VI.
The pain immediately took wing, No ghost e’er vanished quicker; “Ho,” quoth the man, “a bit of string Is better far than liquor.”
From _The Satirist_. June 1, 1811.
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She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment’s ornament; (Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like twilight’s too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature’s daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller betwixt life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength and skill, A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a spirit still, and bright, With something of an angel light.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
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THE M.A. DEGREE.
It was a phantom of delight When first it gleamed upon my sight, A scholarly distinction, sent To be a student’s ornament; I did not know nor did I care What work there might be to prepare, For all my mind to work was drawn Then, in my academic dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay Before me then was my M. A.
I saw it upon nearer view, A glory, yet a bother too! For I perceived that I should be Involved in much Philosophy (A branch in which I could but meet Works that were more obscure than sweet); In Mathematics, scarcely good For human nature’s daily food; And Classics――rendered in the styles Of Kelly, Bohn, and Dr. Giles.
And now I own, with some small spleen, A most confounded ass I’ve been; The glory seems an empty breath, And I am nearly bored to death With Reason, Consciousness, and Will, And other things beyond my skill, Discussed in books all darkly plann’d And more in number than the sand.―― Yet that M.A. still haunts my sight With something of its former light.
From _The University News Sheet_. St. Andrews. N.B. March 24, 1886.
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ON AUBERON HERBERT.
He was a Great Panjandrum, quite, When first he burst upon our sight; An Admirable Crichton, sent To be the nation’s ornament. His eyes possessed the Sphinx’s glare, The Sphinx’s, too, his stony air; But all things else about him drawn In tints of the millennial dawn. A mighty sage, a Mentor great, To chide, to chivvy, and to slate.
We saw him upon nearer view A Radical, yet a Tory too! With thoughts from Party bondage free, And steps of chartered liberty. A diction his in which did meet Tart enmities and phrases sweet. A creature far too wise and good For civic nature’s daily food. For Salisbury’s schemes or Gladstone’s wiles; He rates, and rallies, and reviles.
And now cantankerously serene He pitches into “The Machine,” Breathing hot wrath in every breath On Gladstone and his shibboleth. Having the will, if not the skill, All schemes――save _his_――to scotch or kill. A perfect Oracle――nobly planned, To scold, to scathe, and to command. And yet with an admixture slight Of _blague_ and bounce, and blatherumskite!
_Punch._ June 5, 1886.
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DUSTY BOB.
_A Parody upon the style of Wordsworth, one of the Lake Poets, and author of “The Oxford Street Fiddler,” &c._
See where old Bob the Dustman stands, With dirty face and dirtier hands, Swinging his huge bell to and fro, Chaunting the while, “dust ho! dust ho!” In sooth, it is a pleasant cry, That hoarse and deep-toned harmony; It speaks of health and strength, and, oh! What dearer blessings here below?
Marry! he hath a sooty brow; But there are brains within, I trow; The blackness, that o’ershadows it, Doth hide a mine of rude old wit, Whose pleasaunce oft will downward fly, And sparkle in his broad, bold eye; A merry truth which ye, who’d know, Go watch him, while he sings, “dust ho!”
Old brawny songster! ’tis to me A marvel and a mystery, The jovial and Stentorian gusto With which thou daily callest “dust ho!” How useful art thou, making clean The dwellings both of rich and mean, Unheeding each small street-boy elf Who tauntingly cries, “clean thyself!”
Mild Dustman! in thy filthy face A moral he who looks may trace,―― A moral which, perchance, hath struck Thyself, when ’neath thy weight of muck; For, to my fancy, in thine eye A quaint philosophy doth lie, Which says, “who dirt from others sweeps More dirt upon himself but heaps!”
I met him last in Piccadilly; His bell was faint, his howl was shrilly; There was no more his lungs about The force with which he used to shout; A cry, but not as erst, was heard;―― I knew that “dust ho” _was_ the word, But all the depth, the soul was gone As with his bell he “dust ho’d” on.
His hat was still in Dustman’s fashion, But with a slouch that woo’d compassion; Of velveteen still were his breeches, But with a host of coarse-drawn stitches. Of highloes still a pair he wore, But laceless each, and with a score Of holes that let the puddles in, And wetted Bobby, sole and skin!
No, Bob was anything but garish; ’Twas time they sent him to the parish! They tell me he is there at last, And that his bell was with him passed! The Dustman’s cart, the Dustman’s horse, Still haunt the streets and squares――of course, But other drivers do the job That once was done by Dusty Bob!
From _The Comic Magazine_. 1834.
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TO THE CUCKOO.
O blithe new comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear, From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off and near.
Though babbling only, to the vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird; but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery.
* * * * *
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
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CUCKOO NOTES.
O blythe new paper! From thy page Seductive scraps I cull. O Cuckoo, shall I call thee sage? I _cannot_ call thee dull!
When I’m reclining――business done―― Thy “Notes” provoke a laugh; From line to line my optics run, And twinkle at thy chaff.
From Fetter Lane I hear thee call To thousands far away; And unto me thou bringest all The gossip of the day!
“Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!” To me thou art, no doubt No bird, but a most novel thing―― The brightest paper out!
F. B. DOVETON.
――――:o:――――
THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.
At the corner of Wood Street when daylight appears, Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years; Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the bird.
’Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove’s, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colours have all passed away from her eyes.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
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THE REVERIE OF A POOR SQUEEZED ’UN.
At the East end of Paul’s, there’s a plot that’s for sale; And the Press sings out, “Buy it!”――the cry’s somewhat stale. The Londoner, hustled and crowded, can tell How narrow the roadway, the pavement as well.
His fancy runs riot! What ails him? He sees A Boulevard appearing, all shaded by trees; With ease and with comfort the ’busses now glide From Cannon Street corner to busy Cheapside.
A road, “wide as Holborn,” allows him to view The Cathedral uprising in dignity new; And a fine open space lets the oxygen roam Where school-boys and merchants once boasted a home.
He looks, and his joy grows intense! But they fade―― The visions of elbow-room, Boulevard, and shade; And the space will be speedily built on, unless To the cry of, “Oh, buy it!” the City says, “Yes.”
_Punch._ December 26, 1885.
(But the City authorities did _not_ say “Yes,” and the ground has all been covered with lofty warehouses.)
SIMPLICITY.
“Simplicity is a characteristic of the highest species of poetry. Now, no one has carried the _simple_ so far as Wordsworth; and, as I hold it good always to imitate perfection, I have taken the following lines for my model:――
Violets, do what they will, Wither’d on the ground must lie: Daisies will be daisies still; Daisies they must live and die.
I fear much, lest some _meaning_, which may have crept into my verses should prove destru