into bacon.
 
 
     That Circe came, and wished us joy,
       And said, "Goodbye, my dearie!"
     Because I was an honest boy,
       And pauper tneo ære.
 
 
     So Tom and I, like men on strike,
       Shook hands with all our cronies,
     Walked fifty yards, to save the pike,
       And jumped upon our ponies.
 
 
     Of apples, nuts, and goose galore
       I chattered, like a stupid,
     And thought of shooting coneys, more
       Than being shot by Cupid.
 
 
     At racing pace the turnpike road
       (Great Western, in this quicker age)
     Was swallowed up with whip and goad,
       And soon we saw the Vicarage.
 
 
     A sweet seclusion, to forget
       The world and its disasters,
     And fill the mind with mignonette,
       Clove-pinks, and German asters;
 
 
     In pensive, or in playful mood,
       To saunter here, and dally
     With leafy calm of solitude,
       Or sunshine of the valley.
 
 
     The Vicar loved his parish well,
       And well was he loved by it;
     Religion did not him compel
       To harass and defy it
 
 
     No price he charged for Heavenly love,
       No discount on Resurgo;
     His conscience told him—one side-shove
       Is worth ten kicks a tergo.
 
 
     But while the path of life he showed
       To win the Christian guerdon,
     No post was he, to point the road,
       But a man to share the burden.
 
 
     The lapse of years made manifest
       The sanctuary of holy age;
     As clearer grows the ring-dove's nest,
       When time hath stripp'd the foliage.
 
 
     The Vicar's wife was much the same,
       In fairer form presented—
     A lively, yet a quiet dame,
       With home, sweet home, contented.
 
 
     In parish, needs; and household arts,
       A lesson to this glib age;
     Well versed in pickles, jams, and tarts,
       Piano, chess, and cribbage.
 
 
     And well she loved the flowers, that speak
       A language undefiled—
     The flowers that lift the dimpled cheek,
       Or droop the dewy eyelid.
 
 
     Now, if she lingers after us,
       What ground have we for snarling?
     What act prohibits private buss,
       Reserved for "Tommy darling"?
 
 
     But who are these, so fresh and sweet,
       In lovely hats and dresses,
     Who half advance, and half retreat,
       And peep through clouds of tresses?
 
 
     "Come, dears!" They shyly offer hand,
       Beneath the jasmin trellis;
     "Say who you are, girls"—Charlotte, and
       Her sister, Caroline Ellis!
 
 
     Sweet Charlotte hath a serious face,
       A gaze almost parental;
     A type of every maiden grace,
       But a wee bit sentimental.
 
 
     Bright Caroline hath eyes that dance,
       While buoyant airs engirdle her;
     Her playful soul may love romance,
       But not a creepy curdler.
 
 
      Sweet Charlotte's are the deep grey eyes
       That win profound devotion;
     Bright Carry's flash, like azure skies,
       With heliograph in motion.
 
 
     As merry as the vintage ray,
       That dances down the grape-rill;
     As tender as the dews of May,
       Or apple-buds of April.
 
 
     Their charms are safe to grow more bright
       For at least two lustral stages;
     And so it seems not unpolite
       To enquire what their age is.
 
 
     "Last May, I was fifteen"; with glee
       Replies the laughing Carry;
     Sage Charlotte adds—"And I shall be
       Seventeen, next February."
 
 
     To the dining-room we walk on air,
       Disdaining jots and tittles;
     To feed seems such a low affair—
       And yet, hurrah for victuals!
 
 
     Could e'en a boy ply knife and fork,
       In presence so poetic,
     Until the vicar draws a cork,
       And gives the sniff prophetic?
 
 
     And when the evening games began,
       Pope Joan, and Speculation—
     What head could keep its poise and plan,
       With the heart in palpitation?
 
 
     Until, in soft white-curtained bed,
       We sink to slumber lowly,
     And angels fan the childish head,
       With visions sweet and holy.
 
 
     "Now I do declare," exclaimed our host,
       As he strode back from the arish,
     "Those railway fellows soon will boast
       They have undermined my parish!
 
 
     "Though none can say I have ever set
       My face against improvement,
     I cannot quite perceive as yet
       The good of this new movement
 
 
     "Like Hannibal, these folk confound
       All nature's institutions,
     And shun, with a great dive underground,
       Parochial contributions!
 
 
     "Come boys and girls, let us see their craft,
       These hills of Devon will task it;
     'Tis a pretty walk to White-Ball shaft,
       If the boys will take a basket
 
 
     "Dear wife; if your poor feet are right,
       The miracles of this cycle
     Will give you a noble appetite,
       For the roast goose of Saint Michael."
 
 
     In a twinkle, we had baskets twain
       Of the right stuff for a journey,
     And beautiful gooseberry Champagne,
       Superior to Epernay,
 
 
     What myriad joys of heart and mind
       Flit in and out our brief age!
     That day it was grand to see how kind
       The sun looked through the leafage!
 
 
     While the leaves for their part pricked their lips,
       With a dewy simper waiting;
     They were conscious of some amber tips—
       But those Were his own creating.
 
 
     Can the heart of man alone be dull,
       And the mind of man be spiteful,
     When all above is beautiful,
       And all below delightful?
 
 
     When Season bright, and Season rich,
       Make bids against each other;
     And earth, uncertain which is which,
       Smiles up at Nature Mother.
 
 
     The copse, the lane, the meadow path,
       The valleys, banks, and hedges,
     Were green with summer's aftermath,
       And gold with autumn's pledges.
 
 
     Wild rose hung coral beads above,
       And satchel'd nuts grew nigh them;
     Like tips of a little maiden's glove,
       Ere ever she has to buy them.
 
 
     But ours are not the maids to bite
       A gore or gusset undone;
     How neat they look, how trim and tight!
       Those frocks were made in London.
 
 
     Long time, we glance in awe and doubt,
       Suppressing all frivolity;
     Till the spirit of the age breaks out,
       And all is mirth and jollity.
 
 
     One flash, that stole from eyes demure,
       Hath scattered all convention;
     And then a pearly laugh makes sure
       That fun is her intention.
 
 
     The smiling elders march ahead;
       We dance, without a fiddler,
     We play at cross-touch, White and Red,
       Tip-cat, and Tommy Tidier.
 
 
     We laugh and shout, much more than speak,
       No etiquette importunes;
     The trees were made for hide-and-seek,
       The flowers to tell our fortunes;
 
 
     The hills, for pretty girls to pant,
       And glow with richer roses;
     The wind itself, to toss askant
       The curls that hide their noses.
 
 
     Then sprightly Carry shouts in French—
       "All boys and girls, come nutting!"
     We are slipping down a mighty trench—
       Why, it is the Railway cutting I
 
 
     Before us yawns a dark-browed arch,
       Paved with a muddy runnel;
     A thousand giant navvies march
       To delve the White-Ball tunnel.
 
 
     Oh, if a man of them but did
       Presume to glance at Carry,
     Though he were Milo, or John Ridd,
       I would toss him to Old Harry.
 
 
     I pull my jacket off, like him
       Who would shatter England's pillars—
     From the tunnel comes an order grim,
       "Get out of the way you chillers!"
 
 
     And the same stern order doth apply