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The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013522168 
 
The Withered Jester and 
 Other Verses 
 
All rights reserved 
 
ftfC WITHER JBSflK 
 
 Ar4 OTHER VERSE ^ 
 
 Aj^iJR fATCrtETTMA^H 
 
 London : <J.-'M..0£NT * C« 
 
TO MY WIFE 
 THE BEST OF LITERARY COMRADES 
 
Preface 
 
 -www- 
 Certain of these verses have appeared in publica- 
 tions long since out of print, others in current 
 periodicals, English and Colonial, while some have 
 not hitherto been published : the whole being now 
 for the first time collected in book form. 
 
 Written in two hemispheres, at different periods 
 of life, and under varying moods of mind, grave 
 and gay, in jest and earnest ; the faint and far-off 
 echoes of the Australian Bush mingle with the 
 more familiar every-day sounds of the London 
 streets, and the careless rhymings of long ago, 
 with the verses of a later and less exuberant 
 time. 
 
 To my artist friends, Phil May,' Hume Nisbet, 
 Cavaliere M. Ezekiel, and Miss Margaret Thomas, 
 I am under the deepest obligation, for designs 
 and drawings, which make of my poor verses so 
 
viii Preface 
 
 But it behoves the barren rhymer of the hour, 
 who figures in such gallant guise, to reflect that 
 the Elegy was first issued from the private press of 
 Gray's friend Horace Walpole, as a sixpenny pam- 
 phlet ; and in that unattractive form, at once 
 found its way to the human heart. 
 
 Still, the sweetest of our English singers was 
 haunted by a dread of what we should now call 
 the "four-penny box." 
 
 Make haste away, and let one be 
 A friendly patron unto thee: 
 Lest, rapt from hence, I see thee lie 
 Torn for the use ofpastery : 
 Or see thy injur 'd leaves serve well, 
 To make loose gowns for mackerel: 
 Or see the grocers in a trice, 
 Make hoods of thee to serve out spice. 
 
 But whatever may be the fate of my Withered 
 Jester, Phil May's can hardly be put to the base 
 uses that so perturbed the serene spirit of 
 Herrick. 
 
 A. P. M. 
 
 London, 1895. 
 
Contents 
 
 — vWVv— 
 
 PART I 
 
 The Withered Jester 
 
 The Withered Jester 
 
 Reflections of a Revolutionary Poet 
 
 An Agnostic's Apology 
 
 Beyond the Grave 
 
 In Memoriam Matris 
 
 A Nameless Hero .... 
 
 The Beheading of Sir Walter Raleigh 
 
 Elizabeth ..... 
 
 Death . . . . 
 
 ii 
 16 
 
 17 
 20 
 22 
 27 
 29 
 
 PART II 
 
 Bushland and Babylon 
 
 Bushland — In the You Yangs 
 The Cynic of the Woods 
 
 33 
 34 
 
X 
 
 Contents 
 
 My Cousin from Pall Mall 
 A Romance in the Rough 
 Bret Harte in Camp 
 Adam Lindsay Gordon 
 ^Esop in Bushland 
 Over the Sea 
 Babylon— 
 
 I. The City of Wild Contrasts 
 II. The Poet and the Anarchists 
 
 Noll and Nell 
 
 The Young Poet's Dreams 
 
 The Old Poet's Regrets . 
 
 The Minor Poet 
 
 His Apology . 
 
 The Pagan in Piccadilly — 
 
 I. Musings from a Club Window in St 
 
 James's . 
 II. The Virtuous Worldling to his Love 
 HI. When a Man's Single 
 IV. Horace in the Green Park . 
 v. The Optimist 
 vi. The Pessimist 
 
 I'AGE 
 38 
 
 45 
 47 
 5° 
 51 
 
 53 
 
 55 
 57 
 
 59 
 61 
 
 63 
 65 
 68 
 
 7i 
 74 
 77 
 79 
 81 
 
 83 
 
Contents 
 
 XI 
 
 PART in 
 Vagrant Verse 
 
 The Storm . 
 
 87 
 
 Such is Life . 
 
 89 
 
 Old Comrades 
 
 91 
 
 The Cup of Pleasure 
 
 94 
 
 Love and War 
 
 97 
 
 Discontents . 
 
 100 
 
 Sir Toby 
 
 102 
 
 A Song of May 
 
 104 
 
 A Foreboding . 
 
 106 
 
 Numbers without Notes — 
 
 
 Farewell 
 
 107 
 
 My Love and I 
 
 109 
 
 Dan Cupid and Doctor Reaso 
 
 i . . in 
 
 A Drinking Song 
 
 113 
 
 Brother and Sister 
 
 US 
 
List of Illustrations 
 
 Hume Nisbet . . . Frontispiece 
 
 Phil May . "The Withered Jester" . Title-page 
 
 ' ' E'en despite my motley coat 
 
 Who can tell how sad 1 am ? " 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Hume Nisbet 18 
 
 ' ' A grave-stone standing white '' 
 
 Hume Nisbet 33 
 
 ' ' The sun-kiss 'd day 
 Gleams thro' the grand old gnarled gum-tree houghs" 
 
 Hume Nisbet 87 
 
 " In sight of the town 
 
 The ship went down " 
 
 € € s 
 
Part I 
 The Withered Jester 
 
TO J. ST LOE STRACHEY 
 
The Withered Jester 
 
 (A Dream) 
 
 The night was drear, the angry wind blew keen, 
 And sent the scattered clouds across the sky ; 
 The moon's dim light and the few straggling stars 
 Served but to mark the blackness all around. 
 The streets were empty of their usual crowds — 
 I seemed in that vast city all alone, 
 And wandered forth, full of despairing thoughts. 
 For she that I had deemed so wondrous fair, 
 So worthy to be worshipped all my days, 
 Had shown herself a petty, small-souled thing : 
 What matters how ! I wandered wildly on 
 Till, on a distant hill, I reached an inn. 
 The door was open, and a flickering light 
 Revealed a cheerless room, with low, bare walls ; 
 
4 The Withered Jester 
 
 The light was from the embers in the grate, 
 
 And left the room half black. There I espied 
 
 A grey and withered man by that lone hearth, 
 
 Who, as I entered, gravely rose and bowed. 
 
 I looked at him, and on my startled ear 
 
 The sound of hollow laughter harshly struck ; 
 
 Then that grey, withered man said, ' Welcome here : 
 
 ' This is the resting-place of broken hopes. 
 
 ' Thy face is like an open book ; so young 
 
 ' Thou art, and yet so sad. — Some woman's work.' 
 
 Again his laughter echoed through the room, 
 
 Then, gliding softly to my side, he spake — 
 
 ' Be merry, man, and let her freely go ! 
 
 ' Tis better she should wed some other fool — 
 
 ' The altar only turns man's love to hate ; 
 
 ' So let her freely go ! ' He gazed at me, 
 
 Till I cried out, ' How can you speak of Love 
 
 Who never knew Love's witchery and might ? ' 
 
 He laughed, and said, ' Ho ! not so fast, my guest — 
 
 I, too, have loved, but have forgot their names ; ' 
 
 And then it seemed he placed a hand in mine, 
 
 Saying, ' We're comrades ; listen to my tale. 
 
 I have not always been a withered wretch 
 
The Withered Jester t 
 
 In this dull house : I, top, have lived and loved, 
 And had my fulsome flatterers, mis-called friends, 
 Who left me when their friendship was of use. 
 I have sat up o' nights in lighted rooms, 
 And played the jester at the festive board.' 
 I smiled to hear that grey and withered man 
 Speak of his past life as a merry one ; 
 Whereat he frowned, and forthwith ceased his tale, 
 And chanted, in discordant tones, this song : — 
 
 ' I have met with men who mix 
 
 In the highest social set, 
 Boors at heart, with just the tricks 
 
 Of a shallow etiquette. 
 
 II. 
 
 ' I have seen the kindly rich 
 And the envious hateful poor ; 
 
 Men with names in Fame's bright niche 
 Far less vain than the obscure. 
 
The Withered Jester 
 in. 
 
 ' I have known — and found them dull- 
 Men of philosophic views, 
 
 And would rather have the fool 
 As companion, could I choose. 
 
 IV. 
 
 ' Many men there are, who join 
 In the Church's prayers and psalms, 
 
 Who will give their hoarded coin 
 For a painted woman's charms! 
 
 V. 
 ' There are learned men, I ween, 
 
 Sitting on the Judge's bench, 
 Who, when thinking they're unseen, 
 
 Toy with any buxom wench. 
 
 VI. 
 
 ' You, O smooth face ! you can tell 
 Of a woman's love maybe ; 
 
 Does she love you half as well 
 As the lap-dog on her knee ? 
 
The Withered Jester 7 
 
 VII, 
 
 " Start not, if I raise the veil ; 
 
 You are right, I am uncouth. 
 Well ! I'll cease to jeer and rail, 
 
 If you own I speak the truth. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 ' Truth ! Why, what does that denote 
 In a world where all's a sham ? 
 
 E'en despite my motley coat, 
 Who can tell how sad I am ? ' 
 
 Here the chant ceased. The place seemed strangely 
 
 changed. 
 I started up : the withered man had gone, 
 While round my neck I felt encircling arms, 
 And on my fevered brow sweet kisses fell. 
 ' My love, my life ! I care not what they say : 
 I will not go.' The sun shone bravely out, 
 Flooding the room with warm and rosy light, — 
 I had but slept five minutes in my chair. 
 
Reflections of a Revolutionary Poet 
 
 [Leigh Hunt, in an account of his visit to Italy, where he 
 met Shelley after a lapse of years, describes the poet as pre- 
 maturely aged in appearance, and as being far less confident 
 than formerly of the effect of his revolutionary doctrines in 
 renovating the world.] 
 
 Standing alone upon this distant shore, 
 
 Where break the white-foamed billows on the rocks, 
 
 Beneath the calm of fair Italian skies, 
 
 I see the dead years of my vanished life 
 
 File past in sad array, bearing aloft 
 
 Utopian schemes, like frail distorted imps. 
 
 Are these the dreams that filled my waking life, 
 
 When, as a youth, I strove to stir the world — 
 
 Cursing its kings and priests with frenzied words, 
 
 And, with the rapture of a prophet's tone, 
 
 Hailed the bright advent of the coming day ? 
 
 Has my poor life been but a player's mask, 
 
 8 
 
Reflections of a Revolutionary Poet 9 
 
 A thing of emptiness and. vulgar show ? 
 
 And these my hopes, my vain delusive dreams, 
 
 Were they but children of a fierce self-love ? 
 
 See how they wane, and flicker, and die out ! 
 
 I know by sad experience that my strength 
 
 Is all unfit to stop the rolling world. 
 
 My hair is blanched, the lines are on my face, 
 
 But kings still sway the nations, and sleek priests 
 
 Repeat old fables to believing ears, 
 
 Still the base peasant drags his weary load 
 
 Unmurmuring in the presence of his lord. 
 
 All things remain unchanged, save my weak self. 
 
 It may be I was wrong, that what I deemed 
 
 Fretting obstructions to man's onward march 
 
 Are but the stones to ford a rushing stream. 
 
 The iron sway of kings, the power of priests, 
 
 May help to crush the brutish part in us 
 
 And fit us for the freer days to come. 
 
 But can it be that all my hopes were vain ? 
 
 Surely I caught a fleeting glimpse of Truth, 
 
 And shaped it into verse that cannot die. 
 
 It must be so. I feel my faith revive. 
 
 A time shall come, though generations hence, 
 
io The Withered Jester 
 
 When men shall live the grander, freer life 
 
 That I foretold, and my impulsive verse 
 
 Will linger in the minds of future bards. 
 
 Throughout the ages, lowly, toil-worn men 
 
 Shall think of me as of a trusty friend 
 
 Who sang their bitter woes in burning words. 
 
 My life is ebbing fast ; my task is done ; 
 
 And I but wait upon this silent shore 
 
 Like one who feels the solemn mystery 
 
 Of fleeting days, and looks with earnest eyes 
 
 While the great world moves on, bearing its freight 
 
 Of dead and living souls, none knoweth where. 
 
An Agnostic's Apology 
 
 You boast of the wonders of Science, and are wait- 
 ing an era when 
 Religions shall pass like the morning mists, and no 
 
 more be seen of men. 
 The creed that we held in childhood is dying, you 
 
 say, or dead ; 
 No more can we pray with the saints, or believe 
 
 what the prophets said. 
 And you wish, above all, that the Many, — not the 
 
 chosen and cultured few, 
 As in former years, shall cease to bend at the shrine 
 
 of the Blessed Jew. 
 The fruits of the Tree of Knowledge should be given 
 
 to all men now, 
 And the ploughman must learn to doubt of God as 
 
 he whistles beside his plough. 
 
12 The Withered Jester 
 
 Too long have we parleyed with falsehood, or spoken 
 
 in riddle and hint — 
 The battle is nigh, and our weapons are freedom of 
 
 speech and print. 
 
 O Friend, are we ripe for revolt, for this freer and 
 
 godless day ? 
 Is it better that man should doubt, or kneel in the 
 
 darkness and pray ? 
 You answer ' Yes,' but I falter — I cannot for certain 
 
 tell 
 If the world would be better, should all men say 
 
 there is neither heaven nor hell — 
 A home that the homeless may wait for, a rest for 
 
 the weary head, 
 And a place that the low-browed ruffian may think 
 
 of with terrible dread. 
 Nor do I marvel that man, in his anguish, should 
 
 lift up cries, 
 And turn from this poor uncertain life to a world 
 
 beyond the skies. 
 What is this fleeting life of ours, with its burden of 
 
 threescore years, 
 
An Agnostic's Apology 13 
 
 But a tale of infinite sorrow, a source of manifold 
 
 tears, 
 Where . love is consumed , in passion, and passion 
 
 may change to hate ; 
 Where the vilest often is honoured, and the basest 
 
 is called the great ? 
 In this world ; shbuld there chance to wander some 
 
 noble and faithful soul, 
 How swiftly his. course is ended, if the grave be 
 
 his final goal ! 
 
 You will say, we must battle for Truth ; what, 
 
 can you tell me, is Truth ? 
 To me she wears not the face I thought was hers in 
 
 my youth; 
 And this I know, though the saying may sound in 
 
 your ears as odd, 
 There is many a blatant bigot who scorns to believe 
 
 in a God. 
 I know you will judge me harshly, as one who 
 
 stands idly by, 
 While his fellows are rushing onward to vanquish 
 
 the foe or die. 
 
14 The Withered Jester 
 
 I cannot but think you wrong me — I am all unfit 
 
 for the strife, 
 Not believing, with you, I have mastered the utter- 
 most problems of life. 
 I know that our creeds rose from fable, I know they 
 
 have palpable flaws ; 
 But are they not, as are all things else, the offspring 
 
 of Nature's laws ? 
 They, too, must have served a purpose, have 
 
 answered some human needs ; 
 Besides, could imperfect creatures be nurtured on 
 
 perfect creeds ? 
 And often I ask am I happier now, am I I from 
 
 strife and care, 
 Than when I bended my childish knees, and prattled 
 
 a childish prayer ? 
 Is it any solace to me to have found that my prayers 
 
 were in vain? 
 Or are there not times when I wish I could pray as 
 
 of old again ? 
 Yet smile not, I know full well that this is a futile 
 
 plaint : 
 
An Agnostic's Apology 15 
 
 As clearly as you, do I see the delusions of prophet 
 
 and saint; 
 But I cannot, with these misgivings, these doubts 
 
 that you never feel, 
 Go forth by your side to destroy the shrine where I 
 
 used to kneel. 
 
Beyond the Grave 
 
 Beyond the Grave — most cherished of our creeds 
 
 Gleams a serener world from sorrow free : 
 
 So most men hold ; but ah ! it seems to me 
 As the mere reflex of our earth-born greeds — 
 We deem this life too narrow for our needs, 
 
 And then demand Heaven's high felicity ! 
 
 But of this After-life what sign have we ? 
 In vain man prays and tells his futile beads ; 
 
 Alas ! he never heard the faintest souni 
 Of Voice Divine in answer to his cries. 
 
 He knows full well that when at last he dies 
 He shall be laid with grief in burial ground. 
 
 If in celestial glory he shall rise, 
 Why do the weeping mourners stand around ? 
 
 Melbourne, 1876. 
 
In Memoriam Matris 
 
 In my hot youth, I rashly penned 
 This sonnet of the after-life : 
 It was the time of stress and strife 
 
 Through which the ardent soul must wend. 
 
 It was the spring-tide of my days, 
 When Doubt, like an inspired sage, 
 With creeds did constant warfare wa 
 
 And looked with scorn on ancient ways. 
 
 But peering back across the years 
 That separate my youth from me, 
 These words and thoughts now seem to be 
 
 All dim, as thro' a mist of tears. 
 
 For then I saw, with eager eyes, 
 A coming time when joy should reign 
 And evil pass away, and pain, 
 
 When man was free of priestly ties. 
 
1 8 The Withered Jester 
 
 While now I turn a backward gaze 
 On visions fled, and vanished hours, 
 On dead dry leaves and perished flowers, 
 
 That make the story of my days. 
 
 And midway on that dreary track 
 I see a Grave-stone, standing white — 
 Far off. I see it in the night : 
 
 It says — ' Thy Mother comes not back.' 
 ***** 
 
 We brought her from the Austral land 
 To this the land that gave her birth ; 
 We laid her cold in English earth, 
 
 My Sire and I — and now we stand 
 
 As aliens on a dreary shore 
 
 Tho' once we fondly called it ' Home.' 
 Now old and mate-less, he would roam 
 
 Back to that Southern-land once more. 
 
 For there her spirit seems to be, 
 There lie her babes beneath the sod. 
 And there, but for the hand of God, 
 
 Her grandchild would have climbed her knee. 
 
In Memoriam Matris 19 
 
 Those verses of the heedless Past 
 
 They echo not my saddened thought — 
 I held that after Death came nought : 
 
 On her the earth was not then cast. 
 
 Denial now is dumb within, 
 Without I can but grope my way, 
 And trust that in some brighter day 
 
 The Soul shall live, — absolved of sin. 
 
 Finchley Cemetery, May 1886. 
 
A Nameless Hero 
 
 He died in peace ! For him no grateful nation 
 Weeps for a hero passed in pomp away ; 
 
 Ne'er shall be spoke the funeral oration 
 
 Beside the grave where lies his lifeless clay. 
 
 There by the bedside, in that hour of sadness, 
 Sat mournful friends — his wife wept all apart 
 
 In lonely grief, as though the sense of gladness 
 Had gone for ever from her weary heart. 
 
 His life had not been spent in public labours, 
 No loud huzzas resounded at his name ; 
 
 He did his duty to his lowly neighbours 
 Without one wish for recompense or fame. 
 
A Nameless Hero 21 
 
 And so he died, as though a trust resigning — 
 A trust he tried not vainly to fulfil. 
 
 Then with no anguish, with no weak repining 
 He bowed before the Eternal Ruler's will. 
 
The Beheading of Sir Walter Raleigh 
 
 (A Ballad) 
 
 ' Thursday, 29th October 1618. — This morning, if Oliver, as 
 is probable, were now in town studying Law, he might be eye- 
 witness of a great and very strange scene — the last scene in 
 the life of Sir Walter Raleigh. Raleigh was beheaded in old 
 Palace- Yard ; he appeared on the scaffold there about eight 
 o'clock that morning ; " an immense crowd," all London — and, 
 in a sense, all England — looking on. ... If Oliver, among the 
 " immense crowd," saw this scene, as is probable enough, he 
 would not want for reflections on it.' — (Carlyle's Letters and 
 Speeches of Oliver Cromwell.) 
 
 'TlS a raw, cold morn in London ; 
 
 The crowd stands all about 
 A scaffold — waiting there to see 
 
 One doomed to die come out. 
 
 He comes — a noble Englishman, 
 
 And gazes on the scene ; 
 For many a year in London Tower 
 
 Hath he a prisoner been. 
 
Beheading of Sir Walter Raleigh 23 
 
 Time was, when great Elizabeth 
 
 Ruled England's mighty realm, 
 Such men as Drake and Raleigh then, 
 
 Were honoured at the helm. 
 
 But now, on her inviolate throne, 
 
 A monarch rules the isle, 
 Who flings away a true man's life, 
 
 Through Spanish threats and guile. 
 
 For well had Raleigh earned their hate 
 
 In Netherlands and France ; 
 When but a boy he bravely bore, 
 
 For Freedom, sword and lance ; 
 
 And when the Armada ranged in sight 
 
 Of our old island coast, 
 He and his Cornish lads were found 
 
 All waiting at their post. 
 
 And oft in other years he strove, 
 
 On many a stormy main, 
 To wrest dominion of the sea 
 
 From proud, tyrannic Spain. 
 
24 The Withered Jester 
 
 In Ireland's rude, distracted isle 
 He fought for England's right, 
 
 And rebel Desmond's hostile bands 
 Made subject to his might. 
 
 Then far away on unknown shores, 
 'Mid alien climes and seas, 
 
 In Cadiz bay, by lone Azores, 
 His seamen braved the breeze. 
 
 And in that vast New World he spread 
 The English power and name ; 
 
 Virginia shall for ever sound 
 His Royal Mistress' fame. 
 
 While in this ceaseless strife and storm, 
 
 He yet found time to use 
 A scholar's pen — and well he loved 
 
 His sweet friend Spenser's muse. 
 
 Ah ! what a life ! Is this the goal 
 
 Of all his bold emprise ? 
 Well did he write, Ambition ends 
 
 In two brief words — ' Here lies.' 
 
Beheading of Sir Walter Raleigh 25 
 
 Within the gloomy Tower walls 
 
 His life has ebbed away ; 
 His form is bent, his face has aged, 
 
 His hair is thin and grey. 
 
 The Sheriff opens wide the door, 
 
 He sees again the light ; 
 The axe, the scaffold, and the block 
 
 Strike sudden on his sight. 
 
 He gazes round, as though in doubt 
 
 If 'twere his own dear land, 
 If these be Englishmen who throng 
 
 In crowds on every hand. 
 
 'Tis England — but how changed since when, 
 
 With quite a courtier stroke, 
 He met the Queen by miry ways, 
 
 And spread his richest cloak ! 
 
 Still, English eyes look full on him, 
 
 And English hearts beat strong 
 To see their glorious countryman 
 
 Thus suffer grievous wrong. 
 
26 The Withered Jester 
 
 Be sure at that dread hour he thinks 
 Of her who begged with tears 
 
 To share with him, her well-loved lord, 
 The prison cell for years. 
 
 Aye ! brave Sir Walter, bow the head, 
 
 'Tis fated thou shalt die ; 
 The supple knaves of priestly Spain 
 
 Can tell our monarch why. 
 
 He lays his head upon the block — 
 
 His mien is fearless still : 
 ' Strike,' he exclaims, ' the headsman's axe 
 
 Will remedy all ill.' 
 
 Among the crowd, with eyes austere, 
 Unnoticed there stands one — 
 
 A youthful student of the law 
 From midland Huntingdon. 
 
 The axe has fall'n — he goes his way. 
 
 Perchance he learned that morn 
 To treat the right divine of kings 
 
 In after years with scorn. 
 
Elizabeth 
 
 (A Sonnet of the Armada) 
 
 Three centuries have passed since thou didst 
 sway, 
 With more than man-like might, till thy last 
 
 breath, 
 This realm of England — great Elizabeth ! 
 We keep the memory of thy proudest day 
 When thy stout seamen won the rude sea-fray 
 That wrecked both Spanish force and Romish 
 guile, 
 And for the wider England cleared the way, 
 Making an Empire of our little isle. 
 
 Thy courtiers were the heroes of thy reign 
 
 Who ringed thee round, nor quailed at Rome's 
 fell dart 
 
28 The Withered Jester 
 
 Nor at her thunder-bolt — the shock of Spain ! 
 
 Whilst thou, a Lioness at bay, didst start 
 And face thy foes ! — Should such hour come again 
 
 Oh ! may thy spirit rule thy Nation's heart ! 
 
Death 
 
 I FEAR not Death, the grim and ghastly shade. 
 He steals this way, the sexton plies his spade, 
 Throws up the earth, and clearly I can trace 
 The worms that will ere long crawl. o'er my face, 
 And dwell within the chamber of my brain. 
 Why should I care, who then will feel no pain ? 
 I see the mound that will be rudely prest 
 In spadefuls on my cold, insensate breast ; 
 While all around 1 my dead-mates calmly lie : 
 No sound of strife is heard, no tear, no sigh. 
 All is so still, save that unmannered knave, 
 Who whistles gaily as he digs my grave. 
 I too am calm — Why should I idly weep 
 At the cold thought of endless tranquil sleep ? 
 The world grows dim. Where is my narrow cell ? 
 Is this the brink ? Good-night, sweet friends, fare- 
 well ! 
 
Part II 
 
 ;hland and Babylon 
 
TO GILBERT PARKER 
 
Bushland 
 
 In the You Yangs 
 
 NOT sweeter to the storm-tossed mariner 
 
 Is glimpse of home, where wife and children wait 
 To welcome him with kisses by the gate, 
 
 Than to the town-worn man the breezy stir 
 
 Of mountain winds on rugged pathless heights : 
 His long-pent soul drinks in the deep delights 
 
 That Nature hath in store. The sun-kissed bay 
 Gleams thro' the grand old gnarled gum-tree 
 boughs 
 
 Like burnished brass ; the strong-winged bird of 
 prey 
 Sweeps by, upon his lonely vengeful way — 
 
 While over all, like breath of holy vows, 
 
 The sweet airs blow, and the high-vaulted sky 
 
 Looks down in pity this fair summer day 
 
 On all poor earth-born creatures doomed to die. 
 
 33 
 
The Cynic of the Woods 
 
 (The Young Poet and the Laughing Jackass) 
 
 I COME from busy haunts of men, 
 
 With Nature to commune, 
 Which you, it seems, observe, and then 
 
 Laugh out, like some buffoon. 
 
 You cease, and through the forest drear 
 
 I pace with sense of awe, 
 When once again upon my ear 
 
 Breaks in your harsh guffaw. 
 
 I look aloft, to yonder place 
 
 Where placidly you sit, 
 And tell you to your very face, 
 
 I do not like your wit. 
 
The Cynic of the Woods 35 
 
 I'm in no mood for blatant jest, 
 
 I hate your mocking song, 
 My weary soul demands the rest 
 
 Denied to it so long. 
 
 Besides, there passes through my brain 
 
 The poet's love of fame — 
 Why should not an Australian strain 
 
 Immortalize my name ? 
 
 And so I pace the forest drear, 
 
 Filled with a sense of awe, 
 When louder still upon my ear 
 
 Breaks in your harsh guffaw. 
 
 Yet truly, Jackass, it may be 
 
 My words are all unjust : 
 You laugh at what you hear and see, 
 
 And laugh because you must. 
 
 You've seen Man, civilised and rude, 
 
 Of varying race and creed, 
 The black-skinned savage almost nude, 
 
 The Englishman in tweed. 
 
36 The Withered Jester 
 
 And here the lubra oft has strayed 
 
 To rest beneath the boughs, 
 Where now, perchance, some fair-haired maid 
 
 May hear her lover's vows. 
 
 While you, from yonder lofty height, 
 
 Have studied human ways, 
 And with a satirist's delight 
 
 Dissected hidden traits. 
 
 Laugh on, laugh on ! Your rapturous shout 
 
 Again on me intrudes ; 
 But I have found your secret out, 
 
 O Cynic of the Woods. 
 
 Well ! I confess, grim mocking elf, 
 
 Howe'er I rhapsodize, 
 That I am more in love with self 
 
 Than with the earth or skies. 
 
 So I will lay the epic by 
 
 That I had just begun ; 
 Why should I babble ? Let me lie 
 
 And bask here in the sun. 
 
The Cynic of the Woods 37 
 
 And let me own, were I endowed 
 With your fine humourous sense, 
 
 I, too, should laugh — aye, quite as loud, 
 At all Man's vain pretence. 
 
 Fernshawe, Victoria. 
 
My Cousin from Pall Mall 
 
 (A Lay of Melbourne) 
 
 There's nothing that exasperates a true Australian 
 youth, 
 
 Whatever be his rank in life, be he cultured or un- 
 couth, 
 
 As the manner of a London swell. Now it chanced, 
 the other day, 
 
 That one came out, consigned to me — a cousin, by 
 the way. 
 
 As he landed from the steamer at the somewhat 
 
 dirty pier, 
 He took my hand and lispingly remarked, ' How 
 
 very queer ; 
 I'm glad, of course, to see you — but you must admit 
 
 this place, 
 With all its mixed surroundings, is a national 
 
 disgrace.' 
 
 38 
 
My Cousin from Pall Mall 39 
 
 I defended not that dirty pier, not a word escaped 
 
 my lips ; 
 I pointed not — though well I might — to the huge 
 
 three-masted ships ; 
 For, although with patriotic pride my soul was all 
 
 aglow, 
 I remembered Trollope's parting words, ' Victorians, 
 
 do not blow.' 
 
 On the morrow through the city we sauntered, arm 
 in arm ; 
 
 I did the Cicerone — my style was grand and calm. 
 
 I showed him all the lions — but I noted with despair 
 
 His smile, his drawl, his eye-glass, and his super- 
 cilious air. 
 
 As we strolled along that crowded street, where 
 Fashion holds proud sway, 
 
 He deigned to glance at everything, but not one 
 word did say ; 
 
 I really thought he was impressed by its well- 
 deserved renown 
 
 Till he drawled, 'Not bad — not bad at all — for a 
 provincial town.' 
 
40 The Withered Jester 
 
 Just as he spoke there chanced to pass a most 
 bewitching girl, 
 
 And I said, ' Dear cousin, is she not fit bride for any 
 earl?' 
 
 He glanced, with upraised eyebrows and a patronis- 
 ing smile, 
 
 Then lisped, ' She's pretty, not a doubt, but what a 
 want of style.' 
 
 We paused a moment just before a spacious House 
 
 of Prayer ; 
 Said he, ' Dear me ! Good Gracious ! What's this 
 
 ugly brick affair — 
 A second-rate gin palace ? ' ' Cease, cease,' I said ; 
 
 'you must — 
 O spare me ' — here my sobs burst forth. I was 
 
 humbled to the dust. 
 
 But, unmindful of my agonies, in the slowest of slow 
 
 drawls 
 He lisped away for hours of the Abbey and St 
 
 Paul's, 
 
My Cousin from Pall Mall 41 
 
 Till those grand historic names had for me a hateful 
 
 sound, 
 And I wished the noble piles themselves were 
 
 levelled to the ground. 
 
 My young, bright life seemed blasted, my hopes 
 were dead and gone ; 
 
 No blighted lover ever felt so gloomy and for- 
 lorn ; 
 
 I'd reached the suicidal stage — and, the reason of it 
 all, 
 
 This supercilious London swell, his eye-glass, and 
 his drawl. 
 
 But, though hidden, still there's present in our 
 
 darkest hour of woe 
 A sense of respite and relief, although we may not 
 
 know 
 The way that gracious Providence will choose to 
 
 right the wrong, 
 So I forthwith ceased my bitter tears — I suffered 
 
 and was strong. 
 
42 The Withered Jester 
 
 Then we strolled into the Club, where he again 
 
 commenced to speak, 
 But I interrupted, saying, ' Let us leave town for a 
 
 week. 
 I see that Melbourne bores you — nay, nay, I know 
 
 it's true ; 
 Let us wander 'midst the gum-trees, and observe 
 
 the kangaroo.' 
 
 My words were soft and gentle, and none could 
 
 have discerned 
 How, beneath my calm demeanour, volcanic fury 
 
 burned. 
 And my cousin straight consented, as his wine he 
 
 slowly sipped, 
 To see the gay Marsupial and the gloomy 
 
 Eucalypt. 
 
 Ah ! who has ever wandered on a glorious summer 
 
 night 
 Through the weird Australian bush-land without 
 
 feelings of delight ? 
 
My Cousin from Pall Mall 43 
 
 The dense untrodden forest, in the moonlight coldly- 
 pale, 
 
 Brings before our wondering eyes again the scenes 
 of fairy tale. 
 
 No sound is heard, save where one treads upon the 
 
 lonely track ; 
 We lose our dull grey manhood, and to early youth 
 
 go back — 
 To scenes and days long passed away, and seem 
 
 again to greet 
 Our boyhood's dreams, so rudely crushed like flowers 
 
 beneath our feet. 
 
 'Twas such a night we wandered forth ; we never 
 
 spoke a word 
 (I was too full of thought for speech — to him no 
 
 thought occurred), 
 When, gazing from the silent earth to the star-lit 
 
 silent sky, 
 My cousin in amazement dropped his eye-glass 
 
 from his eye. 
 
44 The Withered Jester 
 
 At last, I thought, his soul was moved by the 
 
 grandeur of the scene 
 (As the most prosaic Colonist's I'm certain would 
 
 have been), 
 Till he replaced his eye-glass, and remarked — 
 
 ' This may be well, 
 But one who's civilized prefers the pavement of 
 
 Pall Mall.' 
 
 I swerved not, from that moment, from my purpose 
 
 foul and grim ; 
 I never deigned to speak one word, nor even 
 
 glanced at him ; 
 But suddenly I seized his throat. . . . He gave one 
 
 dreadful groan, 
 And I, who had gone forth with him, that night 
 
 returned alone. 
 
A Romance in the Rough 
 
 ' I have two mates in the Gully, — one a Polish nobleman 
 and refugee, a man of fine mind, with noble if Quixotic 
 aspirations ; the other an Oxford graduate, a sturdy young 
 fellow, a scholar and a gentleman, but one who hath been 
 " crossed in hopeless love." ' — A Letter from, the Goldfields. 
 
 A STURDY fellow, with a sun-burnt face, 
 And thews and sinews of a giant mould ; 
 
 A genial mind, that harboured nothing base, — 
 A pocket void of gold. 
 
 The rival's years were sixty at the least — 
 Withered his skin, and wrinkled as a crone ; 
 
 But day by day his worldly goods increased, 
 Till great his wealth had grown. 
 
 And she, the lady of this simple tale, 
 Was tall and straight, and beautiful to view ; 
 
 Even a poet's burning words would fail 
 To paint her roseate hue. 
 
 45 
 
46 The Withered Jester 
 
 The suitors came, the old one and the young, 
 Each with fond words her fancy to allure. 
 
 For which of them should marriage bells be rung, 
 The rich one, or the poor ? 
 
 She liked the young one with his winning ways, 
 He seemed designed to be her future mate — 
 
 Besides, in novels and romantic plays 
 Love hath a youthful gait. 
 
 But well she knew that poverty was hard, 
 
 And humble household cares not meant for her ; 
 
 Nor cared she what the sentimental bard 
 Might warble or infer. 
 
 She made her choice, the wedding bells rang clear ; 
 i The aged bridegroom figured in the Times. 
 The young man, after some superfluous beer, 
 Went forth to Austral climes. 
 
 And this is all I ever chanced to know, 
 
 Told by my mate while digging on the Creek 
 
 Who ended with his handsome face aglow, 
 And with a verse of Greek. 
 
Bret Harte in Camp 
 
 ' Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure 
 
 A hoarded volume drew, 
 And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure 
 
 To hear the tale anew.' 
 
 Dickens in Camp. 
 
 WELCOME, California's son, 
 Thou the wreath hast nobly won. 
 
 Men and women long hereafter 
 
 Shalt thou move to tears and laughter. 
 
 Thine is that divinest Art 
 
 Which the Schools can ne'er impart. 
 
 Thou hast not the Sage's lore 
 — Well, repine not ; he's a bore. 
 
48 The Withered Jester 
 
 (Here I know I'm not mistaken, 
 Shakespeare wasn't writ by Bacon.) 
 
 Strange at first thy language sounded, 
 Town-bred critics were astounded. 
 
 Very odd too, the effect 
 Of thy verse in dialect. 
 
 But we Bushmen could discern 
 Use of every ' cuss ' and ' dern.' 
 
 And in thy strong prose and rhymes 
 Saw a picture of the times. 
 
 The miners rough but true of grit, 
 With flashes of irreverent wit. 
 
 The gamblers with their handsome faces, 
 Their reckless lives and airy graces. 
 
 So that these Western Pioneers 
 Became as friends we'd known for years 
 Whose stories move our smiles and tears. 
 
Bret Harte in Camp 49 
 
 We felt too in thy tales of sin 
 
 The touch that makes the whole world kin. 
 
 For which in these few verses rude 
 I but record my gratitude ! 
 
 D 
 
Adam Lindsay Gordon 
 
 In Memoriam 
 
 (Author of Bush Ballads and Galloping Rhymes. Born at 
 Fayal, Azores, 1833. Died at Brighton, near Melbourne, by a 
 bullet from his rifle, 1870.) 
 
 The end was sad. — Call it not sin or crime ; 
 
 Think of the bard who sung those wild bush songs ; 
 Think that no more shall we in his brave rhyme 
 
 Feel the fresh utt'rance of a Poet's wrongs. 
 The end was sad. — Cut off in Life's full prime, 
 
 When Fame seemed nigh, and all else that belongs 
 To high Endeavour. Who, alas ! can tell 
 
 The hidden sources of his soul-felt woes ? 
 He murmured not, but the untimely bell 
 
 Rang out that he and this false world were foes. 
 Ah ! when he sailed, young, resolute and proud, 
 
 From England's shore, to make a home on this, 
 Perchance some maiden, weeping in the crowd, 
 
 Cared for nought else beside his parting kiss. 
 
 Brighton Cemetery, 
 Victoria, 1880. 
 
 50 
 
-<Esop in Bushland 
 Religious Persecution 
 
 (To H. K. R.) 
 
 These ' nonsense rhymes ' were written in the Visitor's 
 book of a bush inn at Marysville, on the Old Woods Point 
 Road, Victoria, and were inspired by the antics of a delightful 
 but irreverent companion, much given to the philosophy of 
 Thomas Hobbes of Malmesbury. When last inspected there 
 was found, after the final query, in a bold feminine hand, the 
 all-expressive answer ' both. 1 
 
 We forded the River and clomb the high hill, 
 And argued the question of Man's Free-will. 
 
 I. 
 An Atheist climbed up an old Gum-tree, 
 And laughed with a loud and mocking glee ! 
 He said to himself — ' It is certainly odd, 
 But go where I may, I can't find God ! ' 
 Then he laughed again in a boisterous way, 
 And kept on doing so half the day. 
 
52 The Withered Jester 
 
 ii. 
 
 A Christian Sportsman, as blind as a Bat, 
 
 Heard the noise, and glanced up where the Atheist 
 
 sat ; 
 Then pointing his Gun took steady aim, 
 And lodged his Shot in the Atheist's frame ! 
 Now, Gentle Casuist, prithee tell 
 Which of the Twain should go to Hell ? 
 
Over the Sea 
 
 The Ballade of the Children of Two Worlds 
 (To Dorothy, Elsie, and Leigh) 
 
 OVER the Sea, where our kinsfolk dwell 
 
 In cities built of their golden gain, 
 By Maori lakes, by the South Sea's swell, 
 
 In the Austral Bush, or on Station plain, 
 
 However the elders may fume and complain, 
 The children are singing and shouting with glee 
 
 In Shakespeare's tongue — to the gay refrain 
 Of old English pastimes — over the Sea ! 
 
 Ye, who hold forth in your clubs in Pall Mall, 
 Or squabble o' nights in the Parliament's fane, 
 
 O ! dull Legislators, so anxious to tell 
 
 How to bind these lands in this bountiful reign, 
 
54 The Withered Jester 
 
 Hark to these voices across the main ! 
 Grey Sophists be still — you will never agree : 
 
 But the bonny young bairns may be wearing a chain 
 To link us at Home to those over the Sea ! 
 
 They can unite us — aye ! firmly and well — 
 In the bonds of a love that should ever remain, 
 
 The youngsters who romp in a sweet English dell, 
 Or rouse the Bush echoes again and again, 
 They are our Law-givers honest and sane. 
 
 Ye then who pray that our flag may fly free, 
 
 That England's proud might may ne'er weaken 
 and wane, 
 
 List to the little ones — over the Sea ! 
 
 Envoi. 
 
 The Lesson is nigh us, O ! do not disdain 
 Our wise little Solons, wherever they be — 
 
 They will unite us ; so heed ye the strain 
 
 Of the Children at Home — and those over the Sea. 
 
Babylon 
 
 i. 
 The City of Wild Contrasts 
 
 O CITY of wild contrasts, meetings strange, 
 
 More magical than old Arabian tales, 
 
 More wondrous than a youthful poet's dreams, 
 
 More common than a harlot in her paint, 
 
 More soul-benumbing than a factory's wheels. 
 
 So beautiful and fair, so wan and poor, 
 
 So brave and gallant, loathsome and so foul ; 
 
 Where Yesterday rubs shoulders with To-day, 
 
 And old Romance with dreary common-place — 
 
 O ! city of wild contrasts, meetings strange ! 
 
 Pacing the Strand, that By-way of the World, 
 The prying Yankee, thin, inquisitive, 
 
56 The Withered Jester 
 
 (His women-folk, with guide-books, all a-row), 
 Spies out his Broadway partner by the Church 
 Where Johnson prayed ; and with a nasal note 
 They pass together to the Templar's fane ! 
 
 The sun-dried Squatter from his Austral run, 
 Yearning to meet again his old-time friend 
 Whose sheep once browsed the salt-bush with his 
 
 own, 
 Takes ship to London, stalks past Bourse and 
 
 Bank, 
 Sees him, and cooees 'neath Paul's glorious Dome. 
 
Babylon 
 
 ii. 
 The Poet and the Anarchists 
 
 I SOUGHT the sweetest singer of our day, 
 Our Chaucer with his fair and golden words, 
 And tales of old Greek Gods, and Vikings brave 
 (Oh ! City of wild contrasts, meetings strange !) 
 I found him in a mean, ill-lighted room, 
 Perched on a platform, dressed in roughest serge, 
 Prating of Art to alien anarchists ! 
 Beside him sat a lank and weary girl 
 Strumming the Marseillaise ; whilst noisome lads 
 Sold broad-sheets of Chicago murderers ! 
 
 In front sat women, frowsy, foul and loud, 
 Who mocked at Kings, with angry ruffled brows, 
 
58 The Withered Jester 
 
 And clenched their fists and cursed ; and one 
 Unwound her swathing neck-wrap like a snake, 
 Then damned the Queen, and spat upon the floor. 
 
 The Poet from his written page, prosed on : 
 And when he spake of Art, a silence fell, 
 Broken by rustling broad-sheets ; but whene'er 
 He gibed at lords, or dubbed the bourgeois thieves, 
 The building shook with yells and stamping feet ! 
 
Noll and Nell 
 
 (A Lay of the Strand : written in a Fly- Leaf _of 
 Peter Cunningham's Life and Times of Nell Gwynne.) 
 
 BRAVE old Cromwell sternly tried 
 From his realm all wrong to wrench ; 
 
 But the fated hour he died 
 
 Ushered in the shameless wench. 
 
 How the nation hailed with joy 
 
 Respite from the godly rule ! 
 Feeling like a healthy boy 
 
 At the hour of leaving school. 
 
 Throughout England mirth had fled, 
 Crushed were outward forms of sin ; 
 
 But as soon as Noll was dead, 
 
 Charles and Nell came dancing in. 
 
 59 
 
60 The Withered Jester 
 
 Cavaliers with flowing curls 
 Gaily sang and lightly swore, 
 
 Passed the hours with laughing girls, 
 Opened wide the play-house door. 
 
 Tho' with false vows they might woo, 
 Tho' their love had lustful taint ; 
 
 Yet more fair were they to view 
 Than the Puritanic saint. 
 
 Then, too, they had kindlier ways 
 (Sinners are not harsh on sin) ; 
 
 Thus, amid her ribald plays, 
 
 What a heart had Nelly Gwynne ! 
 
 So they pass as in a dream ; 
 
 Wiser heads perchance may tell, 
 In the mighty Cosmic scheme, 
 
 Which was better — Noll or Nell ? 
 
The Young Poet's Dreams 
 
 (Age, 21. Place : Arcadia.) 
 
 ' As youthful poets dream 
 
 On summer eves by haunted stream ! ' 
 
 L'Allegro. 
 
 I WILL write immortal verses 
 
 Of the Beautiful and True, 
 And like Byron fling back curses 
 
 On the venal critic crew. 
 
 What care I for all their frowning ? — 
 
 Let them freely frown away ; 
 I who rival Robert Browning 
 
 In the turning of a lay. 
 
 I am nearly one-and-twenty, 
 
 With an ample well-stored mind ; 
 
 Knowledge, Wisdom, I have plenty 
 To bestow upon mankind. 
 
The Withered Jester 
 
 I know well before I'm thirty 
 I shall win a glorious name, 
 
 And shall be a second Goethe 
 With a European fame ! 
 
 True, the sale was somewhat scanty 
 Of my Songs by Sea and Land 
 
 Yet there's really not in Dante 
 Anything more truly grand. 
 
 But what matter, for my pages 
 Shall be read in future years, 
 
 And the roll of distant ages 
 
 Drowns contemporaneous sneers. 
 
 So I freely give my verses 
 To the children of the earth, 
 
 Give them humour, pathos, curses, 
 Strains of sadness and of mirth ! 
 
The Old Poet's Regrets 
 
 (Age, 70. Place : Mayfair.) 
 : Give me, ! give me back my youth again! — Goethe. 
 
 GIVE me back my Youth again ! 
 Sure ne'er was sung a sadder strain. 
 
 All that is fair beneath the skies, 
 Is dim to aught save youthful eyes ! 
 
 1 now am famous, what is Fame ? 
 A shadow with a sounding name. 
 
 For me has passed the bright Ideal, 
 Into the sober grey called Real. 
 
 No castles now are mine in Spain, 
 
 I own a mansion in Park Lane. 
 
 63 
 
64 The Withered Jester 
 
 Content to live without Life's zest, 
 For at my board, a constant guest, 
 
 Sits sad Experience with a frown — 
 A Goddess in a faded gown — 
 
 Who chased away, ah ! long, long since, 
 Fancy, the charming Fairy Prince. 
 
 Not now as in those days of yore 
 Shall I a maiden's face adore, 
 
 And find in one entrancing kiss 
 The soul and sum of earthly bliss. 
 
 Love with its dreams, its magic glow, 
 Is now a tale of long-ago. 
 
 And I, in moments of despair, 
 
 For youthful dreams would breathe a prayer. 
 
 Did I not know 'twere all in vain — 
 Youth dies and ne'er returns again. 
 
The Minor Poet 
 
 (Age, 35. Place : Bloomsbury.) 
 
 ' THE verse is light ' — said my clever friend, 
 ' And the treatment is somewhat happy ! 
 
 But tho' it has merits one must commend, 
 'Tis to my mind far too scrappy.' 
 
 And he tossed it back with a jaunty air 
 That seemed strange in my humble attic, 
 
 Then stretched himself in my favourite chair 
 And continued in tones emphatic — 
 
 ' A poet should choose only noble themes, 
 
 As of yore did the mighty Masters ; 
 Nor rhyme of loves lighter than childhood's dreams, 
 
 Like your modern poetasters ! 
 
 E fi 5 
 
66 The Withered Jester 
 
 ' For surely the Bard should be one who strives, 
 
 In his moments of inspiration, 
 To sing of great deeds, and to raise men's lives, 
 
 And to mould his generation.' 
 
 ' Dear friend,' said I, ' you mistake my aim, 
 
 I am but an idle fellow ; 
 Not for such as I is the lasting fame 
 
 Of a Faery Queen, or Othello ! 
 
 ' I join in a catch, or a tuneful glee, 
 
 Or sing in a sadder fashion, 
 That old, old song, in a minor key, 
 
 With its burden of love and passion ! 
 
 ' Enough for me if my fleeting words 
 Are caught by the bright and youthful, 
 
 Who dance and sing and hear but the birds 
 In a world so drear and ruthful ! 
 
 ' Too soon, Too soon, will the coming years 
 Bring pain, remorse and contrition ; 
 
 For Love — that Poem of hopes and fears — 
 Hath never a second edition ! 
 
The Minor Poet 67 
 
 ' So let them laugh in their golden prime, 
 Young hearts who are all too happy ; 
 
 And if such are pleased with my gladsome rhyme, 
 What matter if it be scrappy ? ' 
 
His Apology 
 
 (For not writing a Verse in a Lady's Album) 
 
 YOU sweetly asked of me a verse, 
 
 But did not name the theme or stanza : 
 
 Is it to be prolonged, or terse — 
 A Sigh or an Extravaganza ? 
 
 Nor did you tell your humble bard 
 If he should sing your soul or bonnet ; 
 
 And what is really quite as hard, 
 
 You said not whether psalm or sonnet. 
 
 Your lightest word, of course, is law, 
 So I to rhyme when asked consented ; 
 
 But at that moment little saw 
 
 How I should thereby be demented ! 
 
His Apology 69 
 
 'Tis said where Angels fear to tread 
 That Fools are ever fleetly rushing. 
 
 Well ! tho' I promised^be it said 
 I promised with no end of blushing ! 
 
 And now the fated hour has come, 
 My singing voice is strangely hollow ; 
 
 My erstwhile jangling lyre is dumb — 
 Alas ! I'm quite unlike Apollo ! 
 
 But pause awhile ! — Pray do not take 
 
 Your Book away, and cease your frowning. 
 
 Believe me, Lady, for your sake 
 
 I would that I were Robert Browning ! 
 
 For then I'd seize my goose-born quill, 
 And dash off several thousand verses 
 
 On Rings and Books, on God, Freewill — 
 Mixed up with mediaeval curses. 
 
 Ah ! you relent ? In gentlest tone 
 You now accept my poor excuses ; 
 
 And I, you add, have clearly shown 
 That Poetry has its abuses. 
 
70 The Withered Jester 
 
 So I will leave the virgin page, 
 
 Or merely copy out these lines there ; 
 
 And be assured, nor seer nor sage 
 
 Will write a verse as long as mine's there. 
 
The Pagan in Piccadilly 
 
 i. 
 Musings from a Club Window in St James's 
 
 The present age declares itself 
 
 ' The heir of all the ages ' ; 
 But am I wise, because my shelf 
 
 Is laden with the sages ? 
 
 Just glance, I pray, at ancient Greece, 
 
 At Athens or at Sparta, 
 ' Where grew the arts of war and peace ' 
 
 Long ere our Magna Charta. 
 
 How rarely now-a-days one meets 
 
 With men so wise and able 
 As they who walked Athenian streets, 
 
 Whose creed we deem a fable. 
 
 7« 
 
72 The Withered Jester 
 
 And speaking of the ancient mind, 
 
 Take Plato as a sample : 
 Where now, dear reader, can we find 
 
 One half so grand and ample. 
 
 The arts, without a doubt, have sunk ; 
 
 Our sculpture's simply hideous, 
 Compared with any headless trunk 
 
 Bequeathed to us by Phidias. 
 
 (This rhyme, I own, is somewhat weak 
 — But, budding Critic, let it go. 
 
 To jingle English words with Greek 
 Is not so easy, you must know.) 
 
 'Tis true we've complex steam machines 
 
 And telegraphic cables; 
 And Knowledge comes through magazines, 
 
 And Faith through turning tables. 
 
 'Tis true the printing-press has sent 
 
 Instruction to the masses, 
 Though after all a large. per cent. 
 
 Are still egregious asses. 
 
The Pagan in Piccadilly 73 
 
 We cheat and lie, we buy and sell, 
 
 On Sundays go to chapel, 
 And think mankind is doomed to hell, 
 
 Because Eve ate an apple. 
 
 Why should we spurn the pleasant creed 
 
 Of that old pagan people, — 
 We who have simply restless greed, 
 
 A Gothic church and steeple ? 
 
 And so, in this commercial clime, 
 
 I feel a sad heart-hunger, 
 And turn to that long vanished time 
 
 When this old world was younger. 
 
The Pagan in Piccadilly 
 
 ii. 
 The Virtuous Wordling to his Love 
 
 Her note with its rose-scented words 
 Lies on the desk before me now ; 
 
 I seem to hear the song of birds 
 
 From many a broad and leafy bough. 
 
 For musing with a fond delight, 
 Sweet visions flit and come again : 
 
 The whispered words she spake that night 
 Are now alive within my brain. 
 
 I know no harder task than this 
 
 To him who feels Love's witching might, 
 To meet the ' only girl,' and kiss, 
 
 Then pass for ever from her sight ! 
 
The Pagan in Piccadilly 75 
 
 I have no aim, no daily task, 
 But loiter in the sun and shade, 
 
 'Twould be a sin were I to ask 
 The hand of such a noble maid. 
 
 For I shall ever careless be, 
 To me the toil outweighs the prize ; 
 
 I would live on untrammelled, free, 
 Not e'en a slave to her bright eyes. 
 
 How can I then presume to ask 
 The heart of any loving maid ? 
 
 I who reject Life's daily task, 
 To loiter in the sun and shade ? 
 
 I shall live on my aimless life, 
 The dearest joys are not for me. 
 
 The love one bears a faithful wife, 
 The children prattling at one's knee. 
 
 They are for those who bravely meet 
 
 Life's daily duties, daily toil ; 
 Who walk their rounds with busy feet, 
 
 And garner up the wine and oil. 
 
76 The Withered Jester 
 
 Yet musing with a fond delight, 
 Sweet visions flit and come again. 
 
 The whispered words she spake that night 
 Are now alive within my brain. 
 
 Ah ! sweet one, let our meetings seem 
 To me as joys I must forsake ; 
 
 To thee, as but a child-like dream 
 That fades for ever as we wake. 
 
The Pagan in Piccadilly 
 
 in. 
 When a Man's Single. 
 
 I ASK but little from the Gods, 
 Good health and friends to cheer. 
 
 And just as one of Fortune's nods, 
 Three hundred pounds a yearj 
 
 I'd let the Politician rave, 
 
 The Theologian fight ; 
 I'd let the Sexton dig a grave 
 And bury both to-night. 
 
 I'd rather sing the Poet's song 
 
 Than do the Hero's deeds : 
 And gaily go through life along, 
 
 Unmindful of the creeds. 
 
 77 
 
78 The Withered Jester 
 
 And many a pleasant hour I'll pass, 
 With her so sweet and chaste ; 
 
 My charming little winsome lass, 
 My arm about her waist. 
 
 And when my time at last has come, 
 And fled is all my mirth, 
 
 Take me as one who seeks his Home, 
 And lay me i' the earth. 
 
The Pagan in Piccadilly 
 
 IV. 
 
 Horace in the Green Park 
 
 Let Pleasure be a duty 
 
 As we lightly trip along, 
 Let us worship only beauty, 
 
 Loving women, wine and song, 
 
 And what matter if our life be brief or long ? 
 
 Why spend our days in sadness 
 And our nights in gloomy prayer ? 
 
 Shall we banish joy and gladness 
 In a life of anxious care ? 
 O ! Remember that Death cometh unaware. 
 
80 The Withered Jester 
 
 And when the heart stops beating, 
 When the eyes for ever close, 
 
 There's an end to Friendship's greeting, 
 To our loves and joys and woes, 
 For what dead men ever yet to life arose ? 
 
 See, the sun is brightly shining 
 And the birds are singing blithe ; 
 
 So cease regretful pining, 
 
 And be heedless of Time's scythe : 
 
 But — as one must be pious — pay the tithe. 
 
The Pagan in Piccadilly 
 
 v. 
 The Optimist 
 
 I LOVE the fragrant country air, 
 For rural pleasures, I've a passion ; 
 
 But still at times, a West-end Square 
 Will stir me, with its youth and fashion. 
 
 I very often find it sweet 
 
 To roam in far secluded places ; 
 
 At other times a city street 
 
 Seems brighter, with its human faces. 
 
 I love to rest in leafy lanes 
 
 Remote from business, strife and flurry, 
 But don't despise such things as trains 
 
 Or telegraphs when in a hurry. 
 
82 The Withered Jester 
 
 I'm very fond, in fancy wrapt, 
 
 By winding streams alone to stroll ; 
 
 Tho' there are times when one is apt 
 To pine for a congenial soul. 
 
 I love to pore on murmuring brooks, 
 On mountain tops or forest glen ; 
 
 But can't exist without my books 
 And converse with my fellow-men. 
 
 On stany nights I fain would sit 
 And gaze on Venus or on Mars ; 
 
 But oft-times from the stalls or pit 
 I long to watch quite other stars. 
 
 My life is pleasant, and my views 
 Are very plainly optimistic. 
 
 The reason is, that I refuse 
 To be a cynic, sage or mystic. 
 
The Pagan in Piccadilly 
 
 VI. 
 
 The Pessimist 
 
 WHAT is Life ? . . . a dreary fable : 
 Aged Dives marries Mabel 
 Who loves Lazarus, who's unable 
 
 To provide a coach and pair : 
 Cain in Commerce killeth Abel, 
 
 Yet God seemeth not to care ! 
 
 Wealth and fashion may be lewdish, 
 
 Virtue then is rarely prudish, 
 
 But becomes quite stern and rudish 
 
 If the man of sin be poor : 
 
 Ethics as a scheme is crudish, 
 
 All its data so unsure ! 
 
 83 
 
84 The Withered Jester 
 
 On the River's bank we wrangle 
 As for gold and fame we angle, 
 And amidst the jar and jangle 
 
 Rarely hear the voice of God. 
 All things are a maze and tangle 
 
 — Take away my line and rod ! 
 
Part III 
 Vagrant Verse 
 
TO MACKENZIE BELL 
 
The Storm 
 
 Aye, not a doubt, 'twas dark without, 
 
 Dark and drear, and bitterly cold ; 
 But we, within that quaint old inn, 
 
 Were out of the blast like sheep in the fold. 
 There sat we, old comrades three, 
 
 Telling our stories, and singing our staves ; 
 Little we recked that the sky was flecked 
 
 With the lightning's fury — light-hearted knaves. 
 
 It was not far to the harbour bar, 
 
 Where groaned in anguish a noble ship, 
 
 And a lady there, of beauty rare, 
 
 Gazed into the blackness with quivering lip. 
 
 In sight of the town the ship went down — 
 
 Went down, though they lifted up praying hands, 
 
 And at break of day all stark they lay, 
 
 Those storm-tossed ones, on the glittering sands. 
 
 87 
 
88 The Withered Jester 
 
 While there sat we, old comrades three, 
 
 Till one, with the love-light fresh in his eyes, 
 Sang, ' The morning breaks, and each bird wakes, 
 
 And to-day my bird to my bosom flies.' 
 But the townsmen pale, spake of wreck and gale, 
 
 As we sauntered out of the tavern door, 
 And the ebbing tide showed his fair young bride, 
 
 And he swooned on her breast by the hard, bleak 
 shore. 
 
Such is Life 
 The Jester's Philosophy 
 
 (To R. L. S. 1876) 
 
 We meet how many curious folks 
 
 Upon life's strangely chequered ways — 
 
 Some dignified, some fond of jokes, 
 And, more or less, all fond of praise. 
 
 A few who climb the mountain height, 
 While many love the peaceful valley ; 
 
 And some in heavenly dreams delight, 
 And others much prefer the ballet. 
 
 Perchance we meet a youth who sings 
 Of some fair maiden's peerless charms, 
 
 While others dote on higher things — 
 On philosophic truths, or psalms. 
 
 39 
 
9o The Withered Jester 
 
 To some there dwells the sweetest bliss 
 Beneath the pure domestic roof, 
 
 While others feel they'd rather kiss 
 A reigning queen of opera-bouffe. 
 
 One takes unto himself a wife 
 
 And perpetrates a lowly marriage : 
 
 Another clings to single life 
 
 The Club, an Opera-box, and carriage ! 
 
 The worldly-wise employ their hours 
 In various ways for filthy lucre, 
 
 While poets pipe in fairy bowers, 
 Or play in hostelries at euchre. 
 
 But this is true of everyone — 
 
 Howe'er he pass his brief existence, 
 
 Whatever thing he seek or shun, 
 He takes the line of least resistance. 
 
Old Comrades 
 
 The Jester's Lament 
 
 DEAR old comrades, gone for ever, 
 With your wealth of brilliant fun, 
 
 All of you so bright and clever, 
 How I loved you every one ! 
 
 Here are two remembered faces, 
 In my album old and worn ; * 
 
 As I gaze, fond memory paces 
 Over Life's bright early morn. 
 
 This one with his chin all hairless, 
 That with quite a Rabbi's growth ; 
 
 Such companions, cheerful, careless, 
 How I dearly loved them both ! 
 
92 The Withered Jester 
 
 O ! those pleasant days long vanished, 
 Passed away I know not how ! 
 
 Like an exile I am banished 
 
 To the gloomy land called ' Now.' 
 
 Then with mirth our eyes would glisten 
 As the chimes at midnight rang ; 
 
 Now I often toss, and listen 
 
 To those chimes with many a pang. 
 
 We were very far from wealthy, 
 Save in song and fancies bright ; 
 
 What cared we — young, hopeful, healthy- 
 That our purses might be light ? 
 
 Maidens then smiled sweetly on us, 
 Kissed us — O divinest bliss ! 
 
 Is there aught in wealth and honours 
 Equal to a woman's kiss ? 
 
 On my head the gray is scattered — 
 Once an auburn richly deep — 
 
 And my smooth face worn and battered, 
 And my friends gone — I could weep. 
 
Old Comrades 93 
 
 Well ! 'tis useless thus repining, 
 Baneful all this weight of thought ; 
 
 Now, as 'tis the hour of dining, 
 Let me broach the crusted port. 
 
 Almost run the weary race is, 
 Dim and dimmer grows the light, 
 
 Close the album with those faces, 
 
 ' Fare thee well, old friends — Good night ! ' 
 
The Cup of Pleasure 
 
 The Jester's Repentance 
 
 'TWAS the springtide — all was glowing ; 
 
 Splendours burst upon my sight. 
 Round me flowers were sweetly blowing, 
 
 Birds were singing with delight. 
 
 'Twas the time when visions gladden 
 Youthful hearts, and hopes crowd fast ; 
 
 Ere, grown old, we pine and sadden 
 That the best of life is past. 
 
 Then came they with idle clamour 
 Urging me to join the throng ; 
 
 Over sin they cast a glamour — 
 Glow of wine and lilt of song. 
 
The Cup of Pleasure 95 
 
 ' Come,' said they, ' for life is fleeting ; 
 
 Let's enjoy it while it stays. 
 Pleasure's cup,' they kept repeating ; 
 
 ' Let us drain it nights and days.' 
 
 So I wasted golden hours, 
 
 When the morning dew of youth 
 
 Sparkles bright, and fairest flowers 
 Fringe the pleasant paths of Truth. 
 
 What recked I ? Loud noise and revel 
 Ushered in the wished-for night. 
 
 I cared nought for God or devil, 
 So the wine and eyes were bright. 
 
 In the lap of frail young Beauty, 
 
 Blinded with her golden hair, 
 I saw not the form of Duty 
 
 Pointing upward, frowning there ? 
 
 Ah ! wild joys, how brief ye lasted ! 
 
 Swiftly fell the shadows grim. 
 Love was fled, and hopes were blasted, — 
 
 Heart was aching, eyes were dim. 
 
96 The Withered Jester 
 
 Then, in lone and dreary leisure, 
 This sad truth I learned in vain — 
 
 Filled — it is the Cup of Pleasure ; 
 Empty — 'tis the Cup of Pain. 
 
 In vain ? Ah ! no. For in my sadness 
 Came my Love, in Sorrow's guise, 
 
 Whispering, ' Mourn not — all true gladness 
 Cometh to the brave and wise.' 
 
 ' Cast away the Cup of Pleasure, 
 Take my loving hands in thine ; 
 
 Duty will, with fullest measure, 
 Fill thy heart with joy, and mine.' 
 
Love and War 
 
 (A Legend of the Rhine) 
 
 The Chancellor mused as he nibbled his pen 
 (Sure no Minister ever looked wiser), 
 
 And said, ' I can summon a million of men 
 To fight for their country and Kaiser ; 
 
 ' While that shallow charlatan ruling o'er France, 
 Who deems himself deeper than Merlin, 
 
 Thinks he and his soldiers have only to dance 
 To the step of the Can-Can to Berlin. 
 
 ' But as soon as he reaches the banks of the Rhine, 
 
 He'll be met by the great German army.' 
 Then the Chancellor laughed, and he said, ' I will 
 dine, 
 For I see nothing much to alarm me.' 
 
 G w 
 
98 The Withered Jester 
 
 Yet as he departed he paused by the door 
 (For his mind was in truth heavy laden), 
 
 And he saw a stout fellow, equipped for the war 
 Embracing a fair-haired young maiden. 
 
 ' Ho ! ho ! ' said the Chancellor, ' This will not do 
 
 For Mars to be toying with Venus, 
 When these Frenchmen are coming — a rascally 
 crew — 
 
 And only the Rhine flows between us.' 
 
 So the wary old fox, just in order to hear, 
 Strode one or two huge paces nearer ; 
 
 And he heard the youth say — 'More than life art 
 thou dear ; 
 But, O loved one, the Fatherland's dearer.' 
 
 Then the maid dried her tears and looked up in his 
 eyes, 
 
 And she said, ' Thou of loving art worthy : 
 When all are in danger, no brave man e'er flies, 
 
 And thy love should spur on — not deter thee.' 
 
Love and War 99 
 
 The Chancellor took a cigar, which he lit, 
 
 And he muttered — ' Here's naught to alarm me ; 
 
 By Heaven, I swear they are both of them fit 
 To march with the great German army.' 
 
Discontents 
 
 'Life's Little Ironies?— Thomas Hardy. 
 
 Tom the delver rests his spade 
 
 While his Lordship's carriage passes ; 
 
 Says, as he has often said, 
 
 ' One of Fortune's favoured asses ! ' 
 
 While his Lordship, looking back, 
 Asks this vain persistent question — 
 
 ' Why a noble lord should lack 
 A ploughman's health and rude digestion ? ' 
 
 Lady Charlotte, reft of charms, 
 Sees, beside the farm-house dairy, 
 
 A fair young face and rounded arms ; 
 And straightway envies blushing Mary. 
 
Discontents 101 
 
 Mary puts her milk-can down, 
 
 Feeling life is all too bitter ; 
 Why has she no silken gown ? 
 
 Why has she no gems that glitter ? 
 
Sir Toby 
 
 ' Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be 
 no more cakes and ale?'— TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 Sir Toby sits in his old arm-chair, 
 With his brimming flagon and pipe, 
 
 And for little beside gives he thought or care, 
 So the maiden's lips be ripe. 
 
 The Knight may forth on his prancing steed 
 
 To fight in a far countree : 
 Sir Toby puffs at the fragrant weed ; 
 
 I ween not a whit cares he. 
 
 His silvery locks tell of Time's sad tale 
 
 Sir Toby is far from staid ; 
 Still daily quaffs he of the nut-brown ale, 
 
 And romps with the buxom maid. 
 
Sir Toby 103 
 
 Sir Toby is large and round of girth, 
 
 Beshrew me, a monstrous size ; 
 In the folds of his double-chin lurks mirth, 
 
 And the crow's feet laugh round his eyes. 
 
 His next-door neighbour is sour of look, 
 
 And he frowns like a godly man, 
 As he casts a glance from his pious book 
 
 To Sir Toby draining his can. 
 
 A wasted life ! Yet what would you have ? 
 
 Who knoweth what's truly best ? 
 Sir Toby could not, if he would, be grave, 
 
 So pray let the old man rest. 
 
A Song of May 
 
 The willows wave in the morning breeze, 
 The bright clouds dapple the azure skies ; 
 
 'Tis sweet to rest 'neath the shady trees, 
 Gazing the while into bonny blue eyes, 
 And hearing the ripple of soft replies. 
 
 Ah ! Sweet ! they tell us that Life is hard, 
 That fate is harsh both to man and maid ; 
 
 But to me, who am only an idle bard, 
 
 Caring nought what the wisest sage hath said, 
 There's heav'n itself in this circle of shade. 
 
 Is it not so, dear ? — nay, do not turn, 
 
 For your pouting lips seem to shape a ' Yes.' 
 
 Why, the dullest of sages with love would burn 
 At the merest touch of your auburn tress, 
 And the sight of your glowing loveliness ! 
 
A Song of May 105 
 
 The bird flits by with a fluttering sound, 
 And carols blithe as he wings his way ; 
 
 And the bright flowers spring from the warm soft 
 ground, 
 And all things throb with the music of May — 
 Shall I be a churl, then, and not feel gay ? 
 
 For what is the rapture of flow'r and bird, 
 
 E'en though they bask in the sweet spring air, 
 
 To the joy that comes of a whispered word, 
 Saying ' Mine ! she is Mine, the fairest fair ! ' 
 Is there aught in the world can with that, com- 
 pare ? 
 
A Foreboding 
 
 ADOWN the stream as we gaily glide, 
 Carried along with its restless tide, 
 Dost ever think, my bonnie young bride, 
 Of the harbour whither we're drifting. 
 
 Light is the heart at twenty years, 
 Many the smiles and few the tears ; 
 But, at times, I am filled with anxious fears 
 Of the harbour whither we're drifting. 
 
 The little prattler beside my knee, 
 Oft whispers, in artless words, to me, 
 Of tempests wild and a stormy sea, 
 
 Ere the harbour's gained where we're drifting. 
 
 And I think when I hear that childish tone, 
 Shall we pass by, in tears, a small grave-stone — 
 Shall the little voyager find alone 
 The harbour whither we're drifting. 
 
Numbers without Notes 
 
 Farewell 
 
 (a song) 
 
 Farewell ! proud maid, farewell ! 
 
 I can part without a tear, 
 Though I hoped the marriage bell 
 
 Should e'en now entrance mine ear : 
 I have loved, but all in vain ; 
 
 Thou hast chosen to forget, 
 And I leave thee without pain — 
 
 I lose without regret. 
 
 I can ne'er forget thy face, 
 Nor those lustrous eyes of thine, 
 
 And the memory of thy grace 
 Is like melody divine ; 
 
 107 
 
108 The Withered Jester 
 
 But I bend not unto these, 
 
 When the heart is cold as stone, 
 
 And I rise from off my knees 
 To face the world alone. 
 
 And, O lady ! in thy pride 
 
 Canst thou glory over this — 
 That none else shall be my bride ? 
 
 That no other lips I'll kiss ? 
 Whilst thou still art free to wed, 
 
 Tho' thou plighted'st me thy vow, 
 For I shall seem as dead 
 
 Ere the blossom leaves the bough. 
 
 Farewell ! farewell ! farewell ! 
 
 May thy coming years be bright, 
 May the blithesome marriage bell 
 
 Ring for thee with all delight ; 
 But I, alone, unloved, 
 
 (Such my bitter fate, alas !) 
 Will turn and watch, unmoved 
 
 The bride and bridegroom pass. 
 
Numbers without Notes 
 My Love and I 
 
 (A SONG) 
 
 My Love and I these many years 
 
 On life's rough road have journeyed ; 
 Sometimes in smiles, sometimes in tears, 
 
 Not rich nor very learned, 
 And so we pace the heather. 
 Yet envying not the man who's great, 
 
 However vast be his estate ; 
 So that there's room outside the gate 
 
 For two to go together. 
 
 No lady in the land's so fair, 
 
 Tho' dressed in silk or satin, 
 As she I love, when, free from care, 
 
 She carols forth a matin 
 
 As we pace o'er the heather. 
 
 109 
 
no The Withered Jester 
 
 And as our love grows more and more, 
 We're wealthy without golden store, 
 
 And wise, tho' lacking learned lore, 
 As we live and love together. 
 
Numbers without Notes 
 
 Dan Cupid and Doctor Reason 
 
 (a song) 
 
 Listen, youths and maidens fair, 
 
 Love's the fever of the soul ; 
 Ask grave Doctor Reason, there, 
 As he rubs his wise old poll — 
 He will in no wise cajole. 
 ' Yes,' he answers,. ' that is true ; 
 Maidens catch it — young men too — 
 Few can 'scape, howe'er they strive, 
 'Twixt fifteen and twenty-five.' 
 
 Maidens, gather in a row, 
 
 Hem the learned doctor round ; 
 
 Youths, complete the circle, so — 
 Ask him where the herb is found 
 That can make you all quite sound. 
 
1 1 2 The Withered Jester 
 
 ' List,' he says, ' to my command — 
 Each youth take a maiden's hand ; 
 Every pair to wed should strive, 
 'Twixt fifteen and twenty-five.' 
 
Numbers without Notes 
 A Drinking Song 
 
 'A Tavern Chair is the Throne of Human Felicity! — Dr 
 Johnson. 
 
 SlNG Ho ! for the Wine Cup that merrily flows, 
 
 And the Comrade who drinks till he's red i' the nose ; 
 
 Arid hurrah ! for the Tavern, the true home of wit, 
 
 That shines brighter and brighter, the longer we sit. 
 
 Let the ripe ruddy morn thro' the window peep in, 
 
 And the Landlord grow drowsy, and rub his sleek 
 
 chin, 
 
 While we lustily sing, aye ! again and again 
 
 This merry old song with the mournful refrain. — 
 
 Sing Ho ! Sing Ho ! 
 
 In a world of sorrow 
 
 Drown care and to-morrow 
 
 In the wine-cup's flow. 
 
 Sing Loud ! Sing Low ! 
 H 
 
ii4 The Withered Jester 
 
 'Tis the way of Bohemians, gay roysterers all, 
 Not of money the slave, nor of business the thrall. 
 We drink when we can, and we laugh at the fool 
 Who dangles his leg from the tall office stool, 
 When the night lamps are lit we forget every care, 
 Tho' we dip in the pocket and find little there. 
 What then ? why we sing aye ! again and again, 
 This merry old song with the mournful refrain ! 
 Sing Ho ! Sing Ho ! 
 &c, &c. 
 
Brother and Sister 
 
 A NEW READING OF 'MAY' AND DECEMBER' 
 
 (To L. H. G.) 
 
 [Does the birth-season affect the genius, the character, and 
 the temperament ? Shakespeare and Wordsworth saw the light 
 in April ; August gave birth to Goethe, Scott and Tennyson, 
 the ripest fruitage of their age ; the two great modern pessi- 
 mists-, Carlyle and Schopenhauer, came with December snows : 
 as did Milton, whose bitter lifelong controversies are forgotten 
 in his glorious verse. Swift and Cowper, so diverse in aught 
 else, but both men of genius and both victims of melancholia, 
 were born in drear November ; Byron and Edgar Poe — wild, 
 stormful and erratic— in January !] 
 
 I. 
 FOR her the smile, and for him the tear, 
 
 Brother and Sister on Life's wild way! 
 For he was the Child of December drear 
 
 And she the babe of the blithesome May ! 
 
 II. 
 He dark and grim as the stormful sea, 
 
 She bright and fair as the blushing dawn ; 
 He like a gnarled and leafless tree, 
 
 She with the grace of the flying fawn. 
 
n6 The Withered Jester 
 
 in. 
 
 The Child of grief, and the babe of joy, 
 They grew together, yet wide apart ; 
 
 The lightsome girl, and the gloomy boy, 
 Unlike in feature, in mind and heart. 
 
 IV. 
 
 For the thorn was his, and hers the rose 
 He was as night, and she as the day ; 
 
 He was rocked to the blast of December snows, 
 And she in the bowers of flow'ry May! 
 
 TUKNUULL AND SPEAKS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.