THE WATER-CURE.
A TALE: IN THE MANNER OF PRIOR.
"—portentaque Thessala rides?"
—Hor.
"—Thessalian portents do you flout?"
* *
—Hor.
"—Thessalian portents do you flout?"
* *
Cardenio's fortunes ne'er miscarried
Until the day Cardenio married.
What then? the Nymph no doubt was young?
She was: but yet—she had a tongue!
Most women have, you seem to say.
I grant it—in a different way.
Until the day Cardenio married.
What then? the Nymph no doubt was young?
She was: but yet—she had a tongue!
Most women have, you seem to say.
I grant it—in a different way.
'Twas not that organ half-divine,
With which, Dear Friend, your spouse or mine,
What time we seek our nightly pillows,
Rebukes our easy peccadilloes:
'Twas not so tuneful, so composing;
'Twas louder and less often dozing;
At Ombre, Basset, Loo, Quadrille,
You heard it resonant and shrill;
You heard it rising, rising yet
Beyond Selinda's parroquet;
You heard it rival and outdo
The chair-men and the link-boy too;
In short, wherever lungs perform,
Like Marlborough, it rode the storm.
With which, Dear Friend, your spouse or mine,
What time we seek our nightly pillows,
Rebukes our easy peccadilloes:
'Twas not so tuneful, so composing;
'Twas louder and less often dozing;
At Ombre, Basset, Loo, Quadrille,
You heard it resonant and shrill;
You heard it rising, rising yet
Beyond Selinda's parroquet;
You heard it rival and outdo
The chair-men and the link-boy too;
In short, wherever lungs perform,
Like Marlborough, it rode the storm.
So uncontrolled it came to be,
Cardenio feared his chère amie
(Like Echo by Cephissus shore)
Would turn to voice and nothing more.
Cardenio feared his chère amie
(Like Echo by Cephissus shore)
Would turn to voice and nothing more.
That ('tis conceded) must be cured
Which can't by practice be endured.
Cardenio, though he loved the maid,
Grew daily more and more afraid;
And since advice could not prevail
(Reproof but seemed to fan the gale),
A prudent man, he cast about
To find some fitting nostrum out.
What need to say that priceless drug
Had not in any mine been dug?
What need to say no skilful leech
Could check that plethora of speech?
Suffice it, that one lucky day
Cardenio tried—another way.
Which can't by practice be endured.
Cardenio, though he loved the maid,
Grew daily more and more afraid;
And since advice could not prevail
(Reproof but seemed to fan the gale),
A prudent man, he cast about
To find some fitting nostrum out.
What need to say that priceless drug
Had not in any mine been dug?
What need to say no skilful leech
Could check that plethora of speech?
Suffice it, that one lucky day
Cardenio tried—another way.
A Hermit (there were hermits then;
The most accessible of men!)
Near Vauxhall's sacred shade resided;
In him, at length, our friend confided.
(Simples, for show, he used to sell;
But cast Nativities as well.)
Consulted, he looked wondrous wise;
Then undertook the enterprise.
The most accessible of men!)
Near Vauxhall's sacred shade resided;
In him, at length, our friend confided.
(Simples, for show, he used to sell;
But cast Nativities as well.)
Consulted, he looked wondrous wise;
Then undertook the enterprise.
What that might be, the Muse must spare:
To tell the truth, she was not there.
She scorns to patch what she ignores
With Similes and Metaphors;
And so, in short, to change the scene,
She slips a fortnight in between.
To tell the truth, she was not there.
She scorns to patch what she ignores
With Similes and Metaphors;
And so, in short, to change the scene,
She slips a fortnight in between.
Behold our pair then (quite by chance!)
In Vauxhall's garden of romance,—
That paradise of nymphs and grottoes,
Of fans, and fiddles, and ridottoes!
What wonder if, the lamps reviewed,
The song encored, the maze pursued,
No further feat could seem more pat
Than seek the Hermit after that?
Who then more keen her fate to see
Than this, the new Leuconoë,
On fire to learn the lore forbidden
In Babylonian numbers hidden?
Forthwith they took the darkling road
To Albumazar his abode.
In Vauxhall's garden of romance,—
That paradise of nymphs and grottoes,
Of fans, and fiddles, and ridottoes!
What wonder if, the lamps reviewed,
The song encored, the maze pursued,
No further feat could seem more pat
Than seek the Hermit after that?
Who then more keen her fate to see
Than this, the new Leuconoë,
On fire to learn the lore forbidden
In Babylonian numbers hidden?
Forthwith they took the darkling road
To Albumazar his abode.
Arriving, they beheld the sage
Intent on hieroglyphic page,
In high Armenian cap arrayed
And girt with engines of his trade;
(As Skeletons, and Spheres, and Cubes;
As Amulets and Optic Tubes;)
With dusky depths behind revealing
Strange shapes that dangled from the ceiling,
While more to palsy the beholder
A Black Cat sat upon his shoulder.
Intent on hieroglyphic page,
In high Armenian cap arrayed
And girt with engines of his trade;
(As Skeletons, and Spheres, and Cubes;
As Amulets and Optic Tubes;)
With dusky depths behind revealing
Strange shapes that dangled from the ceiling,
While more to palsy the beholder
A Black Cat sat upon his shoulder.
The Hermit eyed the Lady o'er
As one whose face he'd seen before;
And then, with agitated looks,
He fell to fumbling at his books.
As one whose face he'd seen before;
And then, with agitated looks,
He fell to fumbling at his books.
Cardenio felt his spouse was frightened,
Her grasp upon his arm had tightened;
Judge then her horror and her dread
When "Vox Stellarum" shook his head;
Then darkly spake in phrase forlorn
Of Taurus and of Capricorn;
Of stars averse, and stars ascendant,
And stars entirely independent;
In fact, it seemed that all the Heavens
Were set at sixes and at sevens,
Portending, in her case, some fate
Too fearful to prognosticate.
Her grasp upon his arm had tightened;
Judge then her horror and her dread
When "Vox Stellarum" shook his head;
Then darkly spake in phrase forlorn
Of Taurus and of Capricorn;
Of stars averse, and stars ascendant,
And stars entirely independent;
In fact, it seemed that all the Heavens
Were set at sixes and at sevens,
Portending, in her case, some fate
Too fearful to prognosticate.
Meanwhile the Dame was well-nigh dead.
"But is there naught," Cardenio said,
"No sign or token, Sage, to show
From whence, or what, this dismal woe?"
"But is there naught," Cardenio said,
"No sign or token, Sage, to show
From whence, or what, this dismal woe?"
The Sage, with circle and with plane,
Betook him to his charts again.
"It vaguely seems to threaten Speech:
No more (he said) the signs can teach."
Betook him to his charts again.
"It vaguely seems to threaten Speech:
No more (he said) the signs can teach."
But still Cardenio tried once more:
"Is there no potion in your store,
No charm by Chaldee mage concerted
By which this doom can be averted?"
"Is there no potion in your store,
No charm by Chaldee mage concerted
By which this doom can be averted?"
The Sage, with motion doubly mystic,
Resumed his juggling cabalistic.
The aspects here again were various;
But seemed to indicate Aquarius.
Thereat portentously he frowned;
Then frowned again, then smiled:—'twas found!
But 'twas too simple to be tried.
"What is it, then?" at once they cried.
Resumed his juggling cabalistic.
The aspects here again were various;
But seemed to indicate Aquarius.
Thereat portentously he frowned;
Then frowned again, then smiled:—'twas found!
But 'twas too simple to be tried.
"What is it, then?" at once they cried.
"Whene'er by chance you feel incited
To speak at length, or uninvited;
Whene'er you feel your tones grow shrill
(At times, we know, the softest will!),
This word oracular, my daughter,
Bids you to fill your mouth with water:
Further, to hold it firm and fast,
Until the danger be o'erpast."
To speak at length, or uninvited;
Whene'er you feel your tones grow shrill
(At times, we know, the softest will!),
This word oracular, my daughter,
Bids you to fill your mouth with water:
Further, to hold it firm and fast,
Until the danger be o'erpast."
The Dame, by this in part relieved
The prospect of escape perceived,
Rebelled a little at the diet.
Cardenio said discreetly, "Try it,
Try it, my Own. You have no choice,
What if you lose your charming voice!"
She tried, it seems. And whether then
Some god stepped in, benign to men;
Or Modesty, too long outlawed,
Contrived to aid the pious fraud,
I know not:—but from that same day
She talked in quite a different way.
The prospect of escape perceived,
Rebelled a little at the diet.
Cardenio said discreetly, "Try it,
Try it, my Own. You have no choice,
What if you lose your charming voice!"
She tried, it seems. And whether then
Some god stepped in, benign to men;
Or Modesty, too long outlawed,
Contrived to aid the pious fraud,
I know not:—but from that same day
She talked in quite a different way.
THE NOBLE PATRON.
"Ce sont les amours
Qui font les beaux jours."
Qui font les beaux jours."
What is a Patron? Johnson knew,
And well that lifelike portrait drew.
He is a Patron who looks down
With careless eye on men who drown;
But if they chance to reach the land,
Encumbers them with helping hand.
Ah! happy we whose artless rhyme
No longer now must creep to climb!
Ah! happy we of later days,
Who 'scape those Caudine Forks of praise!
Whose votive page may dare commend
A Brother, or a private Friend!
Not so it fared with scribbling man,
As Pope says, "under my Queen Anne."
And well that lifelike portrait drew.
He is a Patron who looks down
With careless eye on men who drown;
But if they chance to reach the land,
Encumbers them with helping hand.
Ah! happy we whose artless rhyme
No longer now must creep to climb!
Ah! happy we of later days,
Who 'scape those Caudine Forks of praise!
Whose votive page may dare commend
A Brother, or a private Friend!
Not so it fared with scribbling man,
As Pope says, "under my Queen Anne."
Dick Dovecot (this was long, be sure,
Ere he attained his Wiltshire cure,
And settled down, like humbler folks,
To cowslip wine and country jokes)
Once hoped—as who will not?—for fame,
And dreamed of honours and a Name.
Ere he attained his Wiltshire cure,
And settled down, like humbler folks,
To cowslip wine and country jokes)
Once hoped—as who will not?—for fame,
And dreamed of honours and a Name.
A fresh-cheek'd lad, he came to Town
In homespun hose and russet brown,
But armed at point with every view
Enforced in Rapin and Bossu.
Besides a stout portfolio ripe
For Lintot's or for Tonson's type.
He went the rounds, saw all the sights,
Dropped in at Wills and Tom's o' nights;
Heard Burnet preach, saw Bicknell dance,
E'en gained from Addison a glance;
Nay, once, to make his bliss complete,
He supp'd with Steele in Bury Street.
('Tis true the feast was half by stealth:
Prue was in bed: they drank her health.)
In homespun hose and russet brown,
But armed at point with every view
Enforced in Rapin and Bossu.
Besides a stout portfolio ripe
For Lintot's or for Tonson's type.
He went the rounds, saw all the sights,
Dropped in at Wills and Tom's o' nights;
Heard Burnet preach, saw Bicknell dance,
E'en gained from Addison a glance;
Nay, once, to make his bliss complete,
He supp'd with Steele in Bury Street.
('Tis true the feast was half by stealth:
Prue was in bed: they drank her health.)
By this his purse was running low,
And he must either print or go.
He went to Tonson. Tonson said—
Well! Tonson hummed and shook his head;
Deplor'd the times; abus'd the Town;
But thought—at length—it might go down;
With aid, of course, of Elzevir,
And Prologue to a Prince, or Peer.
Dick winced at this, for adulation
Was scarce that candid youth's vocation:
Nor did he deem his rustic lays
Required a Coronet for Bays.
And he must either print or go.
He went to Tonson. Tonson said—
Well! Tonson hummed and shook his head;
Deplor'd the times; abus'd the Town;
But thought—at length—it might go down;
With aid, of course, of Elzevir,
And Prologue to a Prince, or Peer.
Dick winced at this, for adulation
Was scarce that candid youth's vocation:
Nor did he deem his rustic lays
Required a Coronet for Bays.
But there—the choice was that, or none.
The Lord was found; the thing was done.
With Horace and with Tooke's Pantheon,
He penn'd his tributary pæan;
Despatched his gift, nor waited long
The meed of his ingenuous song.
The Lord was found; the thing was done.
With Horace and with Tooke's Pantheon,
He penn'd his tributary pæan;
Despatched his gift, nor waited long
The meed of his ingenuous song.
Ere two days pass'd, a hackney chair
Brought a pert spark with languid air,
A lace cravat about his throat,—
Brocaded gown,—en papillotes.
("My Lord himself," quoth Dick, "at least!"
But no, 'twas that "inferior priest,"
His Lordship's man.) He held a card:
My Lord (it said) would see the Bard.
Brought a pert spark with languid air,
A lace cravat about his throat,—
Brocaded gown,—en papillotes.
("My Lord himself," quoth Dick, "at least!"
But no, 'twas that "inferior priest,"
His Lordship's man.) He held a card:
My Lord (it said) would see the Bard.
The day arrived; Dick went, was shown
Into an anteroom, alone—
A great gilt room with mirrored door,
Festoons of flowers and marble floor,
Whose lavish splendours made him look
More shabby than a sheepskin book.
(His own book—by the way—he spied
On a far table, toss'd aside.)
Into an anteroom, alone—
A great gilt room with mirrored door,
Festoons of flowers and marble floor,
Whose lavish splendours made him look
More shabby than a sheepskin book.
(His own book—by the way—he spied
On a far table, toss'd aside.)
Dick waited, as they only wait
Who haunt the chambers of the Great.
He heard the chairmen come and go;
He heard the Porter yawn below;
Beyond him, in the Grand Saloon,
He heard the silver stroke of noon,
And thought how at this very time
The old church clock at home would chime.
Dear heart, how plain he saw it all!
The lich-gate and the crumbling wall,
The stream, the pathway to the wood,
The bridge where they so oft had stood.
Then, in a trice, both church and clock
Vanish'd before ... a shuttlecock.
Who haunt the chambers of the Great.
He heard the chairmen come and go;
He heard the Porter yawn below;
Beyond him, in the Grand Saloon,
He heard the silver stroke of noon,
And thought how at this very time
The old church clock at home would chime.
Dear heart, how plain he saw it all!
The lich-gate and the crumbling wall,
The stream, the pathway to the wood,
The bridge where they so oft had stood.
Then, in a trice, both church and clock
Vanish'd before ... a shuttlecock.
A shuttlecock! And following slow
The zigzag of its to-and-fro,
And so intent upon its flight
She neither look'd to left nor right,
Came a tall girl with floating hair,
Light as a wood-nymph, and as fair.
The zigzag of its to-and-fro,
And so intent upon its flight
She neither look'd to left nor right,
Came a tall girl with floating hair,
Light as a wood-nymph, and as fair.
O Dea certé!—thought poor Dick,
And thereupon his memories quick
Ran back to her who flung the ball
In Homer's page, and next to all
The dancing maids that bards have sung;
Lastly to One at home, as young,
As fresh, as light of foot, and glad,
Who, when he went, had seem'd so sad.
O Dea certé! (Still, he stirred
Nor hand nor foot, nor uttered word.)
And thereupon his memories quick
Ran back to her who flung the ball
In Homer's page, and next to all
The dancing maids that bards have sung;
Lastly to One at home, as young,
As fresh, as light of foot, and glad,
Who, when he went, had seem'd so sad.
O Dea certé! (Still, he stirred
Nor hand nor foot, nor uttered word.)
Meanwhile the shuttlecock in air
Went darting gaily here and there;
Now crossed a mirror's face, and next
Shot up amidst the sprawl'd, perplex'd
Olympus overhead. At last,
Jerk'd sidelong by a random cast,
The striker miss'd it, and it fell
Full on the book Dick knew so well.
Went darting gaily here and there;
Now crossed a mirror's face, and next
Shot up amidst the sprawl'd, perplex'd
Olympus overhead. At last,
Jerk'd sidelong by a random cast,
The striker miss'd it, and it fell
Full on the book Dick knew so well.
(If he had thought to speak or bow,
Judge if he moved a muscle now!)
Judge if he moved a muscle now!)
The player paused, bent down to look,
Lifted a cover of the book;
Pished at the Prologue, passed it o'er,
Went forward for a page or more
(Asem and Asa: Dick could trace
Almost the passage and the place);
Then for a moment with bent head
Rested upon her hand and read.
Lifted a cover of the book;
Pished at the Prologue, passed it o'er,
Went forward for a page or more
(Asem and Asa: Dick could trace
Almost the passage and the place);
Then for a moment with bent head
Rested upon her hand and read.
(Dick thought once more how cousin Cis
Used when she read to lean like this;—
"Used when she read,"—why, Cis could say
All he had written,—any day!)
Used when she read to lean like this;—
"Used when she read,"—why, Cis could say
All he had written,—any day!)
Sudden was heard a hurrying tread;
The great doors creaked. The reader fled.
Forth came a crowd with muffled laughter,
A waft of Bergamot, and after,
His Chaplain smirking at his side,
My Lord himself in all his pride—
A portly shape in stars and lace,
With wine-bag cheeks and vacant face.
The great doors creaked. The reader fled.
Forth came a crowd with muffled laughter,
A waft of Bergamot, and after,
His Chaplain smirking at his side,
My Lord himself in all his pride—
A portly shape in stars and lace,
With wine-bag cheeks and vacant face.
Dick bowed and smiled. The Great Man stared,
With look half puzzled and half scared;
Then seemed to recollect, turned round,
And mumbled some imperfect sound:
A moment more, his coach of state
Dipped on its springs beneath his weight;
And Dick, who followed at his heels,
Heard but the din of rolling wheels.
With look half puzzled and half scared;
Then seemed to recollect, turned round,
And mumbled some imperfect sound:
A moment more, his coach of state
Dipped on its springs beneath his weight;
And Dick, who followed at his heels,
Heard but the din of rolling wheels.
Away, too, all his dreams had rolled;
And yet they left him half consoled:
Fame, after all, he thought might wait.
Would Cis? Suppose he were too late!
Ten months he'd lost in Town—an age!
And yet they left him half consoled:
Fame, after all, he thought might wait.
Would Cis? Suppose he were too late!
Ten months he'd lost in Town—an age!
Next day he took the Wiltshire Stage.
VERS DE SOCIETE.
INCOGNITA.
Just for a space that I met her—
Just for a day in the train!
It began when she feared it would wet her,
That tiniest spurtle of rain:
So we tucked a great rug in the sashes,
And carefully padded the pane;
And I sorrow in sackcloth and ashes,
Longing to do it again!
Just for a day in the train!
It began when she feared it would wet her,
That tiniest spurtle of rain:
So we tucked a great rug in the sashes,
And carefully padded the pane;
And I sorrow in sackcloth and ashes,
Longing to do it again!
Then it grew when she begged me to reach her
A dressing-case under the seat;
She was "really so tiny a creature,
That she needed a stool for her feet!"
Which was promptly arranged to her order
With a care that was even minute,
And a glimpse—of an open-work border,
And a glance—of the fairyest boot.
A dressing-case under the seat;
She was "really so tiny a creature,
That she needed a stool for her feet!"
Which was promptly arranged to her order
With a care that was even minute,
And a glimpse—of an open-work border,
And a glance—of the fairyest boot.
Then it drooped, and revived at some hovels—
"Were they houses for men or for pigs?"
Then it shifted to muscular novels,
With a little digression on prigs:
She thought "Wives and Daughters" "so jolly;"
"Had I read it?" She knew when I had,
Like the rest, I should dote upon "Molly;"
And "poor Mrs. Gaskell—how sad!"
"Were they houses for men or for pigs?"
Then it shifted to muscular novels,
With a little digression on prigs:
She thought "Wives and Daughters" "so jolly;"
"Had I read it?" She knew when I had,
Like the rest, I should dote upon "Molly;"
And "poor Mrs. Gaskell—how sad!"
"Like Browning?" "But so-so." His proof lay
Too deep for her frivolous mood.
That preferred your mere metrical soufflé
To the stronger poetical food;
Yet at times he was good—"as a tonic:"
Was Tennyson writing just now?
And was this new poet Byronic,
And clever, and naughty, or how?
Too deep for her frivolous mood.
That preferred your mere metrical soufflé
To the stronger poetical food;
Yet at times he was good—"as a tonic:"
Was Tennyson writing just now?
And was this new poet Byronic,
And clever, and naughty, or how?
Then we trifled with concerts and croquêt,
Then she daintily dusted her face;
Then she sprinkled herself with "Ess Bouquet,"
Fished out from the foregoing case;
And we chattered of Gassier and Grisi,
And voted Aunt Sally a bore;
Discussed if the tight rope were easy,
Or Chopin much harder than Spohr.
Then she daintily dusted her face;
Then she sprinkled herself with "Ess Bouquet,"
Fished out from the foregoing case;
And we chattered of Gassier and Grisi,
And voted Aunt Sally a bore;
Discussed if the tight rope were easy,
Or Chopin much harder than Spohr.
And oh! the odd things that she quoted,
With the prettiest possible look,
And the price of two buns that she noted
In the prettiest possible book;
While her talk like a musical rillet
Flashed on with the hours that flew,
And the carriage, her smile seemed to fill it
With just enough summer—for Two.
With the prettiest possible look,
And the price of two buns that she noted
In the prettiest possible book;
While her talk like a musical rillet
Flashed on with the hours that flew,
And the carriage, her smile seemed to fill it
With just enough summer—for Two.
Till at last in her corner, peeping
From a nest of rugs and of furs,
With the white shut eyelids sleeping
On those dangerous looks of hers,
She seemed like a snow-drop breaking,
Not wholly alive nor dead,
But with one blind impulse making
To the sounds of the spring overhead;
From a nest of rugs and of furs,
With the white shut eyelids sleeping
On those dangerous looks of hers,
She seemed like a snow-drop breaking,
Not wholly alive nor dead,
But with one blind impulse making
To the sounds of the spring overhead;
And I watched in the lamplight's swerving
The shade of the down-dropt lid,
And the lip-line's delicate curving,
Where a slumbering smile lay hid,
Till I longed that, rather than sever,
The train should shriek into space,
And carry us onward—for ever,—
Me and that beautiful face.
The shade of the down-dropt lid,
And the lip-line's delicate curving,
Where a slumbering smile lay hid,
Till I longed that, rather than sever,
The train should shriek into space,
And carry us onward—for ever,—
Me and that beautiful face.
But she suddenly woke in a fidget,
With fears she was "nearly at home,"
And talk of a certain Aunt Bridget,
Whom I mentally wished—well, at Rome;
Got out at the very next station,
Looking back with a merry Bon Soir,
Adding, too, to my utter vexation,
A surplus, unkind Au Revoir.
With fears she was "nearly at home,"
And talk of a certain Aunt Bridget,
Whom I mentally wished—well, at Rome;
Got out at the very next station,
Looking back with a merry Bon Soir,
Adding, too, to my utter vexation,
A surplus, unkind Au Revoir.
So left me to muse on her graces,
To dose and to muse, till I dreamed
That we sailed through the sunniest places
In a glorified galley, it seemed;
But the cabin was made of a carriage,
And the ocean was Eau-de-Cologne,
And we split on a rock labelled Marriage,
And I woke,—as cold as a stone.
To dose and to muse, till I dreamed
That we sailed through the sunniest places
In a glorified galley, it seemed;
But the cabin was made of a carriage,
And the ocean was Eau-de-Cologne,
And we split on a rock labelled Marriage,
And I woke,—as cold as a stone.
DORA VERSUS ROSE.
"The Case is proceeding."
From the tragic-est novels at Mudie's—
At least, on a practical plan—
To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys,
One love is enough for a man.
But no case that I ever yet met is
Like mine: I am equally fond
Of Rose, who a charming brunette is,
And Dora, a blonde.
At least, on a practical plan—
To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys,
One love is enough for a man.
But no case that I ever yet met is
Like mine: I am equally fond
Of Rose, who a charming brunette is,
And Dora, a blonde.
Each rivals the other in powers—
Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints—
Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers;
Miss Do., perpendicular saints.
In short, to distinguish is folly;
'Twixt the pair I am come to the pass
Of Macheath, between Lucy and Polly,—
Or Buridan's ass.
Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints—
Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers;
Miss Do., perpendicular saints.
In short, to distinguish is folly;
'Twixt the pair I am come to the pass
Of Macheath, between Lucy and Polly,—
Or Buridan's ass.
If it happens that Rosa I've singled
For a soft celebration in rhyme,
Then the ringlets of Dora get mingled
Somehow with the tune and the time;
Or I painfully pen me a sonnet
To an eyebrow intended for Do.'s,
And behold I am writing upon it
The legend "To Rose."
For a soft celebration in rhyme,
Then the ringlets of Dora get mingled
Somehow with the tune and the time;
Or I painfully pen me a sonnet
To an eyebrow intended for Do.'s,
And behold I am writing upon it
The legend "To Rose."
Or I try to draw Dora (my blotter
Is all overscrawled with her head),
If I fancy at last that I've got her,
It turns to her rival instead;
Or I find myself placidly adding
To the rapturous tresses of Rose
Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding,
Ineffable nose.
Is all overscrawled with her head),
If I fancy at last that I've got her,
It turns to her rival instead;
Or I find myself placidly adding
To the rapturous tresses of Rose
Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding,
Ineffable nose.
Was there ever so sad a dilemma?
For Rose I would perish (pro tem.);
For Dora I'd willingly stem a—
(Whatever might offer to stem);
But to make the invidious election,—
To declare that on either one's side
I've a scruple,—a grain, more affection,
I cannot decide.
For Rose I would perish (pro tem.);
For Dora I'd willingly stem a—
(Whatever might offer to stem);
But to make the invidious election,—
To declare that on either one's side
I've a scruple,—a grain, more affection,
I cannot decide.
And, as either so hopelessly nice is,
My sole and my final resource
Is to wait some indefinite crisis,—
Some feat of molecular force,
To solve me this riddle conducive
By no means to peace or repose,
Since the issue can scarce be inclusive
Of Dora and Rose.
My sole and my final resource
Is to wait some indefinite crisis,—
Some feat of molecular force,
To solve me this riddle conducive
By no means to peace or repose,
Since the issue can scarce be inclusive
Of Dora and Rose.
(Afterthought.)
AD ROSAM.
"Mitte sectari Rosa quo locorum
Sera moretur."
—Hor. i. 38.
Sera moretur."
—Hor. i. 38.
I had a vacant dwelling—
Where situated, I,
As naught can serve the telling,
Decline to specify;—
Enough 'twas neither haunted,
Entailed, nor out of date;
I put up "Tenant Wanted,"
And left the rest to Fate.
Where situated, I,
As naught can serve the telling,
Decline to specify;—
Enough 'twas neither haunted,
Entailed, nor out of date;
I put up "Tenant Wanted,"
And left the rest to Fate.
Then, Rose, you passed the window,—
I see you passing yet,—
Ah, what could I within do,
When, Rose, our glances met!
You snared me, Rose, with ribbons,
Your rose-mouth made me thrall,
Brief—briefer far than Gibbon's,
Was my "Decline and Fall."
I see you passing yet,—
Ah, what could I within do,
When, Rose, our glances met!
You snared me, Rose, with ribbons,
Your rose-mouth made me thrall,
Brief—briefer far than Gibbon's,
Was my "Decline and Fall."
I heard the summons spoken
That all hear—king and clown:
You smiled—the ice was broken;
You stopped—the bill was down.
How blind we are! It never
Occurred to me to seek
If you had come for ever,
Or only for a week.
That all hear—king and clown:
You smiled—the ice was broken;
You stopped—the bill was down.
How blind we are! It never
Occurred to me to seek
If you had come for ever,
Or only for a week.
The words your voice neglected,
Seemed written in your eyes;
The thought your heart protected,
Your cheek told, missal-wise;—
I read the rubric plainly
As any Expert could;
In short, we dreamed,—insanely,
As only lovers should.
Seemed written in your eyes;
The thought your heart protected,
Your cheek told, missal-wise;—
I read the rubric plainly
As any Expert could;
In short, we dreamed,—insanely,
As only lovers should.
I broke the tall Œnone,
That then my chambers graced,
Because she seemed "too bony,"
To suit your purist taste;
And you, without vexation,
May certainly confess
Some graceful approbation,
Designed à mon adresse.
That then my chambers graced,
Because she seemed "too bony,"
To suit your purist taste;
And you, without vexation,
May certainly confess
Some graceful approbation,
Designed à mon adresse.
You liked me then, carina,—
You liked me then, I think;
For your sake gall had been a
Mere tonic-cup to drink;
For your sake, bonds were trivial,
The rack, a tour-de-force;
And banishment, convivial,—
You coming too, of course.
You liked me then, I think;
For your sake gall had been a
Mere tonic-cup to drink;
For your sake, bonds were trivial,
The rack, a tour-de-force;
And banishment, convivial,—
You coming too, of course.
Then, Rose, a word in jest meant
Would throw you in a state
That no well-timed investment
Could quite alleviate;
Beyond a Paris trousseau
You prized my smile, I know,
I, yours—ah, more than Rousseau
The lip of d'Houdetot.
Would throw you in a state
That no well-timed investment
Could quite alleviate;
Beyond a Paris trousseau
You prized my smile, I know,
I, yours—ah, more than Rousseau
The lip of d'Houdetot.
Then, Rose,—But why pursue it?
When Fate begins to frown
Best write the final "fuit,"
And gulp the physic down.
And yet,—and yet, that only,
The song should end with this:—
You left me,—left me lonely,
Rosa mutabilis!
When Fate begins to frown
Best write the final "fuit,"
And gulp the physic down.
And yet,—and yet, that only,
The song should end with this:—
You left me,—left me lonely,
Rosa mutabilis!
Left me, with Time for Mentor,
(A dreary tête-à-tête!)
To pen my "Last Lament," or
Extemporize to Fate,
In blankest verse disclosing
My bitterness of mind,—
Which is, I learn, composing
In cases of the kind.
(A dreary tête-à-tête!)
To pen my "Last Lament," or
Extemporize to Fate,
In blankest verse disclosing
My bitterness of mind,—
Which is, I learn, composing
In cases of the kind.
No, Rose. Though you refuse me,
Culture the pang prevents;
"I am not made"—excuse me—
"Of so slight elements;"
I leave to common lovers
The hemlock or the hood;
My rarer soul recovers
In dreams of public good.
Culture the pang prevents;
"I am not made"—excuse me—
"Of so slight elements;"
I leave to common lovers
The hemlock or the hood;
My rarer soul recovers
In dreams of public good.
OUTWARD BOUND.
(HORACE, iii. 7.)
"Quid fles, Asterie, quem tibi candidi
Primo restituent vere Favonii—
Gygen?"
Primo restituent vere Favonii—
Gygen?"
Come, Laura, patience. Time and Spring
Your absent Arthur back shall bring,
Enriched with many an Indian thing
Once more to woo you;
Him neither wind nor wave can check,
Who, cramped beneath the "Simla's" deck,
Still constant, though with stiffened neck,
Makes verses to you.
Your absent Arthur back shall bring,
Enriched with many an Indian thing
Once more to woo you;
Him neither wind nor wave can check,
Who, cramped beneath the "Simla's" deck,
Still constant, though with stiffened neck,
Makes verses to you.
Would it were wave and wind alone!
The terrors of the torrid zone,
The indiscriminate cyclone,
A man might parry;
But only faith, or "triple brass,"
Can help the "outward-bound" to pass
Safe through that eastward-faring class
Who sail to marry.
The terrors of the torrid zone,
The indiscriminate cyclone,
A man might parry;
But only faith, or "triple brass,"
Can help the "outward-bound" to pass
Safe through that eastward-faring class
Who sail to marry.
For him fond mothers, stout and fair,
Ascend the tortuous cabin stair
Only to hold around his chair
Insidious sessions;
For him the eyes of daughters droop
Across the plate of handed soup,
Suggesting seats upon the poop,
And soft confessions.
Ascend the tortuous cabin stair
Only to hold around his chair
Insidious sessions;
For him the eyes of daughters droop
Across the plate of handed soup,
Suggesting seats upon the poop,
And soft confessions.
Nor are these all his pains, nor most.
Romancing captains cease to boast—
Loud majors leave their whist—to roast
The youthful griffin;
All, all with pleased persistence show
His fate,—"remote, unfriended, slow,"—
His "melancholy" bungalow,—
His lonely tiffin.
Romancing captains cease to boast—
Loud majors leave their whist—to roast
The youthful griffin;
All, all with pleased persistence show
His fate,—"remote, unfriended, slow,"—
His "melancholy" bungalow,—
His lonely tiffin.
In vain. Let doubts assail the weak;
Unmoved and calm as "Adam's Peak,"
Your "blameless Arthur" hears them speak
Of woes that wait him;
Naught can subdue his soul secure;
"Arthur will come again," be sure,
Though matron shrewd and maid mature
Conspire to mate him.
Unmoved and calm as "Adam's Peak,"
Your "blameless Arthur" hears them speak
Of woes that wait him;
Naught can subdue his soul secure;
"Arthur will come again," be sure,
Though matron shrewd and maid mature
Conspire to mate him.
But, Laura, on your side, forbear
To greet with too impressed an air
A certain youth with chestnut hair,—
A youth unstable;
Albeit none more skilled can guide
The frail canoe on Thamis tide,
Or, trimmer-footed, lighter glide
Through "Guards" or "Mabel."
To greet with too impressed an air
A certain youth with chestnut hair,—
A youth unstable;
Albeit none more skilled can guide
The frail canoe on Thamis tide,
Or, trimmer-footed, lighter glide
Through "Guards" or "Mabel."
IN THE ROYAL ACADEMY.
Hugh (on furlough).
Helen (his cousin).
Helen (his cousin).
Helen.
They have not come! And ten is past,—
Unless, by chance, my watch is fast;
—Aunt Mabel surely told us "ten."
Unless, by chance, my watch is fast;
—Aunt Mabel surely told us "ten."
Hugh.
I doubt if she can do it, then.
In fact, their train....
In fact, their train....
Helen.
That is,—you knew.
How could you be so treacherous, Hugh?
How could you be so treacherous, Hugh?
Hugh.
Nay;—it is scarcely mine, the crime,
One can't account for railway-time!
Where shall we sit? Not here, I vote;—
At least, there's nothing here of note.
One can't account for railway-time!
Where shall we sit? Not here, I vote;—
At least, there's nothing here of note.
Helen.
Then here we'll stay, please. Once for all,
I bar all artists,—great and small!
From now until we go in June
I shall hear nothing but this tune:—
Whether I like Long's "Vashti," or
Like Leslie's "Naughty Kitty" more;
With all that critics, right or wrong,
Have said of Leslie and of Long....
No. If you value my esteem,
I beg you'll take another theme;
Paint me some pictures, if you will,
But spare me these, for good and ill....
I bar all artists,—great and small!
From now until we go in June
I shall hear nothing but this tune:—
Whether I like Long's "Vashti," or
Like Leslie's "Naughty Kitty" more;
With all that critics, right or wrong,
Have said of Leslie and of Long....
No. If you value my esteem,
I beg you'll take another theme;
Paint me some pictures, if you will,
But spare me these, for good and ill....
Hugh.
"Paint you some pictures!" Come, that's kind!
You know I'm nearly colour-blind.
You know I'm nearly colour-blind.
Helen.
Paint then, in words. You did before;
Scenes at—where was it? Dustypoor?
You know....
Scenes at—where was it? Dustypoor?
You know....
Hugh (with an inspiration).
Helen.
But mind they're pretty
Not "hog hunts." ...
Not "hog hunts." ...
Hugh.
You shall be Committee,
And say if they are "out" or "in."
And say if they are "out" or "in."
Helen.
I shall reject them all. Begin.
Hugh.
Here is the first. An antique Hall
(Like Chanticlere) with panelled wall.
A boy, or rather lad. A girl,
Laughing with all her rows of pearl
Before a portrait in a ruff.
He meanwhile watches....
(Like Chanticlere) with panelled wall.
A boy, or rather lad. A girl,
Laughing with all her rows of pearl
Before a portrait in a ruff.
He meanwhile watches....
Helen.
That's enough,
It wants "verve," "brio," "breadth," "design," ...
Besides, it's English. I decline.
It wants "verve," "brio," "breadth," "design," ...
Besides, it's English. I decline.
Hugh.
This is the next. 'Tis finer far:
A foaming torrent (say Braemar).
A pony, grazing by a boulder,
Then the same pair, a little older,
Left by some lucky chance together.
He begs her for a sprig of heather....
A foaming torrent (say Braemar).
A pony, grazing by a boulder,
Then the same pair, a little older,
Left by some lucky chance together.
He begs her for a sprig of heather....
Helen.
—"Which she accords with smile seraphic."
I know it,—it was in the "Graphic."
Declined.
I know it,—it was in the "Graphic."
Declined.
Hugh.
Once more, and I forego
All hopes of hanging, high or low:
Behold the hero of the scene,
In bungalow and palankeen....
All hopes of hanging, high or low:
Behold the hero of the scene,
In bungalow and palankeen....
Helen.
What!—all at once! But that's absurd;—
Unless he's Sir Boyle Roche's bird!
Unless he's Sir Boyle Roche's bird!
Hugh.
Permit me—'Tis a Panorama,
In which the person of the drama,
Mid orientals dusk and tawny,
Mid warriors drinking brandy pawnee,
Mid scorpions, dowagers, and griffins,
In morning rides, at noon-day tiffins,
In every kind of place and weather,
Is solaced ... by a sprig of heather.
In which the person of the drama,
Mid orientals dusk and tawny,
Mid warriors drinking brandy pawnee,
Mid scorpions, dowagers, and griffins,
In morning rides, at noon-day tiffins,
In every kind of place and weather,
Is solaced ... by a sprig of heather.
(More seriously.)
He puts that faded scrap before
The "Rajah," or the "Koh-i-noor"....
He would not barter it for all
Benares, or the Taj-Mahal....
It guides,—directs his every act,
And word, and thought—In short—in fact—
I mean ...
The "Rajah," or the "Koh-i-noor"....
He would not barter it for all
Benares, or the Taj-Mahal....
It guides,—directs his every act,
And word, and thought—In short—in fact—
I mean ...
(Opening his locket.)
Look, Helen, that's the heather!
(Too late! Here come both Aunts together.)
(Too late! Here come both Aunts together.)
Helen.
What heather, Sir?
(After a pause.)