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 PR 4606 
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 1909 
 COPY 2 
 
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 AUSTIN DOBSON 
 
 PROVERBS IN 
 PORCELAIN 
 
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PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN 
 AND OTHER POEMS BY 
 AUSTIN L}OBSON 
 
 PORTLAND MAINE 
 
 THOMAS B MOSHER 
 
 MDCCCCIX 
 
.P7 
 
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CONTENTS 
 
 PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN : 
 
 PROLOGUE .... 
 THE BALLAD A-LA-MODE 
 THE METAMORPHOSIS . 
 THE SONG OUT OF SEASON . 
 THE CAP THAT FITS 
 THE SECRETS OF THE HEART 
 u GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTE ! " . 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 3 
 5 
 9 
 13 
 16 
 20 
 24 
 28 
 
 OTHER POEMS 
 
 POT-POURRI . f 
 
 TO Q. H. F. 
 
 THE CHILD-MUSICIAN 
 
 THE PARADOX OF TIME 
 
 TO A GREEK GIRL . 
 
 FOR A COPY OF THEOCRITUS 
 
 THE CRADLE .... 
 
 A FLOWER SONG OF ANGIOLA 
 
 A SONG OF ANGIOLA IN HEAVEN 
 
 31 
 
 34 
 37 
 38 
 40 
 42 
 43 
 44 
 47 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 JOCOSA LYRA 51 
 
 THE PRODIGALS .... 53 
 
 ON A FAN 55 
 
 THE BALLAD OF THE BARMECIDE 57 
 
 ARS VICTRIX 59 
 
 THE DANCE OF DEATH ... 61 
 
 WHEN FINIS COMES .... 64 
 
 VI 
 
PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN 
 
 " Rim en relief" 
 
PROLOGUE 
 
 ASSUME that we are friends. Assume 
 A common taste for old costume, — 
 Old pictures, — books. Then dream us sitting — 
 Us two — in some soft-lighted room. 
 
 Outside, the wind ; — the " ways are mire." 
 We, with our faces toward the fire, 
 
 Finished the feast not full but fitting, 
 Watch the light-leaping flames aspire. 
 
 Silent at first, in time we glow ; 
 Discuss "eclectics," high and low; 
 
 Inspect engravings, 'twixt us passing 
 The fancies of Detroy, Moreau ; 
 
 " Reveils" and" Couchers" "Balls" and" Fetes ;" 
 Anon we glide to "crocks " and plates, 
 Grow eloquent on glaze and classing, 
 And half-pathetic over "states." 
 
 Then I produce my Prize, in truth ; — 
 Six groups in Sevres, fresh as Youth, 
 
 And rare as Love. You pause, you wonder, 
 {Pretend to doubt the marks, forsooth !) 
 
And so we fall to why and how 
 The fragile figures smile and bow ; 
 
 Divine, at length, the fable under . . , 
 Thus grew the ' Scenes' 9 that follow now. 
 
THE BALLAD A-LA-MODE 
 
 " Tout vient a point a qui sait attendre " 
 
 SCENE — A Boudoir Louis-Quinze, painted with 
 Cupids shooting at Butterflies. 
 
 The Countess The Baron ( her cousin 
 
 and suitor ) 
 THE COUNTESS {looking up from her work) 
 ARON, you doze. 
 
 THE BARON (closing his 
 
 book) 
 
 I, Madame? No. 
 I wait your order — Stay or Go. 
 
 THE COUNTESS 
 
 Which means, I think, that Go or Stay 
 Affects you nothing, either way. 
 
THE BARON 
 
 Excuse me, — by your favour graced, 
 My inclinations are effaced. 
 
 THE COUNTESS 
 
 Or much the same. How keen you grow ! 
 You must be reading Marivaux. 
 
 THE BARON 
 
 Nay, — 'twas a song of Sainte-Aulaire. 
 
 THE COUNTESS 
 
 Then read me one. We Ve time to spare : 
 If I can catch the clock-face there, 
 'Tis barely eight. 
 
 THE BARON 
 
 What shall it be, — 
 A tale of woe, or perfidy ? 
 
 THE COUNTESS 
 
 Not woes, I beg. I doubt your woes : 
 But perfidy, of course, one knows. 
 
 THE BARON (reads) 
 
 il< Ah, Phillis! cruel Phillis ! 
 
 ( / heard a Shepherd say,) 
 You hold me with your Eyes, and yet 
 
 You bid me — Go my Way ! ' 
 
<t( Ah y Colin! foolish Colin! 
 
 ( 77?^ Maiden answered so,) 
 If that be All, the III is small, 
 
 I close them — You may go ! 9 
 
 "But when her Eyes she opened, 
 
 ( Although the Sun it shone,) 
 She found the Shepherd had not stirred — 
 
 'Because the Light was gone ! ' 
 
 "Ah, Cupid! wanton Cupid! 
 
 9 Twas ever thus your Way : 
 When Maids would bid you ply your Wings, 
 
 You find Excuse to stay ! " 
 
 THE COUNTESS 
 
 Famous ! He earned whate'er he got : — 
 But there's some sequel, is there not? 
 
 THE BARON {turning the page) 
 
 I think not. — No. Unless 'tis this : 
 My fate is far more hard than his ; — 
 In fact, your Eyes — 
 
 THE COUNTESS 
 
 Now, that 's a breach ! 
 Your bond is — not to make a speech. 
 And we must start — so call Justine. 
 
I know exactly what you mean ! — 
 Give me your arm — 
 
 THE BARON 
 
 If, in return, 
 Countess, I could your hand but earn ! 
 
 THE COUNTESS 
 
 I thought as much. This comes, you see, 
 
 Of sentiment, and Arcady, 
 
 Where vows are hung on every tree. . . . 
 
 THE BARON ( offering his arm, with a low 
 bow) 
 
 And no one dreams — of PERFIDY. 
 
 8 
 
THE METAMORPHOSIS 
 
 " On s'enrichit quand on dort " 
 
 SCENE — A high stone Seat in an- Alley of clipped 
 Lime-trees. 
 
 The Abbe Tirili Monsieur L'Etoile 
 
 a 
 
 THE ABBE (writing) 
 
 "^HIS shepherdess Dorine adored — " 
 -*■ What rhyme is next? Implored? 
 — ignored ? 
 Poured ? — soared ? — afford ? That facile 
 
 Dunce, 
 L'Etoile, would cap the line at once. 
 'Twill come in time. Meanwhile, suppose 
 We take a meditative doze. 
 
 (Sleeps. By-and-by his paper falls) 
 
 M. L'ETOILE {approaching from the back) 
 
 Some one before me. What ! 'tis you, 
 Monsieur the Scholar? Sleeping too ! 
 
 (Picks up the fluttering paper) 
 More " Tales," of course. One can't refuse 
 To chase so fugitive a Muse ! 
 
Verses are public, too, that fly 
 "Gum privilegio " — Zephyri ! 
 
 (Reads) 
 " Clitander and Dorine. ,, Insane ! 
 He fancies he 's a La Fontaine ! 
 u In early Days, the Gods, we find, 
 Paid casual Visits to Mankind ; — 
 At least, authentic Records say so 
 In Publius Ovidius Naso." 
 ( Three names for one. This passes all. 
 'Tis " furiously ,? classical ! ) 
 " No doubt their Purpose oft would be 
 Some ' Nodus dignus V in dice ; ' 
 ' On dit, y not less, these earthward Tours 
 Were mostly matters of Amours. 
 And Woe to him whose luckless Flame 
 Impeded that Olympic Game ; 
 Ere he could say an ( Ave ' o'er, 
 They changed him — like a Louis-d'or." 
 ( "Aves," and current coinage ! O ! — 
 O shade of Nicolas Boileau ! ) 
 ' Bird, Beast, or River he became : 
 With Women it was much the same. 
 In Ovid Case to Case succeeds ; 
 But Names the Reader never reads" 
 ( That is, Monsieur the Abbe feels 
 His quantities are out at heels !) 
 ' Suffices that, for this our Tale, 
 
 10 
 
There dwelt in a Thes saltan Vale, 
 
 Of Tales like this the frequent Scene, 
 
 A Shepherdess, by name Dorine. 
 
 Trim Waist, ripe Lips, bright Eyes, had she ; — 
 
 In short, — the whole Artillery, 
 
 Her Beauty made some local Stir ; — 
 
 Men marked it. So did Jupiter. 
 
 This Shepherdess Dorine adored. ..." 
 
 Implored, ignored, and soared, and poured — 
 
 ( He 's scrawled them here ! ) We '11 sum in 
 
 brief 
 His fable on his second leaf. 
 ( Writes ) 
 There, they shall know who 'twas that wrote : — 
 " L'fitoile's is but a mock-bird ' s note." 
 
 {Exit 
 
 THE ABB£ (waking) 
 
 Implored' s the word, I think. But where, — 
 Where is my paper? Ah ! 'tis there ! 
 Eh ! what? 
 
 ( Reads ) 
 
 The Metamorphosis 
 
 ( Not in Ovid ) 
 
 i c 
 
 The Shepherdess Dorine adored 
 The Shepherd-Boy Clitander ; 
 
 11 
 
But Jove himself, Olympus* Lord, 
 
 The Shepherdess Dorine adored. 
 
 Our Abbe's Aid the Pair Implored ; - 
 
 And changed to Goose and Gander, 
 The Shepherdess Dorine adored 
 
 The Shepherd-Boy Clitander ! " 
 
 L'Etoile, — by all the Muses ! 
 
 Peste ! 
 He 's off, post-haste, to tell the rest. 
 No matter. Laugh, Sir Dunce, to-day ; 
 Next time 'twill be my turn to play. 
 
 12 
 
THE SONG OUT OF SEASON 
 
 11 Point de culte sans my stir e " 
 
 SCENE — A Corridor in a Chateau, with Busts 
 and Venice chandeliers. 
 
 Monsieur L'Etoile Two Voices 
 
 M. L'ETOILE {carrying a Rose) 
 
 ~^HIS is the place. Mutine said here. 
 ■*■ "Through the Mancini room, and near 
 The fifth Venetian chandelier. . . ." 
 The fifth ? — She knew there were but four ; — 
 Still, here 's the busto of the Moor. 
 
 ( Humming ) 
 
 Tra-la, tra-la ! If Bijou wake, 
 He '11 bark, no doubt, and spoil my shake ! 
 I '11 tap, I think. One can't mistake ; 
 This surely is the door. 
 
 ( Sings softly ) 
 
 'When Jove, the Skies 9 Director, 
 
 First saw you sleep of yore, 
 He cried aloud for Nectar, 
 'The Nectar quickly pour, — 
 The Nectar, Hebe, pour ! ' 
 
 13 
 
( No sound. I '11 tap once more.) 
 
 {Sings again ) 
 
 Then came the Sire Apollo, 
 He passed you where you lay ; 
 Come, Dian, rise and follow 
 The dappled Hart to slay, — 
 The rapid Hart to slay. ' 
 
 (A rustling within ) 
 
 ( Coquette ! She heard before.) 
 
 (Sings again ) 
 
 And urchin Cupid after 
 Beside the Pillow curled, 
 He whispered you with Laughter, 
 'Awake and witch the World, — 
 O Venus, witch the World ! ' " 
 
 ( Now comes the last. 'Tis scarcely worse, 
 I think, than Monsieur l'Abbe's verse.) 
 
 "So waken, waken, waken, 
 O You, whom we adore ; 
 
 Where Gods can be mistaken, 
 Mere Mortals must be more, — 
 Poor Mortals must be more ! " 
 
 (That merits an encore.) 
 
 14 
 
"So waken, waken, waken ! 
 O YOU, whom we adore ! ' 
 
 {An energetic VOICE) 
 
 'Tis thou, Antoine? Ah, Addle-pate ! 
 Ah, Thief of Valet, always late ! 
 Have I not told thee half-past eight 
 A thousand times ! 
 
 {Great agitation ) 
 
 But wait, — but wait, — 
 
 M. L'ETOILE {stupefied) 
 
 Just Skies ! What hideous roar ! — 
 What lungs ! The infamous Soubrette ! 
 This is a turn I sha'n't forget : — 
 To make me sing my chansonnette 
 
 Before old Jourdain's door ! 
 
 {Retiring slowly ) 
 
 And yet, and yet, — it can't be she. 
 They prompted her. Who can it be ? 
 
 {A second VOICE ) 
 
 It was the Abbe Ti— ri— li ! 
 
 {In a mocking falsetto ) 
 
 ( Where Gods can be mistaken, 
 Mere Poets must be more, — 
 BAD POETS must be more" 
 
 15 
 
THE CAP THAT FITS 
 
 u Qui seme epines n' at lie dechaux " 
 
 SCENE — A Salon with blue and white Panels, 
 Outside, Persons pass and re-pass upon a 
 Terrace. 
 
 hortense armande 
 
 Monsieur Loyal 
 
 N 
 
 HORTENSE ( behind her fan) 
 OT young, I think. 
 
 ARMANDE ( raising her eye-glass) 
 
 And faded, too ! - 
 Quite faded ! Monsieur, what say you ? 
 
 M. LOYAL 
 
 Nay, — I defer to you. In truth, 
 To me she seems all grace and youth. 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 Graceful? You think it? What, with hands 
 That hang like this ( with a gesture). 
 
 ARMANDE 
 
 And how she stands ! 
 
 16 
 
M. LOYAL 
 
 Nay, — I am wrong again. I thought 
 Her air delightfully untaught ! 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 But you amuse me — 
 
 M. LOYAL 
 
 Still her dress, — 
 Her dress at least, you must confess — 
 
 ARMANDE 
 
 Is odious simply ! Jacotot 
 Did not supply that lace, I know ; 
 And where, I ask, has mortal seen 
 A hat unfeathered ! 
 
 HORTENSE 
 
 Edged with green ! ! 
 
 M. LOYAL 
 
 The words remind me. Let me say 
 A Fable that I heard to-day. 
 Have I permission? 
 
 BOTH ( with enthusiasm ) 
 
 Monsieur, pray ! 
 17 
 
M. LOYAL 
 
 " Myrtilla ( lest a Scandal rise 
 The Lady's Name I thus disguise), 
 Dying of Ennui, once decided — 
 Much on Resource herself she prided — 
 To choose a Hat Forthwith she flies 
 On that momentous Enterprise, 
 Whether to Petit or Legros, 
 I know not : only this I know ; — 
 Head-dresses then, of any Fashion, 
 Bore Names of Quality or Passion. 
 Myrtilla tried them, almost all: 
 
 Prudence,' she felt, was somewhat small; 
 ' Retirement ' seemed the Eyes to hide ; 
 
 Content ' at once, she cast aside. 
 ' Simplicity,' — 'twas out of Place ; 
 ' Devotion, ' for an older Face ; 
 Briefly, Selection smaller grew, 
 
 Vexatious ! ' odious ! — none would do ! 
 Then, on a sudden, she espied 
 One that she thought she had not tried : 
 Becoming, rather, — edged with green,' — 
 Roses in yellow, Thorns between. 
 'Quick! Bring me that! ' 'Tis brought. * Complete, 
 Divine, Enchanting, Tasteful, Neat,' 
 
 In all the Tones. ' And this you call ? ' 
 
 ' " ILL-NATURE/' Madame. It fits all' " 
 
 18 
 
HORTENSE 
 
 A thousand thanks ! So naively turned ! 
 
 ARMANDE 
 
 So useful too ... to those concerned ! 
 'Tis yours ? 
 
 M. LOYAL 
 
 Ah no, — some cynic wit's ; 
 And called (I think) — 
 
 ( Placing his hat upon his breast ) 
 
 "The Cap that Fits." 
 
 19 
 
THE SECRETS OF THE HEART 
 
 " Le cceur me tie oil il va " 
 SCENE — A Chalet covered with Honeysuckle, 
 
 Ninette Ninon 
 
 NINETTE 
 
 ^pHIS way — 
 
 NINON 
 No, this way, — 
 
 NINETTE 
 
 This way, then. 
 ( They enter the Chalet) 
 You are as changing, Child, — as Men. 
 
 NINON 
 
 But are they ? Is it true, I mean ? 
 Who said it ? 
 
 NINETTE 
 
 Sister Seraphine. 
 She was so pious and so good, 
 With such sad eyes beneath her hood, 
 
 20 
 
And such poor little feet, — all bare ! 
 Her name was Eugenie la Fere. 
 She used to tell us, — moonlight nights, — 
 When I was at the Carmelites. 
 
 NINON 
 Ah, then it must be right. And yet, 
 Suppose for once — suppose, Ninette — 
 
 NINETTE 
 
 But what? 
 
 NINON 
 
 Suppose it were not so ? 
 Suppose there were true men, you know ! 
 
 NINETTE 
 
 And then? 
 
 NINON 
 
 Why, if that could occur, 
 What kind of man should you prefer? 
 
 NINETTE 
 
 What looks, you mean? 
 
 NINON 
 
 Looks, voice and all. 
 
 NINETTE 
 
 Well, as to that, he must be tall, 
 Or say, not u tall," — of middle size ; 
 
 21 
 
And next, he must have laughing eyes, 
 And a hook-nose, — with, underneath, 
 
 ! what a row of sparkling teeth ! 
 
 NINON ( touching her cheeks suspiciously ) 
 Has he a scar on this side? 
 
 NINETTE 
 
 Hush! 
 Some one is coming. No ; a thrush : 
 
 1 see it swinging there. 
 
 NINON 
 
 Go on. 
 
 NINETTE 
 
 Then he must fence, ( ah, look, 'tis gone ! ) 
 And dance like Monseigneur, and sing 
 " Love was a Shepherd : " — everything 
 That men do. Tell me yours, Ninon. 
 
 NINON 
 
 Shall I ? Then mine has black, black hair . . . 
 
 I mean he should have ; then an air 
 
 Half sad, half noble ; features thin ; 
 
 A little royale on the chin ; 
 
 And such a pale, high brow. And then, 
 
 He is a prince of gentlemen ; — 
 
 22 
 
He, too, can ride and fence and write 
 Sonnets and madrigals, yet fight 
 No worse for that — 
 
 NINETTE 
 
 I know your man. 
 
 NINON 
 
 And I know yours. But you '11 not tell, — 
 Swear it ! 
 
 NINETTE 
 
 I swear upon this fan, — 
 My Grandmother's ! 
 
 NINON 
 
 And I, I swear 
 On this old turquoise reliquaire, — 
 My great, — great Grandmother's ! ! — 
 
 ( After a pause ) 
 
 Ninette ! 
 I feel so sad. 
 
 NINETTE 
 
 I too. But why ? 
 
 NINON 
 Alas, I know not ! 
 
 NINETTE {with a sigh) 
 
 Nor do I. 
 
 23 
 
" GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTE ! " 
 
 " Si vieillesse pouvait I — " 
 
 SCENE — A small neat Room. In a high Vol- 
 taire Chair sits a white-haired old Gentleman. 
 
 Monsieur Vieuxbois Babette 
 
 M. VIEUXBOIS (turning querulously) 
 
 ^\AY of my life ! Where can she get? 
 -■^ Babette ! I say ! Babette ! — Babette ! 
 
 BABETTE ( entering hurriedly ) 
 
 Coming, M'sieu' ! If M'sieu' speaks 
 So loud, he won't be well for weeks ! 
 
 M. VIEUXBOIS 
 Where have you been? 
 
 BABETTE 
 
 Why, M'sieu' knows: — 
 April ! . . . Ville d'Avray ! . . . Ma'am'selle Rose 
 
 M. VIEUXBOIS 
 
 Ah ! I am old, — and I forget. 
 
 Was the place growing green, Babette? 
 
 24 
 
BABETTE 
 
 But of a greenness ! — yes, M'sieu' ! 
 And then the sky so blue ! — so blue ! 
 And when I dropped my immortelle, 
 How the birds sang ! 
 
 ( Lifting her apron to her eyes ) 
 
 This poor Ma'am'selle ! 
 
 M. VIEUXBOIS 
 
 You 're a good girl, Babette, but she, — 
 
 She was an Angel, verily. 
 
 Sometimes I think I see her yet 
 
 Stand smiling by the cabinet; 
 
 And once, I know, she peeped and laughed 
 
 Betwixt the curtains . . . 
 
 Where's the draught? 
 ( She gives him a cup ) 
 Now I shall sleep, I think, Babette ; — 
 Sing me your Norman chansonnette. 
 
 BABETTE {sings) 
 
 "Once at the Angelus 
 
 ( Ere I was dead ), 
 Angels all glorious 
 
 Came to my Bed ; 
 Angels in blue and white 
 
 Crowned on the Head" 
 
 25 
 
M. VIEUXBOIS {drowsily) 
 
 " She was an Angel " . . . " Once she laughed " . 
 What, was I dreaming? ' 
 
 Where's the draught? 
 
 BABETTE ( showing the empty cup ) 
 The draught, M'sieu ' ? 
 
 M. VIEUXBOIS 
 
 How I forget ! 
 I am so old ! But sing, Babette ! 
 
 BABETTE (sings) 
 
 "One was the Friend I left 
 
 Stark in the Snow ; 
 One was the Wife that died 
 
 Long, — long ago ; 
 One was the Love I lost . . . 
 
 How could she know ? " 
 
 M. VIEUXBOIS (murmuring) 
 
 Ah, Paul ! ... old Paul ! . . . Eulalie too ! 
 And Rose . . . And O ! " the sky so blue ! " 
 
 BABETTE (sings) 
 
 t( One had my Mother s eyes, 
 Wistful and mild ; 
 
 26 
 
One had my Father s face ; 
 
 One was a Child : 
 All of them bent to me, — 
 
 Bent down and smiled ! ,; 
 
 ( He is asleep ! ) 
 
 M. VIEUXBOIS {almost inaudibly) 
 
 " How I forget ! " 
 " I am so old ! " . . . " Good-night, Babette ! " 
 
 27 
 
EPILOGUE 
 
 HEIGHO ! how chill the evenings get ! 
 Good-night, Ninon! — good-night, Ninette 
 Your little Play is played and finished ; — 
 Go back , then, to your Cabinet ! 
 
 Loyal, L'Etoile ! no more to-day ! 
 Alas ! they heed not what we say : 
 
 They smile with ardour undiminished ; 
 But we, — we are not always gay ! 
 
OTHER POEMS 
 
POT-POURRI 
 
 Si jeunesse savait ? — " 
 
 PLUNGE my hand among the leaves 
 ( An alien touch but dust perceives, 
 
 Nought else supposes ; ) 
 For me those fragrant ruins raise 
 Clear memory of the vanished days 
 When they were roses. 
 
 " If youth but knew ! " Ah, " if," in truth ? 
 I can recall with what gay youth, 
 
 To what light chorus, 
 Unsobered yet by time or change, 
 We roamed the many-gabled Grange, 
 
 All life before us ; 
 
 Braved the old clock-tower's dust and damp, 
 To catch the dim Arthurian camp 
 In misty distance ; 
 
 31 
 
Peered at the still-room's sacred stores, 
 Or rapped at walls for sliding doors 
 Of feigned existence. 
 
 What need had we for thoughts or cares ! 
 The hot sun parched the old parterres 
 
 And " flowerful closes ; " 
 We roused the rooks with rounds and glees, 
 Played hide-and-seek behind the trees, — 
 
 Then plucked these roses. 
 
 Louise was one — light, glib Louise, 
 So freshly freed from school decrees 
 
 You scarce could stop her ; 
 And Bell, the Beauty, unsurprised 
 At fallen locks that scandalised 
 
 Our dear u Miss Proper ; " — 
 
 Shy Ruth, all heart and tenderness, 
 Who wept — like Chaucer's Prioress, 
 
 When Dash was smitten ; 
 Who blushed before the mildest men, 
 Yet waxed a very Corday when 
 
 You teased her kitten. 
 
 I loved them all. Bell first and best ; 
 Louise the next — for days of jest 
 Or madcap masking; 
 
 32 
 
And Ruth, I thought, — why, failing these, 
 When my High-Mightiness should please, 
 She 'd come for asking. 
 
 Louise was grave when last we met ; 
 Bell's beauty, like a sun, has set ; 
 
 And Ruth, Heaven bless her, 
 Ruth that I wooed, — and wooed in vain, — 
 Has gone where neither grief nor pain 
 
 Can now distress her. 
 
 33 
 
TO Q. H. F. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A CHAPTER IN SIR 
 THEODORE MARTIN'S " HORACE " 
 
 (" ANCIENT CLASSICS FOR ENGLISH 
 READERS " ) 
 
 "TJORATIUS FLACCUS, B.C. 8," 
 
 -*■ -*■ There's not a doubt about the date, 
 You 're dead and buried : 
 As you observed, the seasons roll ; 
 And 'cross the Styx full many a soul 
 
 Has Charon ferried, 
 Since, mourned of men and Muses nine, 
 They laid you on the Esquiline. 
 
 And that was centuries ago ! 
 
 You 'd think we 'd learned enough, I know, 
 
 To help refine us, 
 Since last you trod the Sacred Street, 
 And tacked from mortal fear to meet 
 
 The bore Crispinus ; 
 Or, by your cold Digentia, set 
 The web of winter birding-net. 
 
 34 
 
Ours is so far-advanced an age ! 
 Sensation tales, a classic stage, 
 
 Commodious villas ! 
 We boast high art, an Albert Hall, 
 Australian meats, and men who call 
 
 Their sires gorillas ! 
 We have a thousand things, you see, 
 Not dreamt in your philosophy. 
 
 And yet, how strange ! Our " world/' to-day, 
 Tried in the scale, would scarce outweigh 
 
 Your Roman cronies ; 
 Walk in the Park — you'll seldom fail 
 To find a Sybaris on the rail 
 
 By Lydia's ponies, 
 Or hap on Barrus, wigged and stayed, 
 Ogling some unsuspecting maid. 
 
 The great Gargilius, then, behold ! 
 His " long-bow" hunting tales of old 
 
 Are now but duller ; 
 Fair Neobule too ! Is not 
 One Hebrus here — from Aldershot? 
 
 Aha, you colour ! 
 Be wise. There old Canidia sits ; 
 No doubt she 's tearing you to bits. 
 
 35 
 
And look, dyspeptic, brave, and kind, 
 Comes dear Maecenas, half behind 
 
 Terentia's skirting ; 
 Here's Pyrrha, " golden-haired " at will; 
 Prig Damasippus, preaching still ; 
 
 Asterie flirting, — 
 Radiant, of course. We '11 make her black, 
 Ask her when Gyges' ship comes back. 
 
 So with the rest. Who will may trace 
 Behind the new each elder face 
 
 Defined as clearly ; 
 Science proceeds, and man stands still ; 
 Our " world " to-day 's as good or ill, — 
 
 As cultured ( nearly ), — 
 As yours was, Horace ! You alone, 
 Unmatched, unmet, we have not known. 
 
 36 
 
THE CHILD-MUSICIAN 
 
 TTE had played for his lordship's levee, 
 -*- -*■ He had played for her ladyship's whim, 
 Till the poor little head was heavy, 
 And the poor little brain would swim. 
 
 And the face grew peaked and eerie, 
 And the large eyes strange and bright, 
 
 And they said — too late — u He is weary ! 
 He shall rest for, at least, To-night ! " 
 
 But at dawn, when the birds were waking, 
 As they watched in the silent room, 
 
 With the sound of a strained cord breaking, 
 A something snapped in the gloom. 
 
 'Twas a string of his violoncello, 
 
 And they heard him stir in his bed : — 
 
 " Make room for a tired little fellow, 
 
 Kind God ! — " was the last that he said. 
 
 37 
 
THE PARADOX OF TIME 
 (A VARIATION ON RONSARD ) 
 
 r Le temps s' } en va, le temps s' 'en va, ma dame ! 
 Las ! le temps non : ma is NOUS nous en a lions ! " 
 
 ^IME goes, you say? Ah no ! 
 -*- Alas, Time stays, we go ; 
 Or else, were this not so, 
 What need to chain the hours, 
 For Youth were always ours ? 
 Time goes, you say ? — ah no ! 
 
 Ours is the eyes' deceit 
 Of men whose flying feet 
 
 Lead through some landscape low ; 
 We pass, and think we see 
 The earth's fixed surface flee : — 
 
 Alas, Time stays, — we go ! 
 
 Once in the days of old, 
 Your locks were curling gold, 
 
 And mine had shamed the crow. 
 Now, in the self-same stage, 
 We 've reached the silver age ; 
 
 Time goes, you say ? — ah no ! 
 
 38 
 
Once, when my voice was strong, 
 I filled the woods with song 
 
 To praise your i rose" and u snow ; 
 My bird, that sang, is dead ; 
 Where are your roses fled ? 
 
 Alas, Time stays, — we go ! 
 
 See, in what traversed ways, 
 What backward Fate delays 
 
 The hopes we used to know ; 
 Where are our old desires? — 
 Ah, where those vanished fires? 
 
 Time goes, you say ? — ah no ! 
 
 How far, how far, O Sweet, 
 The past behind our feet 
 
 Lies in the even-glow ! 
 Now, on the forward way, 
 Let us fold hands, and pray ; 
 
 Alas, Time stays, — we go ! 
 
 i > 
 
 39 
 
TO A GREEK GIRL 
 
 T X 7ITH breath of thyme and bees that hum, 
 " * Across the years you seem to come, — 
 Across the years with nymph-like head, 
 And wind-blown brows unfilleted ; 
 A girlish shape that slips the bud 
 
 In lines of unspoiled symmetry ; 
 A girlish shape that stirs the blood 
 
 With pulse of Spring, Autonoe ! 
 
 Where'er you pass, — where'er you go, 
 I hear the pebbly rillet flow ; 
 Where'er you go, — where'er you pass, 
 There comes a gladness on the grass ; 
 You bring blithe airs where'er you tread, — 
 
 Blithe airs that blow from down and sea ; 
 You wake in me a Pan not dead, — 
 
 Not wholly dead ! — Autonoe ! 
 
 How sweet with you on some green sod 
 To wreathe the rustic garden-god ; 
 How sweet beneath the chestnut's shade 
 With you to weave a basket-braid ; 
 To watch across the stricken chords 
 
 Your rosy-twinkling fingers flee ; 
 To woo you in soft woodland words, 
 
 With woodland pipe, Autonoe ! 
 
 40 
 
In vain, — in vain ! The years divide : 
 Where Thamis rolls a murky tide, 
 I sit and fill my painful reams, 
 And see you only in my dreams ; — 
 A vision, like Alcestis, brought 
 
 From under-lands of Memory, — 
 A dream of Form in days of Thought, — 
 
 A dream, — a dream, Autonoe ! 
 
 41 
 
FOR A COPY OF THEOCRITUS 
 
 r\ SINGER of the field and fold, 
 
 ^^ THEOCRITUS! Pan's pipe was thine,- 
 
 Thine was the happier Age of Gold. 
 
 For thee the scent of new-turned mould, 
 The bee-hives, and the murmuring pine, 
 O Singer of the field and fold ! 
 
 Thou sang'st the simple feasts of old, — 
 The beechen bowl made glad with wine . . 
 Thine was the happier Age of Gold. 
 
 Thou bad'st the rustic loves be told, — 
 Thou bad'st the tuneful reeds combine, 
 O Singer of the field and fold ! 
 
 And round thee, ever-laughing, rolled 
 The blithe and blue Sicilian brine . . 
 Thine was the happier Age of Gold. 
 
 Alas for us ! Our songs are cold ; 
 Our Northern suns too sadly shine : — 
 O Singer of the field and fold, 
 Thine was the happier Age of Gold ! 
 
 42 
 
THE CRADLE 
 
 TTOW steadfastly she 'd worked at it ! 
 -*- -*■ How lovingly had drest 
 With all her would-be-mother's wit 
 That little rosy nest ! 
 
 How longingly she 'd hung on it ! — 
 It sometimes seemed, she said, 
 
 There lay beneath its coverlet 
 A little sleeping head. 
 
 He came at last, the tiny guest, 
 
 Ere bleak December fled ; 
 That rosy nest he never prest . . . 
 
 Her coffin was his bed. 
 
 43 
 
A FLOWER SONG OF ANGIOLA 
 
 ~"\OWN where the garden grows, 
 -*^ Gay as a banner, 
 Spake to her mate the Rose 
 
 After this manner : — 
 'We are the first of flowers, 
 
 Plain-land or hilly, 
 All reds and whites are ours, 
 
 Are they not, Lily?" 
 
 Then to the flowers I spake, — 
 
 " Watch ye my Lady 
 Gone to the leafy brake, 
 
 Silent and shady; 
 When I am near to her, 
 
 Lily, she knows ; 
 How I am dear to her, 
 
 Look to it, Rose." 
 
 Straightway the Blue-bell stooped, 
 
 Paler for pride, 
 Down where the Violet drooped, 
 
 Shy, at her side : — 
 " Sweetheart, save me and you, 
 
 Where has the summer kist 
 Flowers of as fair a hue, — 
 
 Turkis or Amethyst? " 
 
 44 
 
Therewith I laughed aloud, 
 
 Spake on this wise, 
 " O little flowers so proud, 
 
 Have ye seen eyes 
 Change through the blue in them,- 
 
 Change till the mere 
 Loving that grew in them 
 
 Turned to a tear? 
 
 u Flowers, ye are bright of hue, 
 
 Delicate, sweet ; 
 Flowers, and the sight of you 
 
 Lightens men's feet; 
 Yea, but her worth to me, 
 
 Flowerets, even, 
 Sweetening the earth to me, 
 
 Sweeteneth heaven. 
 
 1 This, then, O Flowers, I sing ; 
 
 God, when He made ye, 
 M ade yet a fairer thing 
 
 Making my Lady ; — 
 Fashioned her tenderly, 
 
 Giving all weal to her ; — 
 Girdle ye slenderly, 
 
 Go to her, kneel to her, — 
 
 " Saying, ' He sendeth us, 
 He the most dutiful, 
 
 45 
 
Meetly he endeth us, 
 Maiden most beautiful ! 
 
 Let us get rest of you, 
 Sweet, in your breast ; — 
 
 Die, being prest of you, 
 Die, being blest.'" 
 
 46 
 
A SONG OF ANGIOLA IN HEAVEN 
 
 Vale, unica! " 
 
 T?LOWERS, — that have died upon my Sweet, 
 ■*- Lulled by the rhythmic dancing beat 
 
 Of her young bosom under you, — 
 Now will I show you such a thing 
 As never, thr6ugh thick buds of Spring, 
 
 Betwixt the daylight and the dew, 
 The Bird whose being no man knows — 
 
 The voice that waketh all night through — 
 Tells to the Rose. 
 
 For lo, — a garden-place I found, 
 
 Well filled of leaves, and stilled of sound, 
 
 Well flowered, with red fruit marvellous ; 
 And 'twixt the shining trunks would flit 
 Tall knights and silken maids, or sit 
 
 With faces bent and amorous; — 
 There, in the heart thereof, and crowned 
 
 With woodbine and amaracus, 
 My Love I found. 
 
 Alone she walked, — ah, well I wis, 
 My heart leapt up for joy of this ! — 
 
 Then when I called to her her name, — 
 The name, that like a pleasant thing 
 
 47 
 
Men's lips remember, murmuring, 
 
 At once across the sward she came, — 
 
 Full fain she seemed, my own dear maid, 
 And asked ever as she came, 
 
 " Where hast thou stayed ? " 
 
 lt Where hast thou stayed ? " — she asked as though 
 The long years were an hour ago ; 
 
 But I spake not, nor answered, 
 For, looking in her eyes, I saw, 
 A light not lit of mortal law ; 
 
 And in her clear cheek's changeless red, 
 And sweet, unshaken speaking found 
 
 That in this place the Hours were dead, 
 And Time was bound. 
 
 'This is well done," — she said, — "in thee, 
 O Love, that thou art come to me, 
 
 To this green garden glorious ; 
 Now truly shall our life be sped 
 In joyance and all goodlihed, 
 
 For here all things are fair to us, 
 And none with burden is oppressed, 
 
 And none is poor or piteous, — 
 For here is Rest. 
 
 " No formless Future blurs the sky ; 
 Men mourn not here, with dull dead eye, 
 By shrouded shapes of Yesterday ; 
 
 48 
 
Betwixt the Coming and the Past 
 The flawless life hangs fixen fast 
 
 In one unwearying To-Day, 
 That darkens not ; for Sin is shriven, 
 
 Death from the doors is thrust away, 
 And here is Heaven." 
 
 At u Heaven" she ceased; — and lifted up 
 Her fair head like a flower-cup, 
 
 With rounded mouth, and eyes aglow ; 
 Then set I lips to hers, and felt, — 
 Ah, God, — the hard pain fade and melt, 
 
 And past things change to painted show ; 
 The song of quiring birds outbroke ; 
 
 The lit leaves laughed, — sky shook, and lo, 
 I swooned, — and woke. 
 
 And now, O Flowers, 
 
 — Ye that indeed are dead, — 
 Now for all waiting hours, 
 
 Well am I comforted ; 
 For of a surety, now, I see, 
 
 That, without dim distress 
 
 Of tears, or weariness, 
 My Lady, verily, awaiteth me ; 
 So that until with Her I be, 
 
 For my dear Lady's sake 
 
 I am right fain to make 
 
 49 
 
Out from my pain a pillow, and to take 
 Grief for a golden garment unto me ; 
 
 Knowing that I, at last, shall stand 
 
 In that green garden-land, 
 And, in the holding of my dear Love's hand, 
 Forget the grieving and the misery. 
 
 50 
 
JOCOSA LYRA 
 
 f N our hearts is the Great One of Avon 
 A Engraven, 
 
 And we climb the cold summits once built on 
 
 By Milton. 
 
 But at times not the air that is rarest 
 
 Is fairest, 
 And we long in the valley to follow 
 
 Apollo. 
 
 Then we drop from the heights atmospheric 
 
 To Herrick, 
 Or we pour the Greek honey, grown blander, 
 
 Of Landor ; 
 
 Or our cosiest nook in the shade is 
 
 Where Praed is, 
 
 Or we toss the light bells of the mocker 
 
 With Locker. 
 
 Oh, the song where not one of the Graces 
 
 Tight-laces, — 
 
 Where we woo the sweet Muses not starchly, 
 
 But archly, — 
 
 51 
 
Where the verse, like a piper a-Maying, 
 
 Comes playing, 
 
 And the rhyme is as gay as a dancer, 
 
 In answer, — 
 
 It will last till men weary of pleasure 
 
 In measure ! 
 
 It will last till men weary of laughter . 
 
 And after ! 
 
 52 
 
THE PRODIGALS 
 
 " T)RINCES! — and you, most valorous, 
 
 A Nobles and Barons of all degrees ! 
 Hearken awhile to the prayer of us, — 
 
 Beggars that come from the over-seas ! 
 
 Nothing we ask or of gold or fees ; 
 Harry us not with the hounds we pray ; 
 
 Lo, — for the surcote's hem we seize, — 
 Give us — ah ! give us — but Yesterday ! " 
 
 " Dames most delicate, amorous ! 
 
 Damosels blithe as the belted bees ! 
 Hearken awhile to the prayer of us, — 
 
 Beggars that come from the over-seas ! 
 
 Nothing we ask of the things that please ; 
 Weary are we, and worn, and gray ; 
 
 Lo, — for we clutch and we clasp your knees, — 
 Give us — ah ! give us — but Yesterday ! " 
 
 " Damosels — Dames, be piteous ! " 
 
 ( But the dames rode fast by the roadway trees.) 
 u Hear us, O Knights magnanimous !" 
 
 ( But the knights pricked on in their panoplies.) 
 
 Nothing they gat or of hope or ease, 
 But only to beat on the breast and say : — 
 
 4 Life we drank to the dregs and lees ; 
 Give us — ah ! give us — but Yesterday !" 
 
 53 
 
ENVOY 
 
 YOUTH, take heed to the prayer of these ! 
 Many there be by the dusty way, — 
 
 Many that cry to the rocks and seas 
 " Give us — ah ! give us — but Yesterday ! " 
 
 54 
 
ON A FAN THAT BELONGED TO 
 THE MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR 
 
 /^HICKEN-SKIN, delicate, white, 
 ^^ Painted by Carlo Vanloo, 
 Loves in a riot of light, 
 Roses and vaporous blue; 
 Hark to the dainty frou-frou ! 
 Picture above, if you can, 
 
 Eyes that could melt as the dew, — 
 This was the Pompadour's fan ! 
 
 See how they rise at the sight, 
 
 Thronging the CEil de Bceuf thro ugh, 
 Courtiers as butterflies bright, 
 
 Beauties that Fragonard drew, 
 
 Talon-rouge, falbala, queue, 
 Cardinal, Duke, — to a man, 
 
 Eager to sigh or to sue, — 
 This was the Pompadour's fan ! 
 
 Ah, but things more than polite 
 Hung on this toy, voyez-vous ! 
 
 Matters of state and of might, 
 Things that great ministers do ; 
 Things that, maybe, overthrew 
 
 Those in whose brains they began ; 
 
 55 
 
Here was the sign and the cue, — 
 This was the Pompadour's fan ! 
 
 ENVOY 
 
 WHERE are the secrets it knew? 
 
 Weavings of plot and of plan ? 
 — But where is the Pompadour, too ? 
 
 This was the Pompadour's Fan ! 
 
 56 
 
THE BALLAD OF THE BARMECIDE 
 
 "^O one in Eastern clime, — 'tis said, — 
 -■■ There came a man at eve with " Lo ! 
 
 Friend, ere the day be dimmed and dead, 
 Hast thou a mind to feast, and know- 
 Fair cates, and sweet wine's overflow ? " 
 
 To whom that other fain replied — 
 
 u Lead on. Not backward I nor slow ; — 
 
 Where is thy feast, O Barmecide ? " 
 
 Thereon the bidder passed and lead 
 
 To where, apart from dust and glow, 
 They found a board with napery spread, 
 
 And gold, and glistering cups a-row. 
 
 " Eat," quoth the host, yet naught did show. 
 To whom his guest — l Thy board is wide ; 
 
 But barren is the cheer, I trow ; 
 Where is thy feast, O Barmecide ? " 
 
 "Eat," quoth the man not less, and fed 
 
 From meats unseen, and made as though 
 He drank of wine both white and red. 
 
 u Eat, — ere the day to darkness grow. 
 
 Short space and scant the Fates bestow ! " 
 What time his guest him wondering eyed, 
 
 Muttering in wrath his beard below — 
 u Where is thy feast, O Barmecide?" 
 
 57 
 
ENVOY 
 
 LIFE, — 'tis of thee they fable so. 
 
 Thou bidcTst us eat, and still denied, 
 Still fasting, from thy board we go : — 
 
 " Where is thy feast, O Barmecide ? " 
 
 58 
 
ARS VICTRIX 
 
 (IMITATED FROM THEOPHILE GAUTIER) 
 
 X/'ES ; when the ways oppose — 
 -*• When the hard means rebel, 
 Fairer the work out-grows, — 
 More potent far the spell. 
 
 O POET, then, forbear 
 
 The loosely sandalled verse, 
 
 Choose rather thou to wear 
 The buskin — strait and terse; 
 
 Leave to the tyro's hand 
 
 The limp and shapeless style; 
 
 See that thy form demand 
 The labour of the file. 
 
 Sculptor, do thou discard 
 
 The yielding clay, — consign 
 To Paros marble hard 
 
 The beauty of thy line ; — 
 
 Model thy Satyr's face 
 
 For bronze of Syracuse ; 
 In the veined agate trace 
 
 The profile of thy Muse. 
 
 59 
 
Painter, that still must mix 
 
 But transient tints anew, 
 Thou in the furnace fix 
 The firm enamel's hue ; 
 
 Let the smooth tile receive 
 Thy dove-drawn Erycine ; 
 
 Thy Sirens blue at eve 
 Coiled in a wash of wine. 
 
 All passes. ART alone 
 Enduring stays to us ; 
 
 The Bust outlasts the throne,— 
 The Coin, Tiberius ; 
 
 Even the gods must go ; 
 
 Only the lofty Rhyme 
 Not countless years o'erthrow,- 
 
 Not long array of time. 
 
 Paint, chisel, then, or write ; 
 
 But, that the work surpass, 
 With the hard fashion fight, — 
 
 With the resisting mass. 
 
 60 
 
THE DANCE OF DEATH 
 
 (AFTER HOLBEIN ) 
 
 11 Contra vim MORTIS 
 Non est medicamen in hortis" 
 
 TTE is the despots' Despot. All must bide, 
 ** -*■ Later or soon, the message of his might ; 
 Princes and potentates their heads must hide, 
 Touched by the awful sigil of his right ; 
 Beside the Kaiser he at eve doth wait 
 And pours a potion in his cup of state ; 
 The stately Queen his bidding must obey ; 
 No keen-eyed Cardinal shall him affray ; 
 And to the Dame that wantoneth he saith — 
 u Let be, Sweet-heart, to junket and to play." 
 There is no King more terrible than Death. 
 
 The lusty Lord, rejoicing in his pride, 
 He draweth down ; before the armed Knight 
 With jingling bridle-rein he still doth ride; 
 He crosseth the strong Captain in the fight ; 
 The Burgher grave he beckons from debate ; 
 He hales the Abbot by his shaven pate, 
 Nor for the Abbess' wailing will delay ; 
 
 61 
 
No bawling Mendicant shall say him nay; 
 E'en to the pyx the Priest he followeth, 
 Nor can the Leech his chilling finger stay . . 
 There is no King more terrible than Death. 
 
 All things must bow to him. And woe betide 
 The Wine-bibber, — the Roisterer by night ; 
 Him the feast-master, many bouts defied, 
 Him 'twixt the pledging and the cup shall smite ; 
 Woe to the Lender at usurious rate, 
 The hard Rich Man, the hireling Advocate ; 
 Woe to the Judge that selleth Law for pay ; 
 Woe to the Thief that like a beast of prey 
 With creeping tread the traveller harryeth : — 
 These, in their sin, the sudden sword shall slay , 
 There is no King more terrible than Death. 
 
 He hath no pity, — nor will be denied. 
 When the low hearth is garnished and bright, 
 Grimly he flingeth the dim portal wide, 
 And steals the Infant in the Mother's sight; 
 He hath no pity for the scorned of fate : — 
 He spares not Lazarus lying at the gate, 
 Nay, nor the Blind that stumbleth as he may ; 
 Nay, the tired Ploughman, — at the sinking ray,- 
 In the last furrow, — feels an icy breath, 
 And knows a hand hath turned the team astray . 
 There is no King more terrible than Death. 
 
 62 
 
He hath no pity. For the new-made Bride, 
 Blithe with the promise of her life's delight, 
 That wanders gladly by her Husband's side, 
 He with the clatter of his drum doth fright; 
 He scares the Virgin at the convent grate ; 
 The Maid half-won, the Lover passionate; 
 He hath no grace for weakness and decay : 
 The tender Wife, the Widow bent and gray, 
 The feeble Sire whose footstep faltereth, — 
 All these he leadeth by the lonely way . . 
 There is no King more terrible than Death. 
 
 ENVOY 
 
 YOUTH, for whose ear and monishing of late, 
 I sang of Prodigals and lost estate, 
 Have thou thy joy of living and be gay ; 
 But know not less that there must come a day, — 
 Aye, and perchance e'en now it hasteneth, — 
 When thine own heart shall speak to thee and say,- 
 There is no King more terrible than Death. 
 
 63 
 
" WHEN FINIS COMES" 
 
 WHEN Finis comes, the BOOK we close, 
 And somewhat sadly. Fancy goes. 
 With backward step, from stage to stage 
 Of that accomplished pilgrimage . . . 
 77?^ thorn lies thicker than the rose ! 
 
 There is so much that no one knows, — 
 So much un-reached that no?ie suppose ; 
 
 What flaws ! what faults ! — on every page, 
 When Finis comes. 
 
 Still, — they must pass ! The swift Tide flows. 
 
 Though not for all the laurel grows, 
 Perchance, in this be-slandered age, 
 The worker, mainly, wins his wage ; — 
 
 And Time will sweep both friends and foes 
 When FINIS comes ! 
 
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