Austin Dobson

“ You snared me, Rose, with ribbons,
Your rose-mouth made me thrall,
Brief—briefer far than Gibbon's,
Was my "Decline and Fall." [Pg 201]
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.
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. ”

“ HENRY FIELDING. (To James Russell Lowell.)
Not from the ranks of those we call
Philosopher or Admiral,—
Neither as Locke was, nor as Blake,
Is that Great Genius for whose sake
We keep this Autumn festival.
And yet in one sense, too, was he
A soldier—of humanity;
And, surely, philosophic mind
Belonged to him whose brain designed
That teeming Comic Epos where,
As in Cervantes and Molière,
Jostles the medley of Mankind. ”

“ My Muse's friend and not my purse's!
Who still would hear and still commend
My tedious verses,
How will you live—of these deprived?
I've learned your candid soul. The venal,—
The sordid friend had scarce survived
A test so penal;
But you—Nay, nay, 'tis so. The rest
Are not as you: you hide your merit;
You, more than all, deserve the best
True friends inherit;—
Not gold,—that hearts like yours despise ”

“ Yet still he waited, hoping—wondering if
They still might come, or dreaming that he heard
The sound of far-off voices on the cliff,
Or starting strangely when the she-goat stirred;
But nothing broke the silence of the shore,
And, from that hour, the Child returned no more.
Therefore our Cyclops sorrowed,—not as one
Who can command the gamut of despair;
But as a man who feels his days are done,
So dead they seem,—so desolately bare;
For, though he'd lived a hermit, 'twas but only
Now he discovered that his life was lonely. ”

“ You have come with light heart, and with eyes that are brighter,
From a pint of red Port, and a steak at the Mitre;
You have strolled from the Bar and the purlieus of Fleet,
And you turn from the Strand into Catherine Street;
Thence climb to the law-loving summits of Bow,
Till you stand at the Portal all play-goers know.
See, here are the 'prentice lads laughing and pushing,
And here are the seamstresses shrinking and blushing,
And here are the urchins who, just as to-day, Sir,
Buzz at you like flies with their "Bill o' the Play, Sir?" ”

“ Morris-dance and Barley-break;—
Many men have ceased from care,
Many maidens have been fair,
Since thou sang'st of Julia's eyes,
Julia's lawns and tiffanies;—
Many things are past: but thou,
Golden-Mouth, art singing now,
Singing clearly as of old,
And thy numbers are of gold! ”

“ That things we love decay;—
That Time and Gold have wings to fly;—
That all must Fate obey!
Or bid us dine—on this day week—
And pour us, if you can,
As soft and sleek as girlish cheek,
Your inmost Cæcuban;—
Of that we fear not overplus;
But your didactic 'tap'—
Forgive us!—grows monotonous;
Nunc vale! Verbum sap.
[Pg 68] VERSES TO ORDER. (FOR A DRAWING BY E. A. ABBEY.)
How weary 'twas to wait! ”

“ 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.
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. ”

“ Wander, till his love's eyes met hers,
Fixed and wide in their despair?
Did he burst his prison fetters,
Did he write sweet, yearning letters,
"A Lucile,—en Angleterre"?
Letters where the reader, reading,
Halts him with a sudden stop,
For he feels a man's heart bleeding,
Draining out its pain's exceeding—
Half a life, at every drop:
Letters where Love's iteration
Seems to warble and to rave ”

“ And Trip must trip up to the seats at a shilling;
And spite of the mourning that most of us wear
The House takes a gay and a holiday air;
For the fair sex are clever at turning the tables,
And seem to catch coquetry even in sables.
Moreover, your mourning has ribbons and stars,
And is sprinkled about with the red coats of Mars.
Look, look, there is Wilkes! You may tell by the squint;
But he grows every day more and more like the print [Pg 260]
(Ah! Hogarth could draw!) ; and behind at the back
Hugh Kelly, who looks all the blacker in black. ”

“ It has waited—and waited, that old Sedan chair!
Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales it could tell
Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle,—
Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare!)
Of Fête-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan chair!
"Heu! quantum mutata," I say as I go.
It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though!
We must furbish it up, and dispatch it,—"With Care,"—
To a Fine-Art Museum—that old Sedan chair!
[Pg 9]
TO AN INTRUSIVE BUTTERFLY.
"Kill not—for Pity's sake—and lest ye slay
The meanest thing upon its upward way." ”

“ Here is health for your limb, without lint or lotion;
Here is all that you lack, in this tiny flask;
And the price is a couple of silver groschen!
"Buy,—who'll buy?" So the tale runs on:
And still in the great world's market-places
The Quack, with his quack catholicon,
Finds ever his crowd of upturned faces;
For he plays on our hearts with his pipe and drum,
On our vague regret, on our weary yearning;
For he sells the thing that never can come,
Or the thing that has vanished, past returning. ”

“ When "little Blue-Ribbons" prefers it so.
"Little Blue-Ribbons" has eyes of blue,
And an arch little mouth, when the teeth peep through;
And her primitive look is wise and grave,
With a sense of the weight of the word "behave;"
Though now and again she may condescend
To a radiant smile for a private friend;
But to smile for ever is weak, you know,
And "little Blue-Ribbons" regards it so.
She's a staid little woman! ”

“ I care not though they heap
The hearts of all St. James's,
And give me all to keep;
I care not whose the beauties
Of all the world may be,
For Phyllida—for Phyllida
Is all the world to me!
[Pg 6]
THE OLD SEDAN CHAIR.
"What's not destroyed by Time's devouring Hand? ”

“ Your eyes must greet that luckless One
Who rhymed you, newly born,—
Who o'er your "helpless cradle" bent
His idle verse to turn;
And twanged his tiresome instrument
Above your unconcern! [Pg 79]
Nay,—let my words be so discreet,
That, keeping Chance in view,
Whatever after fate you meet
A part may still be true.
Let others wish you mere good looks,—
Your sex is always fair;
Or to be writ in Fortune's books,—
She's rich who has to spare:
I wish you but a heart that's kind,
A head that's sound and clear ”

“ AN EASTERN APOLOGUE. (To E. H. P.)
Melik the Sultán, tired and wan,
Nodded at noon on his diván.
Beside the fountain lingered near
Jamíl the bard, and the vizier—
Old Yúsuf, sour and hard to please;
Then Jamíl sang, in words like these.
Slim is Butheina—slim is she
As boughs of the Aráka tree!
"Nay," quoth the other, teeth between,
"Lean, if you will,—I call her lean."
Sweet is Butheina—sweet as wine,
With smiles that like red bubbles shine!
"True,—by the Prophet!" Yúsuf said,
"She makes men wander in the head!" [Pg 44]
Dear is Butheina—ah! ”

“ JOCOSA LYRA.
In our hearts is the Great One of Avon
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. ”

“ The empty safe, the child that cries,
The kittens on the coat,
The good-wife with her patient eyes,
The milkmaid's tuneless throat;
And last, in that mute woe sublime,
The luckless verseman's air:
The "Bysshe," the foolscap and the rhyme,—
The Rhyme ... that is not there!
Poor Bard! to dream the verse inspired—
With dews Castalian wet—
Is built from cold abstractions squired
By "Bysshe," his epithet! [Pg 82]
Ah! ”

“ She wore her look of wondering reproach;
(And those who read the "Shakespeare of Romances"
Know of what stuff a girl's "dynamic glance" is.)
"But there was still a cure, the wise insisted,
In Love,—or rather, in Philosophy.
Philosophy—no, Love—at best existed
But as an ill for that to remedy:
There was no knot so intricately twisted,
There was no riddle but at last should be
By Love—he meant Philosophy—resolved...."
The truth is, he was getting quite involved.
O sovran Love! how far thy power surpasses
Aught that is taught of Logic or the Schools! ”

“ And all our Works immortal lie scattered on the Stall,
It may be some new Reader, in that remoter age,
Will find the present volume and listless turn the page.
For him I speak these verses. And, Sir (I say to him) ,
This Book you see before you,—this masterpiece of Whim
Of Wisdom, Learning, Fancy (if you will, please, attend) ,—
Was written by its Author, who gave it to his Friend. ”

“ Yes, Quick is not bad. Mrs. Green, too, is funny;
But Shuter, ah! Shuter's the man for my money!
He's the quaintest, the oddest of mortals, is Shuter,
And he has but one fault—he's too fond of the pewter. ”

“ And I somehow connect her (I frankly admit
That the evidence hard to produce is) [Pg 33]
With Bath in its hey-day of Fashion and Wit,—
This dangerous Molly Trefusis.
I fancy her, radiant in ribbon and knot,
(How charming that old-fashioned puce is!)
All blooming in laces, fal-lals and what not,
At the Pump Room,—Miss Molly Trefusis.
I fancy her reigning,—a Beauty,—a Toast,
Where Bladud's medicinal cruse is;
And we know that at least of one Bard it could boast,—
The Court of Queen Molly Trefusis.
He says she was "Venus." I doubt it. Beside,
(Your rhymer so hopelessly loose is!) ”

“ When Silvia's eyes assail,
Fa la!
When Silvia's eyes assail,
No feint the arts of war can show, [Pg 57]
No counterstroke avail;
Naught skills but arms away to throw,
And kneel before that lovely foe,
When Silvia's eyes assail!
Yet is all truce in vain,
Fa la!
Yet is all truce in vain,
Since she that spares doth still pursue
To vanquish once again;
And naught remains for man to do
But fight once more, to yield anew,
And so all truce is vain! ”

“ Or Alban grass, that with their necks must stain
The Pontiff's axe: to thee can scarce avail
Thy modest gods with much slain to assail,
Whom myrtle crowns and rosemary can please.
Lay on the altar a hand pure of fault;
More than rich gifts the Powers it shall appease,
Though pious but with meal and crackling salt. ”

“ Those familiar with eighteenth-century literature will recognize in the succeeding verses but another echo of those lively stanzas of John Gay to "Molly Mogg of the Rose," which found so many imitators in his own day. Whether my heroine is to be identified with a certain "Miss Trefusis," whose Poems are sometimes to be found in the second-hand booksellers' catalogues, I know not. But if she is, I trust I have done her accomplished shade no wrong.
An Eastern Apologue.—Page 43.
The initials "E. H. P." are those of the late eminent (and ill-fated) Orientalist, Professor Palmer. ”

“ 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. [Pg 206]
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. ”

“ Her eyes are bright as beryl stones that in the tankard wink; [Pg 234]
But when she sees me coming, she shrilleth out—"Te-Hee!
Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin, what lackest thou of me?"
"Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin! Why be thine eyes so small?
Why go thy legs tap-lappetty like men that fear to fall?
Why is thy leathern doublet besmeared with stain and spot?
Go to. Thou art no man (she saith) —thou art a Pottle-pot!"
"No man," i'faith. "No man!" she saith. ”

“ The scanty fare of bitter bread and sallet,—
Could she this shame,—this poverty endure?
I scarcely think he knew what he was doing,
But that last line had quite a touch of wooing.
And so she answered him,—those early Greeks
Took little care to keep concealment preying
At any length upon their damask cheeks,—
She answered him by very simply saying,
She could and would:—and said it as one speaks
Who takes no course without much careful weighing.... ”

“ CHARLES GEORGE GORDON.
"Rather be dead than praised," he said,
That hero, like a hero dead,
In this slack-sinewed age endued
With more than antique fortitude!
"Rather be dead than praised!" Shall we,
Who loved thee, now that Death sets free
Thine eager soul, with word and line
Profane that empty house of thine?
Nay,—let us hold, be mute. Our pain
Will not be less that we refrain;
And this our silence shall but be
A larger monument to thee.
[Pg 121] VICTOR HUGO.
He set the trumpet to his lips, and lo! ”