Phantasmagoria and Other Poems

TÈMA CON VARIAZIÒNI

[Why is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister-art Music? The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known Air, then a dozen bars of his own, then a few more notes of the Air, and so on alternately: thus saving the listener, if not from all risk of recognising the melody at all, at least from the too-exciting transports which it might produce in a more concentrated form. The process is termed “setting” by Composers, and any one, that has ever experienced the emotion of being unexpectedly set down in a heap of mortar, will recognise the truthfulness of this happy phrase.

For truly, just as the genuine Epicure lingers lovingly over a morsel of supreme Venison – whose every fibre seems to murmur “Excelsior!” – yet swallows, ere returning to the toothsome dainty, great mouthfuls of oatmeal-porridge and winkles: and just as the perfect Connoisseur in Claret permits himself but one delicate sip, and then tosses off a pint or more of boarding-school beer: so also —

I never loved a dear Gazelle —   Nor anything that cost me much:High prices profit those who sell,   But why should I be fond of such?To glad me with his soft black eye   My son comes trotting home from school;He’s had a fight but can’t tell why—   He always was a little fool!But, when he came to know me well,   He kicked me out, her testy Sire:And when I stained my hair, that Belle   Might note the change, and thus admireAnd love me, it was sure to dye   A muddy green or staring blue:Whilst one might trace, with half an eye,   The still triumphant carrot through.

A GAME OF FIVES

Five little girls, of Five, Four, Three, Two, One:Rolling on the hearthrug, full of tricks and fun.Five rosy girls, in years from Ten to Six:Sitting down to lessons – no more time for tricks.Five growing girls, from Fifteen to Eleven:Music, Drawing, Languages, and food enough for seven!Five winsome girls, from Twenty to Sixteen:Each young man that calls, I say “Now tell me which you mean!”Five dashing girls, the youngest Twenty-one:But, if nobody proposes, what is there to be done?Five showy girls – but Thirty is an ageWhen girls may be engaging, but they somehow don’t engage.Five dressy girls, of Thirty-one or more:So gracious to the shy young men they snubbed so much before!* * * *Five passé girls – Their age?  Well, never mind!We jog along together, like the rest of human kind:But the quondam “careless bachelor” begins to think he knowsThe answer to that ancient problem “how the money goes”!

POETA FIT, NON NASCITUR

“How shall I be a poet?   How shall I write in rhyme?You told me once ‘the very wish   Partook of the sublime.’Then tell me how!  Don’t put me off   With your ‘another time’!”The old man smiled to see him,   To hear his sudden sally;He liked the lad to speak his mind   Enthusiastically;And thought “There’s no hum-drum in him,   Nor any shilly-shally.”“And would you be a poet   Before you’ve been to school?Ah, well!  I hardly thought you   So absolute a fool.First learn to be spasmodic —   A very simple rule.“For first you write a sentence,   And then you chop it small;Then mix the bits, and sort them out   Just as they chance to fall:The order of the phrases makes   No difference at all.“Then, if you’d be impressive,   Remember what I say,That abstract qualities begin   With capitals alway:The True, the Good, the Beautiful —   Those are the things that pay!“Next, when you are describing   A shape, or sound, or tint;Don’t state the matter plainly,   But put it in a hint;And learn to look at all things   With a sort of mental squint.”“For instance, if I wished, Sir,   Of mutton-pies to tell,Should I say ‘dreams of fleecy flocks   Pent in a wheaten cell’?”“Why, yes,” the old man said: “that phrase   Would answer very well.“Then fourthly, there are epithets   That suit with any word —As well as Harvey’s Reading Sauce   With fish, or flesh, or bird —Of these, ‘wild,’ ‘lonely,’ ‘weary,’ ‘strange,’   Are much to be preferred.”“And will it do, O will it do   To take them in a lump —As ‘the wild man went his weary way   To a strange and lonely pump’?”“Nay, nay!  You must not hastily   To such conclusions jump.“Such epithets, like pepper,   Give zest to what you write;And, if you strew them sparely,   They whet the appetite:But if you lay them on too thick,   You spoil the matter quite!“Last, as to the arrangement:   Your reader, you should show him,Must take what information he   Can get, and look for no im-mature disclosure of the drift   And purpose of your poem.“Therefore, to test his patience —   How much he can endure —Mention no places, names, or dates,   And evermore be sureThroughout the poem to be found   Consistently obscure.“First fix upon the limit   To which it shall extend:Then fill it up with ‘Padding’   (Beg some of any friend):Your great Sensation-stanza   You place towards the end.”“And what is a Sensation,   Grandfather, tell me, pray?I think I never heard the word   So used before to-day:Be kind enough to mention one   ‘Exempli gratiâ.’”And the old man, looking sadly   Across the garden-lawn,Where here and there a dew-drop   Yet glittered in the dawn,Said “Go to the Adelphi,   And see the ‘Colleen Bawn.’“The word is due to Boucicault —   The theory is his,Where Life becomes a Spasm,   And History a Whiz:If that is not Sensation,   I don’t know what it is.“Now try your hand, ere Fancy   Have lost its present glow – ”“And then,” his grandson added,   “We’ll publish it, you know:Green cloth – gold-lettered at the back —   In duodecimo!”Then proudly smiled that old man   To see the eager ladRush madly for his pen and ink   And for his blotting-pad —But, when he thought of publishing,   His face grew stern and sad.

SIZE AND TEARS

When on the sandy shore I sit,   Beside the salt sea-wave,And fall into a weeping fit   Because I dare not shave —A little whisper at my earEnquires the reason of my fear.I answer “If that ruffian Jones   Should recognise me here,He’d bellow out my name in tones   Offensive to the ear:He chaffs me so on being stout(A thing that always puts me out).”Ah me!  I see him on the cliff!   Farewell, farewell to hope,If he should look this way, and if   He’s got his telescope!To whatsoever place I flee,My odious rival follows me!For every night, and everywhere,   I meet him out at dinner;And when I’ve found some charming fair,   And vowed to die or win her,The wretch (he’s thin and I am stout)Is sure to come and cut me out!The girls (just like them!) all agree   To praise J. Jones, Esquire:I ask them what on earth they see   About him to admire?They cry “He is so sleek and slim,It’s quite a treat to look at him!”They vanish in tobacco smoke,   Those visionary maids —I feel a sharp and sudden poke   Between the shoulder-blades —“Why, Brown, my boy!  Your growing stout!”(I told you he would find me out!)“My growth is not your business, Sir!”   “No more it is, my boy!But if it’s yours, as I infer,   Why, Brown, I give you joy!A man, whose business prospers so,Is just the sort of man to know!“It’s hardly safe, though, talking here —   I’d best get out of reach:For such a weight as yours, I fear,   Must shortly sink the beach!” —Insult me thus because I’m stout!I vow I’ll go and call him out!

ATALANTA IN CAMDEN-TOWN

         Ay, ’twas here, on this spot,            In that summer of yore,         Atalanta did not            Vote my presence a bore,Nor reply to my tenderest talk “She had      heard all that nonsense before.”         She’d the brooch I had bought            And the necklace and sash on,         And her heart, as I thought,            Was alive to my passion;And she’d done up her hair in the style that      the Empress had brought into fashion.         I had been to the play            With my pearl of a Peri —         But, for all I could say,            She declared she was weary,That “the place was so crowded and hot, and      she couldn’t abide that Dundreary.”         Then I thought “Lucky boy!            ’Tis for you that she whimpers!”         And I noted with joy            Those sensational simpers:And I said “This is scrumptious!” – a      phrase I had learned from the Devonshire shrimpers.         And I vowed “’Twill be said            I’m a fortunate fellow,         When the breakfast is spread,            When the topers are mellow,When the foam of the bride-cake is white,      and the fierce orange-blossoms are yellow!”         O that languishing yawn!            O those eloquent eyes!         I was drunk with the dawn            Of a splendid surmise —I was stung by a look, I was slain by a tear,      by a tempest of sighs.         Then I whispered “I see            The sweet secret thou keepest.         And the yearning for ME            That thou wistfully weepest!And the question is ‘License or Banns?’,      though undoubtedly Banns are the cheapest.”         “Be my Hero,” said I,            “And let me be Leander!”         But I lost her reply —            Something ending with “gander” —For the omnibus rattled so loud that no      mortal could quite understand her.

THE LANG COORTIN’

The ladye she stood at her lattice high,   Wi’ her doggie at her feet;Thorough the lattice she can spy   The passers in the street,“There’s one that standeth at the door,   And tirleth at the pin:Now speak and say, my popinjay,   If I sall let him in.”Then up and spake the popinjay   That flew abune her head:“Gae let him in that tirls the pin:   He cometh thee to wed.”O when he cam’ the parlour in,   A woeful man was he!“And dinna ye ken your lover agen,   Sae well that loveth thee?”“And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir,   That have been sae lang away?And how wad I ken ye loved me, Sir?   Ye never telled me sae.”Said – “Ladye dear,” and the salt, salt tear   Cam’ rinnin’ doon his cheek,“I have sent the tokens of my love   This many and many a week.“O didna ye get the rings, Ladye,   The rings o’ the gowd sae fine?I wot that I have sent to thee   Four score, four score and nine.”“They cam’ to me,” said that fair ladye.   “Wow, they were flimsie things!”Said – “that chain o’ gowd, my doggie to howd,   It is made o’ thae self-same rings.”“And didna ye get the locks, the locks,   The locks o’ my ain black hair,Whilk I sent by post, whilk I sent by box,   Whilk I sent by the carrier?”“They cam’ to me,” said that fair ladye;   “And I prithee send nae mair!”Said – “that cushion sae red, for my doggie’s head,   It is stuffed wi’ thae locks o’ hair.”“And didna ye get the letter, Ladye,   Tied wi’ a silken string,Whilk I sent to thee frae the far countrie,   A message of love to bring?”“It cam’ to me frae the far countrie   Wi’ its silken string and a’;But it wasna prepaid,” said that high-born maid,   “Sae I gar’d them tak’ it awa’.”“O ever alack that ye sent it back,   It was written sae clerkly and well!Now the message it brought, and the boon that it sought,   I must even say it mysel’.”Then up and spake the popinjay,   Sae wisely counselled he.“Now say it in the proper way:   Gae doon upon thy knee!”The lover he turned baith red and pale,   Went doon upon his knee:“O Ladye, hear the waesome tale   That must be told to thee!“For five lang years, and five lang years,   I coorted thee by looks;By nods and winks, by smiles and tears,   As I had read in books.“For ten lang years, O weary hours!   I coorted thee by signs;By sending game, by sending flowers,   By sending Valentines.“For five lang years, and five lang years,   I have dwelt in the far countrie,Till that thy mind should be inclined   Mair tenderly to me.“Now thirty years are gane and past,   I am come frae a foreign land:I am come to tell thee my love at last —   O Ladye, gie me thy hand!”The ladye she turned not pale nor red,   But she smiled a pitiful smile:“Sic’ a coortin’ as yours, my man,” she said   “Takes a lang and a weary while!”And out and laughed the popinjay,   A laugh of bitter scorn:“A coortin’ done in sic’ a way,   It ought not to be borne!”Wi’ that the doggie barked aloud,   And up and doon he ran,And tugged and strained his chain o’ gowd,   All for to bite the man.“O hush thee, gentle popinjay!   O hush thee, doggie dear!There is a word I fain wad say,   It needeth he should hear!”Aye louder screamed that ladye fair   To drown her doggie’s bark:Ever the lover shouted mair   To make that ladye hark:Shrill and more shrill the popinjay   Upraised his angry squall:I trow the doggie’s voice that day   Was louder than them all!The serving-men and serving-maids   Sat by the kitchen fire:They heard sic’ a din the parlour within   As made them much admire.Out spake the boy in buttons   (I ween he wasna thin),“Now wha will tae the parlour gae,   And stay this deadlie din?”And they have taen a kerchief,   Casted their kevils in,For wha will tae the parlour gae,   And stay that deadlie din.When on that boy the kevil fell   To stay the fearsome noise,“Gae in,” they cried, “whate’er betide,   Thou prince of button-boys!”Syne, he has taen a supple cane   To swinge that dog sae fat:The doggie yowled, the doggie howled   The louder aye for that.Syne, he has taen a mutton-bane —   The doggie ceased his noise,And followed doon the kitchen stair   That prince of button-boys!Then sadly spake that ladye fair,   Wi’ a frown upon her brow:“O dearer to me is my sma’ doggie   Than a dozen sic’ as thou!“Nae use, nae use for sighs and tears:   Nae use at all to fret:Sin’ ye’ve bided sae well for thirty years,   Ye may bide a wee langer yet!”Sadly, sadly he crossed the floor   And tirlëd at the pin:Sadly went he through the door   Where sadly he cam’ in.“O gin I had a popinjay   To fly abune my head,To tell me what I ought to say,   I had by this been wed.“O gin I find anither ladye,”   He said wi’ sighs and tears,“I wot my coortin’ sall not be   Anither thirty years“For gin I find a ladye gay,   Exactly to my taste,I’ll pop the question, aye or nay,   In twenty years at maist.”

FOUR RIDDLES

[These consist of two Double Acrostics and two Charades.

No. I. was written at the request of some young friends, who had gone to a ball at an Oxford Commemoration – and also as a specimen of what might be done by making the Double Acrostic a connected poem instead of what it has hitherto been, a string of disjointed stanzas, on every conceivable subject, and about as interesting to read straight through as a page of a Cyclopædia. The first two stanzas describe the two main words, and each subsequent stanza one of the cross “lights.”

No. II. was written after seeing Miss Ellen Terry perform in the play of “Hamlet.” In this case the first stanza describes the two main words.

No. III. was written after seeing Miss Marion Terry perform in Mr. Gilbert’s play of “Pygmalion and Galatea.” The three stanzas respectively describe “My First,” “My Second,” and “My Whole.”]

IThere was an ancient City, stricken down   With a strange frenzy, and for many a dayThey paced from morn to eve the crowded town,         And danced the night away.I asked the cause: the aged man grew sad:   They pointed to a building gray and tall,And hoarsely answered “Step inside, my lad,         And then you’ll see it all.”Yet what are all such gaieties to me   Whose thoughts are full of indices and surds?x2 + 7x + 53 = 11/3But something whispered “It will soon be done:   Bands cannot always play, nor ladies smile:Endure with patience the distasteful fun         For just a little while!”A change came o’er my Vision – it was night:   We clove a pathway through a frantic throng:The steeds, wild-plunging, filled us with affright:         The chariots whirled along.Within a marble hall a river ran —   A living tide, half muslin and half cloth:And here one mourned a broken wreath or fan,         Yet swallowed down her wrath;And here one offered to a thirsty fair   (His words half-drowned amid those thunders tuneful)Some frozen viand (there were many there),         A tooth-ache in each spoonful.There comes a happy pause, for human strength   Will not endure to dance without cessation;And every one must reach the point at length         Of absolute prostration.At such a moment ladies learn to give,   To partners who would urge them over-much,A flat and yet decided negative —         Photographers love such.There comes a welcome summons – hope revives,   And fading eyes grow bright, and pulses quicken:Incessant pop the corks, and busy knives         Dispense the tongue and chicken.Flushed with new life, the crowd flows back again:   And all is tangled talk and mazy motion —Much like a waving field of golden grain,         Or a tempestuous ocean.And thus they give the time, that Nature meant   For peaceful sleep and meditative snores,To ceaseless din and mindless merriment         And waste of shoes and floors.And One (we name him not) that flies the flowers,   That dreads the dances, and that shuns the salads,They doom to pass in solitude the hours,         Writing acrostic-ballads.How late it grows!  The hour is surely past   That should have warned us with its double knock?The twilight wanes, and morning comes at last —         “Oh, Uncle, what’s o’clock?”The Uncle gravely nods, and wisely winks.   It may mean much, but how is one to know?He opens his mouth – yet out of it, methinks,         No words of wisdom flow.IIEmpress of Art, for thee I twine   This wreath with all too slender skill.Forgive my Muse each halting line,   And for the deed accept the will!O day of tears!  Whence comes this spectre grim,   Parting, like Death’s cold river, souls that love?Is not he bound to thee, as thou to him,   By vows, unwhispered here, yet heard above?And still it lives, that keen and heavenward flame,   Lives in his eye, and trembles in his tone:And these wild words of fury but proclaim   A heart that beats for thee, for thee alone!But all is lost: that mighty mind o’erthrown,   Like sweet bells jangled, piteous sight to see!“Doubt that the stars are fire,” so runs his moan,   “Doubt Truth herself, but not my love for thee!”A sadder vision yet: thine aged sire   Shaming his hoary locks with treacherous wile!And dost thou now doubt Truth to be a liar?   And wilt thou die, that hast forgot to smile?Nay, get thee hence!  Leave all thy winsome ways   And the faint fragrance of thy scattered flowers:In holy silence wait the appointed days,   And weep away the leaden-footed hours.IIIThe air is bright with hues of light   And rich with laughter and with singing:Young hearts beat high in ecstasy,And banners wave, and bells are ringing:But silence falls with fading day,And there’s an end to mirth and play.         Ah, well-a-dayRest your old bones, ye wrinkled crones!   The kettle sings, the firelight dances.Deep be it quaffed, the magic draughtThat fills the soul with golden fancies!For Youth and Pleasance will not stay,And ye are withered, worn, and gray.         Ah, well-a-day!O fair cold face!  O form of grace,   For human passion madly yearning!O weary air of dumb despair,From marble won, to marble turning!“Leave us not thus!” we fondly pray.“We cannot let thee pass away!”         Ah, well-a-day!

IV.

My First is singular at best:      More plural is my Second:My Third is far the pluralest —So plural-plural, I protest      It scarcely can be reckoned!My First is followed by a bird:      My Second by believersIn magic art: my simple ThirdFollows, too often, hopes absurd      And plausible deceivers.My First to get at wisdom tries —      A failure melancholy!My Second men revered as wise:My Third from heights of wisdom flies      To depths of frantic folly.My First is ageing day by day:      My Second’s age is ended:My Third enjoys an age, they say,That never seems to fade away,      Through centuries extended.My Whole?  I need a poet’s pen      To paint her myriad phases:The monarch, and the slave, of men —A mountain-summit, and a den      Of dark and deadly mazes —A flashing light – a fleeting shade —      Beginning, end, and middleOf all that human art hath madeOr wit devised!  Go, seek her aid,      If you would read my riddle!

FAME’S PENNY-TRUMPET

[Affectionately dedicated to all “original researchers” who pant for “endowment.”]

Blow, blow your trumpets till they crack,   Ye little men of little souls!And bid them huddle at your back —   Gold-sucking leeches, shoals on shoals!Fill all the air with hungry wails —   “Reward us, ere we think or write!Without your Gold mere Knowledge fails   To sate the swinish appetite!”And, where great Plato paced serene,   Or Newton paused with wistful eye,Rush to the chace with hoofs unclean   And Babel-clamour of the styBe yours the pay: be theirs the praise:   We will not rob them of their due,Nor vex the ghosts of other days   By naming them along with you.They sought and found undying fame:   They toiled not for reward nor thanks:Their cheeks are hot with honest shame   For you, the modern mountebanks!Who preach of Justice – plead with tears   That Love and Mercy should abound —While marking with complacent ears   The moaning of some tortured hound:Who prate of Wisdom – nay, forbear,   Lest Wisdom turn on you in wrath,Trampling, with heel that will not spare,   The vermin that beset her path!Go, throng each other’s drawing-rooms,   Ye idols of a petty clique:Strut your brief hour in borrowed plumes,   And make your penny-trumpets squeak.Deck your dull talk with pilfered shreds   Of learning from a nobler time,And oil each other’s little heads   With mutual Flattery’s golden slime:And when the topmost height ye gain,   And stand in Glory’s ether clear,And grasp the prize of all your pain —   So many hundred pounds a year —Then let Fame’s banner be unfurled!   Sing Pæans for a victory won!Ye tapers, that would light the world,   And cast a shadow on the Sun —Who still shall pour His rays sublime,   One crystal flood, from East to West,When ye have burned your little time   And feebly flickered into rest!