''^if^«SS8?^'''-.Mi' 
 
 
DIOTTLE pe>EMS 
 
 -:t>^..' 
 
 A POETICULE 
 
 BY 
 
 ANT:^.;t/^S, 
 
 LQNDON 
 
 PRINTEi>;FQtl£,THE AUTHOR 
 
The original of tiiis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013487099 
 
LITTLE POEMS. 
 
LITTLE POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 A POETICULE 
 
 BY 
 
 C 
 
 A N T ^ U S c|,;.^a5 
 
 LONDON 
 
 PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR 
 
CHISWtCK press:— C. WHITTINGHAM AND CO., TOOKS COURT, 
 CHANCERY LANE. 
 
TO MRS. NOBODY. 
 
 I DEDICATE this book to you. I did intend to offer it 
 to my wife, but her thoughts run so much on shirts 
 and shifts, dinners and babies, and fal-Ials of that sort, 
 that I really love you better than her. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Py\GK 
 
 On my Book . . . t 
 
 Mary 2 
 
 Maud . , .3 
 
 Last Night . . . 4 
 
 Youth Supine . . .5 
 
 The Better Part ... . .6 
 
 He's But a Silly Wooer . 9 
 
 Serenade .10 
 
 To Nanny ii 
 
 Chorus op Soldiers .... ... ... 13 
 
 Youth 14 
 
 To A Child . 15 
 
 Christmas . ... 16 
 
 Funereal .... 17 
 
 Watershed . 18 
 
 Lines Written after reading the foregoing. 19 
 
 A Letter to the Cape . \ . . 20 
 
 Poppies . ... . . 22 
 
 Autumn . . . 23 
 
 A Goldfinch . 24 
 
 Middle Age .... -27 
 
 Love and Poetry . ... 27 
 
 Mother's Well Again . ... 29 
 
 The Clerks' Farewell . . .... 30 
 
 To R. K . . . 32 
 
 To my Dog and Bitch ... 3.^ 
 
 To THIS Third Book of Mine .... . . . 34 
 
ON MY BOOK. 
 
 Who'll read my verse ? God knows ! I don't ! 
 But I can point the men who won't. 
 The sour and stiff who 's quick to hate 
 His neighbour from a jealous pate, 
 And drones in learned accents slow 
 How great the bard who 's steeped in woe — 
 A common city man will love 
 Me better than this vicious dove. 
 The men that pray, the men that preach 
 At British sin would only retch 
 If they were made to chant my verse 
 That they with priggish instinct curse. 
 Who'll read it then ? God only knows, 
 But here it is in printed rows, 
 Made by myself in vacant hours. 
 When cold or darkness hid the flowers, 
 B 
 
ON MY BOOK. 
 
 For all who fear not to incline 
 Their hearts to what's not very fine, 
 But only tells of things that all 
 Have seen or done in Common Hall. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Is this laughing lass named Mary ? 
 Doleful name for such a fairy — 
 Name of sweet and sighing sadness, 
 Wan lament and gentle madness ! 
 
 But this girl has eyes so bright. 
 Veiled with softness, armed with might. 
 That they make the dullest swain 
 Long for one quick glance again. 
 
 And she has lips of reddest hue. 
 Lips that pout when pouts are due, 
 Made for kisses warm and soft, 
 Kisses long and kisses oft. 
 
MAUD. 
 
 And she has wbrds that quick dispel 
 Morbid thoughts and fancies fell ; 
 It is true that they are small, 
 But they mean Love, and Love is all. 
 
 To the graces of a fairy 
 Give no more the name of Mary. 
 Mary is but rampant folly ; 
 She is darling, charming Polly. 
 
 MAUD. 
 
 A WOULD-BE brazen lass is she, 
 Spuming sighs deliciously, 
 Pelting love with gibing fun, 
 Though she's barely twenty-one. 
 
 She laughs at all I do and say ; 
 She flouts me through the live-long day, 
 And calls my two and thirty years 
 Brave sentinels against her fears. 
 
MAUD. 
 
 But when I kiss her mocking face 
 What makes her silent leave the place, 
 Both her cheeks a burning red, 
 All her pretty scomings dead ? 
 
 LAST NIGHT. 
 A LOVE LETTER. 
 
 On your brow the heather lay 
 True and red, true and red. 
 
 How I coveted the spray ! 
 But you fled, but you fled 
 
 Ere I found the heart to say 
 The unsaid, the unsaid. 
 
 Then I searched a weary hill 
 For the flower, many an hour ; 
 
 But the shifty moon's ill-will, 
 Chaste arid sour, hid the flower. 
 
YOUTH SUPINE. 
 
 Yet the eyebright glistened clear 
 All the time, empty time ; 
 
 So I plucked it for its cheer 
 Out of thyme, scented thyme, 
 
 And I wrap it for my dear 
 In a rhyme, wistful rhyme. 
 
 YOUTH SUPINE. 
 
 You little birds that soar above 
 The golden flowers that deck the field. 
 
 Know that, howe'er you sing, my love 
 Hath frowned and will not yield. 
 
 And yet, as I lie on the sward 
 At love and all things murmuring. 
 
 Because my lady dear is hard. 
 You dare to soar and sing ! 
 
 But wait until the rose's hue 
 Hath sprinkled every hedge along, 
 
YOUTH SUPINE. 
 
 Then she shall come with me to you 
 And smile at your proud song. 
 
 For every day I'll ask her grace, 
 And every day I'll faithful prove, 
 
 So shall she turn at last her face 
 To me with gentle love ; 
 
 And sit just here, you noisy elves, 
 And call you all a rattling toy. 
 
 Not half as happy as ourselves 
 Who cannot sing for joy. 
 
 THE BETTER PART. 
 
 You dames that tread the stony way 
 With solemn face and clothing gay, 
 And mien that damns your fine array, 
 Have vexed me sore : 
 
THE BETTER PART. 
 
 But now there is across the mead 
 A better book for me to read, 
 A loving little girl indeed, 
 That I love more. 
 
 First, far away beneath the trees 
 An apron flutters in the breeze, 
 A snowy sign to him who sees 
 To haste and kiss ; 
 
 And when I shout and mend my pace, 
 She comes towards with laughing face, 
 And meets me with a dainty grace 
 Foretelling bliss. 
 
 'Tis now we search each other's eyes 
 To find for sure the grandest prize. 
 That makes us tremble with surprise 
 And stand stock still. 
 
 And if we happen on a stile 
 She hides her legs with pretty wile, 
 And plays at touch-me-not with smile 
 That loves my will. 
 
THE BETTER PART. 
 
 But when the sun sets, then we know 
 That we may clutch at things below, 
 And cease to care for vanished show 
 Of prudish day. 
 
 So as she pants I fold her tight. 
 And we forget the things of light, 
 And in the dark begin Love's rite 
 Without delay. 
 
 But what you ladies in a bed 
 Of sweaty linen bear in dread. 
 We do within a scented shed 
 Of wild woodbine. 
 
 And last, when time comes to depart. 
 She cries because it's hard to part, 
 But with a tender, happy heart, 
 This girl of mine. 
 
HE'S BUT A SILLY WOOER. 
 
 He 'S but a silly wooer, 
 Yet must he still pursue her, 
 
 A lady gay 
 
 Who loves to stray 
 
 Through field and meadow all the day. 
 
 His love can never bind her, 
 
 Nor weary footstep find her : 
 He sees her fair, 
 With ribboned hair. 
 Far, far away ; but if he dare 
 
 Too near, with shouts of laughter 
 She flees,, and he goes after 
 
 To watch her fade, 
 
 A mocking shade, 
 
 Adown the windings of a glade, 
 c 
 
H£S BUT A SILLY WOO^R. 
 
 She's small as Mab and madder 
 Than he, tho' he is sadder, 
 
 So far to go, 
 
 In wistful woe 
 
 Till down he sinks in brambles low, 
 
 Nor heeds their bloody stickle 
 Nor brier's cruel prickle, 
 
 That do but lie 
 
 As carelessly 
 
 As one who's fallen fain to die. 
 
 SERENADE. 
 
 Rise, my girl, and now be keeping 
 
 Love's bespangled holiday ; 
 Kisses gender if their reaping 
 
 Fall beneath bright Vesper's ray. 
 Single boys and girls are sleeping 
 
 Deaf and dumb, a cloddish nay ; 
 Widowed lovers lie a-weeping 
 
 For the loves they've lost to-day. 
 
TO NANNY. 
 
 Every lively thing is pining 
 
 For the kindness of a mate ; 
 Let us then, each other twining, 
 
 Feed on love and laugh at Fate — 
 Fate that 's ever darkly mining 
 
 Through the way of age and hate, 
 So shall we, on kisses dining. 
 
 Meet it in our festal state. 
 
 TO NANNY. 
 
 You know you said — it was not 1 — 
 That Life is short and we nmst die 
 Too soon, and yet you still defy 
 My fond embraces. 
 
 You saw the sun this very day 
 Drive o'er its semi-circled way 
 And set at last, nor would delay 
 Its final graces. 
 
TO NANNY. 
 
 They say it's sure to come again 
 To-morrow just to shine on men 
 And women for their joy ; but then 
 Are you so certain ? 
 
 If you are not, take present bliss 
 By very token of the kiss 
 That I would give, and never miss 
 For all night's curtain. 
 
 But if you are, it '11 surely shine 
 On wistful hearts, as yours and mine, 
 Tho' others will be beating fine 
 With hope that's founded 
 
 On what they've done before, while we 
 Shall bear it's brightness heavily. 
 And sigh in vain for what might be 
 If you abounded. 
 
 In love of what your neighbours do, 
 In faith in me who wait and sue 
 For what is old, but ever new 
 To all things living. 
 
CHORUS OF SOLDIERS. I3 
 
 Then, Nanny, be not coy nor ran 
 From him you love, nor seek to shun 
 The joy that blesses everyone 
 Who's quick in giving. 
 
 CHORUS OF SOLDIERS 
 
 AT THE MARRIAGE OF THEIR GENERAL. 
 
 To the town, mates, sing around. 
 Little shoes and frocks to buy : 
 
 Little feet are near the ground ; 
 Camp shall hear the babies cry. 
 
 What care we for toil and sorrow ? 
 
 Little faces won't be long 
 Filling out the glad to-morrow. 
 
 Like their fathers, with a song. 
 
 Women's smiles and brave men's laughter 
 Meeting end in babies' eyes ; 
 
 Babes shall be big men hereafter, 
 Say the wisest of the wise. 
 
'4 
 
 YOUTH. 
 
 A LITTLE child was walking down 
 The garden path one April day, 
 
 And spied a pear-tree's snowy crown, 
 The tiny bush's sole display. 
 
 He laughed to see the pretty sight, 
 And stretched his hand to seize the toy, 
 
 When mother, heedful of the right. 
 Cried, " Pluck it not, you naughty boy ! 
 
 The fruit will give you more delight — 
 The blossom's but a fleeting joy." 
 
 The child said naught, but sly and gay 
 He plucked, and stole within a bower 
 
 Where he might sit at ease and play 
 With those white virgins for an hour. 
 
15 
 
 TO A CHILD. 
 
 Last April prime you called me fool, 
 
 And now you bring me roses : 
 Dear little lass, what is your rule 
 
 For floutings and for posies ? 
 
 If you were older you might say 
 
 " To everything its season," 
 But you're so young, your tiny way 
 
 Slips under age's reason. 
 
 And yet both times you laughed and kissed ' 
 
 My black beard in this meadow. 
 Where youths shall sigh because they've missed 
 
 The sight of e'en your shadow. 
 
 Maybe the sun fell on my face 
 
 And made it bright as any : — 
 But sin it is to probe your grace ; 
 
 I'll cheer it with a penny. 
 
i6 
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Holly berries red, 
 Missel berries white, 
 
 And a maiden's face 
 Make a Christmas right. 
 
 Missel berries white 
 And a maiden's face, 
 
 Laughing in the glow. 
 Make a kissing case. 
 
 And a maiden's face, 
 After being kissed. 
 
 Goes away to hide 
 Till by all it's missed. 
 
 O, we cry, she 's kissed 
 And has gone to hide. 
 
 She: will soon come back 
 Blushing like a bride. 
 
FUNEREAL. 17 
 
 Long she cannot hide, 
 
 For she loves the light, 
 Reddens as she comes 
 
 Back to bonny bright. 
 
 As she comes to light. 
 
 Hanging down her head, 
 Berries like her face 
 
 Mix their white and red. 
 
 Holly berries red, 
 
 Missel berries white, 
 And a maiden's face 
 
 Make a Christmas right. 
 
 FUNEREAL. 
 
 To the earth with a dearth 
 
 Of babbling speech we bare him : 
 Meanest shroud, for a crowd 
 Of grovelling worms shall share him. 
 D 
 
i8 FUNEREAL. 
 
 Silent stand, a trembling band 
 On the ogre mother ; 
 
 Look with awe into her maw ; 
 All shall fill no other. 
 
 Lay him low ; end the show ; 
 
 Strip him of his trappings. 
 Naked earth at his birth, 
 
 Needs he now no wrappings. 
 
 Come away ! Why delay .■' 
 Clay is dull and heavy. 
 
 Old is she. Children, we 
 Dance in fleeting bevy. 
 
 WATERSHED. 
 
 Now on Lif^s crest we breathe the temperate air. 
 
 Turn either way ! The parted path overlook! 
 Dear, we shall never bid the Sphinx despair. 
 
 Nor read in Sibyl's book. 
 
WATERSHED. 19 
 
 The blue bends (fer us; good are night and day; 
 
 Some blissful influettce of the starry seven 
 Thrilled us ere youth took wing : why now essay 
 
 The vain assault on heaven f 
 
 And what great word Lifis singing lips pronounce, 
 And what intends the sealing kiss of Death, 
 
 It skills us not; yet we accept, renounce. 
 And draw this tranquil breath. 
 
 Enough, one thing we know; haply anon 
 All truths, yet no truth better or more clear 
 
 Than that your hand holds my hand; therefore, on! 
 The downward pathway. Dear. 
 
 Edward Dowdbn. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN AFTER READING THE 
 FOREGOING. 
 
 I KNOW the Sphinx has long laid with the dead, 
 And Sibyl only wrote to send astray ; 
 
 'Tis to kind eyes the blue is overhead, 
 
 And to good men are good the night and day. 
 
20 UNES AFTER READING THE FOREGOING. 
 
 Life's greatest word is but the echo clear 
 Of that large heart that knows or loves the most ; 
 
 For he that knows is most serene and dear, 
 While he that loves may of great knowledge boast. 
 
 I know that Death is nothing to the wise 
 Who, from the lore collected in his sun 
 
 Distils the future with far-seeing eyes, 
 And tastes the cup before his day is done. 
 
 Descend then, kindly pair, and pluck what flowers 
 May cheer your path adown the fleeting hours. 
 
 A LETTER TO THE CAPE. 
 
 Dear Dick, do leave for once the glare 
 Of diamond mines and sandy plains, 
 
 The gold, of which you have your share. 
 And walk with me in London lanes. 
 
A LETTER TO THE CAPE. 
 
 And when we're tired, we'll watch the town, 
 
 Behind a glass of yellow wine. 
 And lose the patter up and down 
 
 In praise of girls in dresses fine. 
 
 Then, as the liquor warms our blood, 
 We'll hie us back to boyhood's years 
 
 When both our lives were in the bud. 
 Bursting with varied hopes and fears . 
 
 A parson you were hot to be, 
 
 And now you thrash the nigger's hide ; 
 Pure science was the aim of me, 
 
 Who on a wayward fancy ride. 
 
 But just the same we know the dead — 
 My sister, that you loved so well, 
 
 Uo you remember how she sped 
 When she outstripped us down the fell ? 
 
 And do you mind the water trough 
 Where we urged toads in frightened race. 
 
A LETTER TO THE CAPE. 
 
 Till she in pity cried Enough ! 
 To us devoid of care and grace ? 
 
 She's gone : and you and I apart 
 Recall the past in fitful word : 
 
 The pen but poorly shows the heart ; 
 The voice alone can love record. 
 
 Come, then, my Dick, and don't be long ; 
 
 I want to hear a private tone. 
 Each day I see a happy throng, 
 
 But then each day I'm all alone. 
 
 POPPIES. 
 
 We saw the farmer's bier 
 Borne o'er the golden field ; 
 
 The wheat too knew its time was near 
 And bent beneath its yield. 
 
AUTUMN. 
 
 We marked the earthy grave 
 Whereon, as we came back 
 
 To-day, we saw the poppies wave. 
 The poppies that he 'd hack 
 
 And heap upon a pyre, 
 Limp, faded green and red, 
 
 And blast them utterly with fire. 
 Do these now mount the dead ? 
 
 O gorgers on the past. 
 Flap not your bloody wings 
 
 Above one foe that's down at last : 
 A stronger burns and sings. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 Now herbage weary of its crowded fight 
 Sinks where the worm awaits a flaccid prey ; 
 
 The glories of the expiring reign of light 
 Glare a last triumph in the sunflower's ray. 
 
24 AUTUMN. 
 
 Down creeps the sated snake : silent with dread 
 The huddled birds expect the mortal cold, 
 
 Save where the robin, careless of his red, 
 Pipes in lone melody a tale that's told. 
 
 The chill mist deadens sound ; man bears within 
 His home, now lighted by the sun's pale ghost, 
 
 Memorial thought of what the sun has been 
 Through the long summer now for ever lost. 
 
 Yet for the herb kind earth protects the seed. 
 As a loved past the hope of next yeai-'s deed. 
 
 A GOLDFINCH. 
 BORN JUNE 1877: DIED ID SEPTR. 189I. 
 
 On the Shaw's tallest tree 
 
 Cradled you were, 
 Though you ne'er lived to be 
 
 Spurner of air. 
 
A GOLDFINCH. 25 
 
 Half-fledged and grey you came 
 
 Into our hand 
 For a life, long and tame, 
 
 In a caged land. 
 
 Mays blessed your window-sill. 
 
 Showing heaven's gate : 
 Mays made your blemished bill 
 
 Immaculate ; 
 
 Mays brought a gentle wife 
 
 Bright as your wing, 
 Warmed you to pride of life 
 
 And carolling. 
 
 Qaughters and sons you got 
 
 In a long line ; 
 Envious with them you fought. 
 
 As they grew fine. 
 
 Gascon ! did you defy 
 Him that fed you, 
 
 E 
 
25 A GOLDFINCH. 
 
 While he laughed merrily 
 At your brave hue. 
 
 You saw our father die 
 
 Loving us well : 
 Alone flashed your fierce eye 
 
 On him as he fell. 
 
 You sang a tiny song 
 
 On the dull mom 
 That, shrouding the good and strong, 
 
 Left us forlorn. 
 
 Yet now your unpaled red, 
 And gold of your wing, 
 
 We lay with the loved dead. 
 Remembering. 
 
LOVE AND POETRY. 27 
 
 MIDDLE AGE. 
 
 Steep years wear fancy out ; at length we stand 
 Serene upon the lofty plain to view 
 The burial of the brightest face we knew, 
 
 And smile maybe : for middle age is bland. 
 
 LOVE AND POETRY. 
 
 Love, the little winged lad. 
 
 Came with laughing face to me, 
 Bound me as I kissed him glad. 
 Flew away and left me sad, 
 Pining for my liberty. 
 Naughty, naughty Love to me ! 
 
28 LOVE AND POETRY. 
 
 Slowly to my aching side 
 
 Toddled then a baby Muse ; 
 Lispdd out with tiny pride 
 " See, the world is very wide ; 
 Won't you let me set you loose ? " 
 How could I the babe refuse. 
 
 " Sing a little song to me." 
 
 So I sang a little song, 
 Pleased with her and glad to see 
 End to my captivity : 
 Love 's a short and bitter wrong; 
 Art 's a sweet that liveth long. 
 Love, Love, away 
 For ever and a day ! 
 Fly, Love! 
 Die Love ! 
 Just as you may. 
 For you're full of base deceit in all you do and say. 
 
 Muse, live with me; 
 Never care to flee. 
 
MOTHER'S WELL AGAIN. 29 
 
 Prance, sweet, 
 Dance, sweet, 
 Ever joyously. 
 Mine you are, a kinder Love, that made me gay and free. 
 
 MOTHER'S WELL AGAIN. 
 
 Propitious be the fire that bakes 
 This the last and best of cakes ! 
 Happy we that now have seen it, 
 For the rarest things are in it — 
 Thoughts of that long, cakeless time. 
 When the house without its prime. 
 Bright controller, chilled and sad. 
 Threw a gloom o'er lass and lad ; 
 Thankful glances fell in then 
 From the mother well again ; 
 Spice and currant too we see, 
 Flour and such-like trumpery. 
 Look ! the mass begins to rise 
 'Neath the joyful children's eyes. 
 
30 MOTHER'S WELL AGAIN. 
 
 Surest sign it shall be light 
 As our hearts are at the sight 
 Of our queen restored to might. 
 Soon we'll eat to live and move 
 Freely in her careful love. 
 
 THE CLERKS' FAREWELL 
 
 TO THEIR SUPERANNUATED BROTHER, 
 
 30, DEC. 1 89 1. 
 
 Old friend, to-night we feel the smart 
 That burns whenever old friends part. 
 
 Maybe that far-off time you mind 
 When Cornish land you left behind : 
 Was it not hard to say good-bye 
 To all the things that pleased your eye — 
 To white-tails skipping in the furze. 
 To hedge and ditch, to thorns and burs, 
 To lilies in the orchard grass, 
 To cornfield, fellow lad and lass, 
 
THE CLERKS FAREWELL. 31 
 
 To plover flapping o'er the marish, 
 To partridge crouching in the arrish ? 
 Yet memory of these things was sweet 
 To you in duty's daily seat, 
 And tales of happy times by-gone 
 Helped you to jog with pleasure on 
 The path of work you've done so well. 
 
 And though we heard with pain the knell 
 That called you from our company, 
 And often wish that you might be 
 Still longer with us, yet we know 
 That kindly speech of you will go 
 From one to th' other ; what you thought 
 And did and spoke shall soon be taught 
 To younger men : and we shall think 
 Of you, as you of Tamar's brink, 
 And wish you with your well loved wife 
 A happy, long and prosperous life. 
 
32 
 
 TO R. K. 
 
 The blackbirds that you sent me 
 
 Were very fine and fit, 
 But melody of years and miles 
 
 Went fizzle on the spit. 
 
 I love a bird's song dearly, 
 So next time send me crakes 
 
 That night and day o'er woodland tune 
 Delight to drag their rakes. 
 
33 
 
 TO MY DOG AND BITCH. 
 
 You horizontal paupers, late pointing to the pole 
 
 Of bread and meat and various mess that makes your daily 
 
 dole, 
 What mean you now by fixing me with sentimental eye, 
 As if you had within your ken the matter for a sigh ? 
 You're like the well-fed married dean who wrote a tract to 
 
 show 
 That old Montaigne though wise enough was lamentably 
 
 low. 
 
34 
 
 TO THIS THIRD BOOK OF MINE. 
 
 Number Three, 
 
 Go and see 
 
 How the world progresses. 
 
 Maybe passion 
 
 's Out of fashion 
 
 And you'll get caresses. 
 
 Poets solemn, 
 
 On the column 
 
 That the mob has raised them 
 
 May be sneered at, 
 
 Even jeered at 
 
 By the crowd that praised them ; 
 
 And your prattle. 
 Silly tattle, 
 
TO THIS THIRD BOOK OF MINE. 35 
 
 Now may turn some faces 
 From the preacher 
 And the teacher 
 To your tiny graces. 
 
CHISWICK PRESS :— C. WHITTINGHAM AND CO. 
 CHANCERY LANE. 
 
 , TOOKS COURT, 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR4818.I3L7 
 
 Little poems of a poeticule, 
 
 3 1924 013 487 099