Poems of Lewis Carrol

CONTENTS
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ACROSTIC: "ARE YOU DEAF, FATHER WILLIAM?"
ACROSTIC: AROUND MY LONELY HEARTH TONIGHT
ACROSTICS: LITTLE MAIDENS, WHEN YOU LOOK
ACROSTIC: LOVE LIGHTED EYES THAT WILL NOT START
ACROSTIC: MAIDEN THOUGH THY HEART MAY QUAIL 
ACROSTIC: MAIDENS IF YOU LOVE THE TALE
AFTER THREE DAYS
AS IT FELL UPON A DAY
ATALANTA IN CAMDEN TOWN
BEATRICE
BROTHER AND SISTER
CORONACH
DOUBLE ACROSTIC: I SING A PLACE WHEREIN AGREE
DOUBLE ACROSTIC: TWO LITTLE GIRLS NEAR LONDON DWELL
ECHOES
FACES IN THE FIRE
FACTS
FAME'S PENNY TRUMPET
FOUR RIDDLES
A GAME OF FIVES
HIAWATHAS PHOTOGRAPHING
HORRORS
LADY OF THE LADLE
THE LANG COORTIN'
LAYS OF MYSTERY IMAGINATION AND HUMOUR, NUMBER 1: THE PALACE OF HUMBUG
LESSON IN LATIN
LIMERICK
LOVE AMONG THE ROSES
THE LYCEUM
MADRIGAL
MAGGIE B
MAGGIE'S VISIT TO OXFORD
THE MAJESTY OF JUSTICE - AN OXFORD IDYLL
MELANCHOLETTA
MELODIES
MISUNDERSTANDINGS
THE MOCK TURTLE'S SONG (Early Version)
MY FAIRY
MY FANCY
A NURSERY DARLING - DEDICATION TO THE NURSERY "ALICE", 1889
ODE TO DAMON 
ONLY A WOMAN'S HAIR
THE PATH OF ROSES
PHOTOGRAPHY EXTRAORDINARY
POETA FIT NON NASCITUR
PUCK LOST AND FOUND ACROSTIC
PUNCTUALITY
PUZZLE
PUZZLES FROM WONDERLAND
RHYME? AND REASON?
RIDDLE
RULES AND REGULATIONS
SAILORS WIFE
SEA DIRGE
SIZE AND TEARS
SOLITUDE
STOLEN WATERS
THEME WITH VARIATIONS
THOSE HORRID HURDY-GURDIES! - A MONODY, BY A VICTIM 
THREE CHILDREN
THREE LITTLE MAIDS
THREE SUNSETS
THE THREE VOICES
TO M.A.B.
TO MY CHILD FRIEND - DEDICATION TO "THE GAME OF LOGIC".
TO THREE PUZZLED LITTLE GIRLS, FROM THE AUTHOR 
TWO ACROSTICS
THE TWO BROTHERS
TWO POEMS TO RACHEL DANIEL
TWO THIEVES
A VALENTINE
VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH
THE WILLOW TREE
YE CARPETTE KNYGHTE

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ACROSTIC: "ARE YOU DEAF, FATHER WILLIAM?"

"ARE you deaf, Father William!" the young man said, 
"Did you hear what I told you just now? 
"Excuse me for shouting! Don't waggle your head 
"Like a blundering, sleepy old cow!
"A little maid dwelling in Wallington Town, 
"Is my friend, so I beg to remark:
"Do you think she'd be pleased if a book were sent down 
"Entitled 'The Hunt of the Snark?'"
"Pack it up in brown paper!" the old man cried, 
"And seal it with olive-and-dove.
"I command you to do it!" he added with pride, 
"Nor forget, my good fellow, to send her beside 
"Easter Greetings, and give her my love."

1876.


ACROSTIC: AROUND MY LONELY HEARTH TONIGHT

AROUND my lonely hearth to-night, 
Ghostlike the shadows wander:
Now here, now there, a childish sprite, 
Earthborn and yet as angel bright, 
Seems near me as I ponder.
Gaily she shouts: the laughing air 
Echoes her note of gladness
Or bends herself with earnest care 
Round fairy-fortress to prepare 
Grim battlement or turret-stair
In childhood's merry madness!
New raptures still hath youth in store.
Age may but fondly cherish 
Half-faded memories of yore
Up, craven heart! repine no more!
Love stretches hands from shore to shore:
Love is, and shall not perish!

1869


ACROSTICS: LITTLE MAIDENS, WHEN YOU LOOK

LITTLE maidens, when you look 
On this little story-book, 
Reading with attentive eye 
Its enticing history, 
Never think that hours of play 
Are your only HOLIDAY, 
And that in a HOUSE of joy 
Lessons serve but to annoy:
If in any HOUSE you find 
Children of a gentle mind, 
Each the others pleasing ever
Each the others vexing never
Daily work and pastime daily 
In their order taking gaily
Then be very sure that they 
Have a life of HOLIDAY.

Christmas 1861.


ACROSTIC: LOVE LIGHTED EYES THAT WILL NOT START

LOVE-lighted eyes, that will not start 
At frown of rage or malice!
Uplifted brow, undaunted heart 
Ready to dine on raspberry-tart 
Along with fairy Alice!
In scenes as wonderful as if 
She'd flitted in a magic skiff 
Across the sea to Calais:
Be sure this night, in Fancy's feast, 
Even till Morning gilds the east, 
Laura will dream of Alice!
Perchance, as long years onward haste, 
Laura will weary of the taste 
Of Life's embittered chalice:
May she, in such a woeful hour, 
Endued with Memory's mystic power,
Recall the dreams of Alice!

June 17, 1876.


ACROSTIC: MAIDEN THOUGH THY HEART MAY QUAIL
(To Miss Marion Terry.) 

MAIDEN, though thy heart may quail 
And thy quivering lip grow pale, 
Read the Bellman's tragic tale!
Is it life of which it tells? 
Of a pulse that sinks and swells 
Never lacking chime of bells?
Bells of sorrow, bells of cheer, 
Easter, Christmas, glad New Year, 
Still they sound, afar, anear.
So may Life's sweet bells for thee, 
In the summers yet to be,
Evermore make melody!

Aug. 15, 1876.


ACROSTIC: MAIDENS IF YOU LOVE THE TALE
(To the Misses Drury.) 
"MAIDENS! if you love the tale, 
If you love the Snark, 
Need I urge you, spread the sail, 
Now, while freshly blows the gale, 
In your ocean-barque!
"English Maidens love renown, 
Enterprise, and fuss!" 
Laughingly those Maidens frown; 
Laughingly, with eyes cast down; 
And they answer thus:
"English Maidens fear to roam.
Much we dread the dark; 
Much we dread what ills might come,
If we left our English home, 
Even for a Snark!"

Apr. 6, 1876.



AFTER THREE DAYS
["Written after seeing Holman Hunt's picture, The Finding of Christ in the Temple."]

I STOOD within the gate 
Of a great temple, 'mid the living stream 
Of worshippers that thronged its regal state 
Fair-pictured in my dream.
Jewels and gold were there; 
And floors of marble lent a crystal sheen 
To body forth, as in a lower air, 
The wonders of the scene.
Such wild and lavish grace 
Had whispers in it of a coming doom; 
As richest flowers lie strown about the face 
Of her that waits the tomb.
The wisest of the land
Had gathered there, three solemn trysting-days, 
For high debate: men stood on either hand 
To listen and to gaze.
The aged brows were bent, 
Bent to a frown, half thought, and half annoy, 
That all their stores of subtlest argument 
Were baffled by a boy.
In each averted face 
I marked but scorn and loathing, till mine eyes 
Fell upon one that stirred not in his place, 
Tranced in a dumb surprise.
Surely within his mind 
Strange thoughts are born, until he doubts the lore 
Of those old men, blind leaders of the blind, 
Whose kingdom is no more.
Surely he sees afar 
A day of death the stormy future brings; 
The crimson setting of the herald-star
That led the Eastern kings.
Thus, as a sunless deep 
Mirrors the shining heights that crown the bay, 
So did my soul create anew in sleep 
The picture seen by day.
Gazers came and went
A restless hum of voices marked the spot
In varying shades of critic discontent 
Prating they knew not what.
"Where is the comely limb, 
The form attuned in every perfect part, 
The beauty that we should desire in him?" Ah! 
Fools and slow of heart!
Look into those deep eyes, 
Deep as the grave, and strong with love divine; 
Those tender, pure, and fathomless 
mysteries, That seem to pierce through thine.
Look into those deep eyes, 
Stirred to unrest by breath of coming strife, 
Until a longing in thy soul arise 
That this indeed were life:
That thou couldst find Him there, 
Bend at His sacred feet thy willing knee, 
And from thy heart pour out the passionate prayer, 
"Lord, let me follow Thee!"
But see the crowd divide:
Mother and sire have found their lost one now:
The gentle voice, that fain would seem to chide, 
Whispers, "Son, why hast thou"In tone of sad amaze
"Thus dealt with us, that art our dearest thing? 
Behold, thy sire and I, three weary days, 
Have sought thee sorrowing."
And I had stayed to hear 
The loving words, "How is it that ye sought?"-
But that the sudden lark, with matins clear, 
Severed the links of thought.
Then over all there fell 
Shadow and silence; and my dream was fled, 
As fade the phantoms of a wizard's cell 
When the dark charm is said.
Yet, in the gathering light, 
I lay with half-shut eyes that would not wake, 
Lovingly clinging to the skirts of night 
For that sweet vision's sake.

Feb. 16, 1861.


AS IT FELL UPON A DAY

AS I was sitting on the hearth 
(And O, but a hog is fat!) 
A man came hurrying up the path, 
(And what care I for that?)
When he came the house unto, 
His breath both quick and short he drew.
When he came before the door, 
His face grew paler than before.
When he turned the handle round, 
The man fell fainting to the ground.
When he crossed the lofty hall, 
Once and again I heard him fall.
When he came up to the turret stair, 
He shrieked and tore his raven hair.
When he came my chamber in, 
(And O, but a hog is fat!) 
I ran him through with a golden pin, 
(And what care I for that?)

1850


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.

1869


BEATRICE

IN her eyes is the living light 
Of a wanderer to earth 
From a far celestial height:
Summers five are all the span
Summers five since Time began 
To veil in mists of human night 
A shining angel-birth.
Does an angel look from her eyes? 
Will she suddenly spring away, 
And soar to her home in the skies? Beatrice! 
Blessing and blessed to be!
Beatrice! Still, as I gaze on thee, 
Visions of two sweet maids arise, 
Whose life was of yesterday:
Of a Beatrice pale and stern, 
With the lips of a dumb despair, 
With the innocent eyes that yearn-
Yearn for the young sweet hours of life, 
Far from sorrow and far from strife, 
For the happy summers, that never return, 
When the world seemed good and fair:
Of a Beatrice glorious, bright
Of a sainted, ethereal maid, 
Whose blue eyes are deep fountains of light, 
Cheering the poet that broodeth apart, 
Filling with gladness his desolate heart, 
Like the moon when she shines thro' a cloudless night 
On a world of silence and shade.
And the visions waver and faint, 
And the visions vanish away 
That my fancy delighted to paint
She is here at my side, a living child, 
With the glowing cheek and the tresses wild, 
Nor death-pale martyr, nor radiant saint, 
Yet stainless and bright as they.
For I think, if a grim wild beast
Were to come from his charnel-cave, 
From his jungle-home in the East
Stealthily creeping with bated breath, 
Stealthily creeping with eyes of death
He would all forget his dream of the feast, 
And crouch at her feet a slave.
She would twine her hand in his mane:
She would prattle in silvery tone, 
Like the tinkle of summer-rain
Questioning him with her laughing eyes, 
Questioning him with a glad surprise, 
Till she caught from those fierce eyes again 
The love that lit her own.
And be sure, if a savage heart, 
In a mask of human guise, 
Were to come on her here apart
Bound for a dark and a deadly deed, 
Hurrying past with pitiless speed
He would suddenly falter and guiltily start 
At the glance of her pure blue eyes.
Nay, be sure, if an angel fair, 
A bright seraph undefiled, 
Were to stoop from the trackless air, 
Fain would she linger in glad amaze
Lovingly linger to ponder and gaze, 
With a sister's love and a sister's care, 
On the happy, innocent child.

Dec. 4, 1862.


BROTHER AND SISTER

"SISTER, sister, go to bed!
Go and rest your weary head." 
Thus the prudent brother said.
"Do you want a battered hide, 
Or scratches to your face applied?" 
"Thus his sister calm replied.
"Sister, do not raise my wrath.
I'd make you into mutton broth 
As easily as kill a moth!"
The sister raised her beaming eye 
And looked on him indignantly 
And sternly answered, "Only try!"
Off to the cook he quickly ran.
"Dear Cook, please lend a frying-pan 
To me as quickly as you can."
"And wherefore should I lend it you?" 
"The reason, Cook, is plain to view.
I wish to make an Irish stew."
"What meat is in that stew to go?" 
"My sister'll be the contents!" 
"Oh!" "You'll lend the pan to me, Cook?" 
"No!" 
Moral: Never stew your sister.
1845


CORONACH

"SHE is gone by the Hilda, 
She is lost unto Whitby, 
And her name is Matilda, 
Which my heart it was smit by; 
Tho' I take the Goliah, 
I learn to my sorrow 
That 'it wo'n't', said the crier, 
'Be off till to-morrow.'
"She called me her 'Neddy', 
(Tho' there mayn't be much in it,) 
And I should have been ready, 
If she'd waited a minute; 
I was following behind her 
When, if you recollect, I 
Merely ran back to find a 
Gold pin for my neck-tie.
"Rich dresser of suet!
Prime hand at a sausage!
I have lost thee, I rue it, 
And my fare for the passage!
Perhaps she thinks it funny, 
Aboard of the Hilda, 
But I've lost purse and money, 
And thee, oh, my 'Tilda!"
His pin of gold the youth undid 
And in his waistcoat-pocket hid, 
Then gently folded hand in hand, 
And dropped asleep upon the sand.
1854


DOUBLE ACROSTIC: I SING A PLACE WHEREIN AGREE
(To Miss E. M. Argles.)

I SING a place wherein agree 
All things on land that fairest be, 
All that is sweetest of the sea.

Nor can I break the silken knot 
That binds my memory to the spot 
And friends too dear to be forgot.

On rocky brow we loved to stand 
And watch in silence, hand in hand,

The shadows veiling sea and land.

Then dropped the breeze; no vessel passed:
So silent stood each taper mast, 
You would have deemed it chained and fast.

Above the blue and fleecy sky:
Below, the waves that quivering lie, 
Like crisped curls of greenery.
 
"A sail!" resounds from every lip.
Mizen, no, square-sail- ah, you trip!
Edith, it cannot be a ship!

So home again from sea and beach, 
One nameless feeling thrilling each.
A sense of beauty, passing speech.

Let lens and tripod be unslung!
"Dolly!" 's the word on every tongue; 
Dolly must sit, for she is young! 

Photography shall change her face, 
Distort it with uncouth grimace
Make her bloodthirsty, fierce, and base. 

I end my song while scarce begun; 
For I should want, ere all was done,

Four weeks to tell the tale of one:

And I should need as large a hand, 
To paint a scene so wild and grand, 
As he who traversed Egypt's land. 

What say you, Edith? Will it suit ye? 
Reject it, if it fails in beauty:
You know your literary duty!

On the rail between Torquay and Guildford, 
Sep. 28, 1869.



DOUBLE ACROSTIC: TWO LITTLE GIRLS NEAR LONDON DWELL

TWO little girls near London dwell, 
More naughty than I like to tell.

1
Upon the lawn the hoops are seen:
The balls are rolling on the green.		TurF

2
The Thames is running deep and wide:
And boats are rowing on the tide. 		RiveR

3
In winter-time, all in a row, 
The happy skaters come and go. 		IcE

4
"Papa!" they cry, "Do let us stay!" 
He does not speak, but says they may. 	NoD

5
"There is a land," he says, "my dear, 
Which is too hot to skate, I fear." 	AfricA



ECHOES

LADY Clara Vere de Vere 
Was eight years old, she said:
Every ringlet, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden thread.

She took her little porringer:
Of me she shall not win renown:
For the baseness of its nature shall have strength to drag her down.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid? 
There stands the Inspector at thy door:
Like a dog, he hunts for boys who know not two and two are four."

"Kind hearts are more than coronets," 
She said, and wondering looked at me:
"It is the dead unhappy night, and I must hurry home to tea."

1883


FACES IN THE FIRE

THE night creeps onward, sad and slow:
In these red embers' dying glow 
The forms of Fancy come and go.

An island-farm- broad seas of corn 
Stirred by the wandering breath of morn
The happy spot where I was born.

The picture fadeth in its place:
Amid the glow I seem to trace 
The shifting semblance of a face.

'Tis now a little childish form
Red lips for kisses pouted warm
And elf-locks tangled in the storm.

'Tis now a grave and gentle maid, 
At her own beauty half afraid, 
Shrinking, and willing to be stayed.

Oh, Time was young, and Life was warm, 
When first I saw that fairy-form, 
Her dark hair tossing in the storm.

And fast and free these pulses played, 
When last I met that gentle maid
When last her hand in mine was laid.

Those locks of jet are turned to gray, 
And she is strange and far away 
That might have been mine own to-day

That might have been mine own, my dear, 
Through many and many a happy year
That might have sat beside me here.

Ay, changeless through the changing scene, 
The ghostly whisper rings between, 
The dark refrain of "might have been".

The race is o'er I might have run:
The deeds are past I might have done; 
And sere the wreath I might have won.

Sunk is the last faint flickering blaze:
The vision of departed days 
Is vanished even as I gaze.

The pictures, with their ruddy light, 
Are changed to dust and ashes white, 
And I am left alone with night.

Jan. 1860.


FACTS

WERE I to take an iron gun, 
And fire it off towards the sun; 
I grant 'twould reach its mark at last, 
But not till many years had passed.

But should that bullet change its force, 
And to the planets take its course, 
'Twould never reach the nearest star, 
Because it is so very far.

1845


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 sty.

Be 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 Paeans 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!

1876


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 Cyclopedia. 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".)

I

THERE was an ancient City, stricken down 
With a strange frenzy, and for many a day 
They 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 tan, 
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? 
x squared + 7x + 5311=.3

But 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 overmuch,
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 opes his mouth- yet out of it, methinks, 
No words of wisdom flow.

Answer:  Commemoration, Monstrosities.

II

EMPRESS 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.

Answer:  Ellen Terry.

III

THE 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-day!

Rest your old bones, ye wrinkled crones!
The kettle sings, the firelight dances.
Deep be it quaffed, the magic draught 
That 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!

Answer: Galatea (Gala-tea).

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 believers 
In magic art: my simple Third
Follows, not 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 middle 
Of all that human art hath made 
Or wit devised! Go, seek her aid, 
If you would read my riddle!

Answer.  Imagination (I-Magi-nation).

1869


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 age 
When 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 Passe 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 knows 
The answer to that ancient problem "how the money goes"!

1883


HIAWATHAS PHOTOGRAPHING

[In an age of imitation, I can claim no special merit for this slight attempt at doing what is known to be so easy. Any fairly practised writer, with the slightest ear for rhythm, could compose, for hours together, in the easy running metre of "The Song of Hiawatha".
Having, then, distinctly stated that I challenge no attention in the following little poem to its merely verbal jingle, I must beg the candid reader to confine his criticism to its treatment of the subject.] 

FROM his shoulder Hiawatha 
Took the camera of rosewood, 
Made of sliding, folding rosewood; 
Neatly put it all together.
In its case it lay compactly, 
Folded into nearly nothing; 
But he opened out the hinges, 
Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges, 
Till it looked all squares and oblongs, 
Like a complicated figure 
In the Second Book of Euclid.
This he perched upon a tripod-
Crouched beneath its dusky cover-
Stretched his hand, enforcing silence
Said, "Be motionless, I beg you!" 
Mystic, awful was the process.
All the family in order 
Sat before him for their pictures:
Each in turn as he was taken, 
Volunteered his own suggestions, 
His ingenious suggestions.
First the Governor, the Father:
He suggested velvet curtains 
Looped about a massy pillar; 
And the corner of a table, 
Of a rosewood dining-table.
He would hold a scroll of something, 
Hold it firmly in his left-hand; 
He would keep his right-hand buried 
(Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat; 
He would contemplate the distance 
With a look of pensive meaning, 
As of ducks that die in tempests.
Grand, heroic was the notion:
Yet the picture failed entirely:
Failed, because he moved a little, 
Moved, because he couldn't help it.
Next, his better half took courage; 
She would have her picture taken.
She came dressed beyond description, 
Dressed in jewels and in satin 
Far too gorgeous for an empress.
Gracefully she sat down sideways, 
With a simper scarcely human, 
Holding in her hand a bouquet 
Rather larger than a cabbage.
All the while that she was sitting, 
Still the lady chattered, chattered, 
Like a monkey in the forest.
"Am I sitting still?" she asked him.
"Is my face enough in profile? 
Shall I hold the bouquet higher? 
Will it come into the picture?" 
And the picture failed completely.
Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab:
He suggested curves of beauty,
Curves pervading all his figure, 
Which the eye might follow onward, 
Till they centred in the breast-pin, 
Centred in the golden breast-pin.
He had learnt it all from Ruskin 
(Author of "The Stones of Venice", 
"Seven Lamps of Architecture", 
"Modern Painters", and some others); 
And perhaps he had not fully 
Understood his author's meaning; 
But, whatever was the reason, 
All was fruitless, as the picture 
Ended in an utter failure.
Next to him the eldest daughter:
She suggested very little, 
Only asked if he would take her 
With her look of "passive beauty".
Her idea of passive beauty 
Was a squinting of the left-eye, 
Was a drooping of the right-eye, 
Was a smile that went up sideways 
To the corner of the nostrils.
Hiawatha, when she asked him, 
Took no notice of the question, 
Looked as if he hadn't heard it; 
But, when pointedly appealed to, 
Smiled in his peculiar manner, 
Coughed and said it "didn't matter", 
Bit his lip and changed the subject.
Nor in this was he mistaken, 
As the picture failed completely.
So in turn the other sisters.
Last, the youngest son was taken:
Very rough and thick his hair was, 
Very round and red his face was, 
Very dusty was his jacket, 
Very fidgety his manner.
And his overbearing sisters 
Called him names he disapproved of:
Called him Johnny, "Daddy's Darling", 
Called him Jacky, "Scrubby School-boy".
And, so awful was the picture, 
In comparison the others 
Seemed, to one's bewildered fancy,
To have partially succeeded.
Finally my Hiawatha 
Tumbled all the tribe together, 
("Grouped" is not the right expression), 
And, as happy chance would have it 
Did at last obtain a picture 
Where the faces all succeeded:
Each came out a perfect likeness.
Then they joined and all abused it, 
Unrestrainedly abused it, 
As the worst and ugliest picture 
They could possibly have dreamed of.
"Giving one such strange expressions-
Sullen, stupid, pert expressions.
Really anyone would take us 
(Anyone that did not know us) 
For the most unpleasant people!" 
(Hiawatha seemed to think so, 
Seemed to think it not unlikely.) 
All together rang their voices, 
Angry, loud, discordant voices, 
As of dogs that howl in concert,
As of cats that wail in chorus.
But my Hiawatha's patience, 
His politeness and his patience, 
Unaccountably had vanished, 
And he left that happy party.
Neither did he leave them slowly, 
With the calm deliberation, 
The intense deliberation 
Of a photographic artist:
But he left them in a hurry, 
Left them in a mighty hurry, 
Stating that he would not stand it, 
Stating in emphatic language 
What he'd be before he'd stand it.
Hurriedly he packed his boxes:
Hurriedly the porter trundled 
On a barrow all his boxes:
Hurriedly he took his ticket:
Hurriedly the train received him:
Thus departed Hiawatha.

1857


HORRORS

METHOUGHT I walked a dismal place 
Dim horrors all around; 
The air was thick with many a face, 
And black as night the ground.

I saw a monster come with speed, 
Its face of grimmliest green, 
On human beings used to feed, 
Most dreadful to be seen.

I could not speak, I could not fly, 
I fell down in that place, 
I saw the monster's horrid eye 
Come leering in my face!

Amidst my scarcely-stifled groans, 
Amidst my moanings deep, 
I heard a voice, "Wake! Mr. Jones, 
You're screaming in your sleep!"

(1850)


LADY OF THE LADLE

THE Youth at Eve had drunk his fill, 
Where stands the "Royal" on the Hill, 
And long his mid-day stroll had made, 
On the so-called "Marine Parade"
(Meant, I presume, for Seamen brave, 
Whose "march is on the Mountain wave" 
'Twere just the bathing-place for him 
Who stays on land till he can swim)-
And he had strayed into the Town, 
And paced each alley up and down, 
Where still, so narrow grew the way, 
The very houses seemed to say, 
Nodding to friends across the Street, 
"One struggle more and we shall meet." 
And he had scaled that wondrous stair 
That soars from earth to upper 
air, Where rich and poor alike must climb, 
And walk the treadmill for a time.
That morning he had dressed with care,
And put Pomatum on his hair; 
He was, the loungers all agreed, 
A very heavy swell indeed:
Men thought him, as he swaggered by, 
Some scion of nobility, 
And never dreamed, so cold his look, 
That he had loved- and loved a Cook.
Upon the beach he stood and sighed 
Unheedful of the treacherous tide; 
Thus sang he to the listening main, 
And soothed his sorrow with the strain!

(1854)


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 tirled 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."

1869

LAYS OF MYSTERY IMAGINATION AND HUMOUR
NUMBER 1: THE PALACE OF HUMBUG

I DREAMT I dwelt in marble halls, 
And each damp thing that creeps and crawls 
Went wobble-wobble on the walls.

Faint odours of departed cheese, 
Blown on the dank, unwholesome breeze, 
Awoke the never-ending sneeze.

Strange pictures decked the arras drear, 
Strange characters of woe and fear, 
The humbugs of the social sphere.

One showed a vain and noisy prig, 
That shouted empty words and big 
At him that nodded in a wig.

And one, a dotard grim and gray, 
Who wasteth childhood's happy day 
In work more profitless than play.

Whose icy breast no pity warms, 
Whose little victims sit in swarms, 
And slowly sob on lower forms.

And one, a green thyme-honoured Bank, 
Where flowers are growing wild and rank, 
Like weeds that fringe a poisoned tank.

All birds of evil omen there 
Flood with rich Notes the tainted air, 
The witless wanderer to snare.

The fatal Notes neglected fall, 
No creature heeds the treacherous call, 
For all those goodly Strawn Baits Pall.

The wandering phantom broke and fled, 
Straightway I saw within my head 
A vision of a ghostly bed,

Where lay two worn decrepit men,
The fictions of a lawyer's pen, 
Who never more might breathe again.

The serving-man of Richard Roe 
Wept, inarticulate with woe:
She wept, that waited on John Doe.

"Oh rouse", I urged, "the waning sense 
With tales of tangled evidence, 
Of suit, demurrer, and defence."

"Vain", she replied, "such mockeries:
For morbid fancies, such as these, 
No suits can suit, no plea can please."

And bending o'er that man of straw, 
She cried in grief and sudden awe, 
Not inappropriately, "Law!"

The well-remembered voice he knew, 
He smiled, he faintly muttered "Sue!" 
(Her very name was legal too.)

The night was fled, the dawn was nigh:
A hurricane went raving by, 
And swept the Vision from mine eye.

Vanished that dim and ghostly bed, 
(The hangings, tape; the tape was red:) 
'Tis o'er, and Doe and Roe are dead!

Oh, yet my spirit inly crawls, 
What time it shudderingly recalls 
That horrid dream of marble halls!

Oxford, 1855.


LESSON IN LATIN

OUR Latin books, in motley row, 
Invite us to our task-
Gay Horace, stately Cicero:
Yet there's one verb, when once we know, 
No higher skill we ask:
This ranks all other lore above-
We've learned "'Amare' means 'to love'!"

So, hour by hour, from flower to flower, 
We sip the sweets of Life:
Till, all too soon, the clouds arise, 
And flaming cheeks and flashing eyes 
Proclaim the dawn of strife:
With half a smile and half a sigh, 
"Amare! Bitter One!" we cry.

Last night we owned, with looks forlorn, 
"Too well the scholar knows 
There is no rose without a thorn"-
But peace is made! We sing, this morn, 
"No thorn without a rose!" 
Our Latin lesson is complete:
We've learned that Love is Bitter-Sweet!

May 1888.


LIMERICK
(To Miss Vera Beringer.)

THERE was a young lady of station, 
"I love man" was her sole exclamation; 
But when men cried, "You flatter," 
She replied, "Oh! no matter, 
Isle of Man is the true explanation."

1869


LOVE AMONG THE ROSES

"SEEK ye Love, ye fairy-sprites? 
Ask where reddest roses grow.
Rosy fancies he invites, 
And in roses he delights, 
Have ye found him?" "No!"

"Seek again, and find the boy 
In Childhood's heart, so pure and clear.
Now the fairies leap for joy, 
Crying, "Love is here!"

"Love has found his proper nest; 
And we guard him while he dozes 
In a dream of peace and rest 
Rosier than roses."

Jan. 3, 1878.


THE LYCEUM
"IT is the lawyer's daughter, 
And she is grown so dear, so dear, 
She costs me, in one evening, 
The income of a year!
'You ca'n't have children's love', she cried, 
'Unless you choose to fee 'em!' 
'And what's your fee, child?' I replied.
She simply said-

"We saw 'The Cup'." I hoped she'd say, 
"I'm grateful to you, very." 
She murmured, as she turned away, 
"That lovely [Ellen Terry.] 
"Compared with her, the rest", she cried, 
"Are just like two or three um-
"berellas standing side by side!
"Oh, gem of-

"We saw Two Brothers. I confess
To me they seemed one man.
"Now which is which, child? Can you guess?" 
She cried, "A-course I can!" 
Bad puns like this I always dread, 
And am resolved to flee 'em.
And so I left her there, and fled; 
She lives at-

1881.


MADRIGAL

(To Miss May Forshall.) 

HE shouts amain, he shouts again, 
(Her brother, fierce, as bluff King Hal), 
"I tell you flat, I shall do that!" 
She softly whispers "'May' for 'shall'!"

He wistful sighed one eventide 
(Her friend, that made this Madrigal), 
"And shall I kiss you, pretty Miss!" 
Smiling she answered "'May' for 'shall'!"

With eager eyes my reader cries, 
"Your friend must be indeed a val-
uable child, so sweet, so mild!
What do you call her?" "May For shall."

Dec. 24, 1877.


MAGGIE B
(To Maggie Bowman.)

WRITTEN by Maggie B 
Bought by me:
A present to Maggie B 
Sent by me:
But who can Maggie be? 
Answered by me:
"She is she."

Aug. 13, 1891.


MAGGIE'S VISIT TO OXFORD 
(Written for Maggie Bowman.)

WHEN Maggie once to Oxford came, 
On tour as "Bootles' Baby", 
She said, "I'll see this place of fame, 
However dull the day be."

So with her friend she visited 
The sights that it was rich in:
And first of all she popped her head 
Inside the Christ Church kitchen.

The Cooks around that little child 
Stood waiting in a ring:
And every time that Maggie smiled 
Those Cooks began to sing-
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!

"Roast, boil and bake, 
For Maggie's sake:
Bring cutlets fine 
For her to dine, 
Meringues so sweet 
For her to eat-
For Maggie may be 
Bootles' Baby!"

Then hand in hand in pleasant talk 
They wandered and admired 
The Hall, Cathedral and Broad Walk, 
Till Maggie's feet were tired:

To Worcester Garden next they strolled, 
Admired its quiet lake:
Then to St. John, a college old, 
Their devious way they take.

In idle mood they sauntered round 
Its lawn so green and flat, 
And in that garden Maggie found 
A lovely Pussy-Cat!

A quarter of an hour they spent 
In wandering to and fro:
And everywhere that Maggie went, 
The Cat was sure to go-
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!

"Maiow! Maiow!
Come, make your bow, 
Take off your hats, 
Ye Pussy-Cats!
And purr and purr, 
To welcome her, 
For Maggie may be 
Bootles' Baby!"

So back to Christ Church, not too late 
For them to go and see 
A Christ Church undergraduate, 
Who gave them cakes and tea.

Next day she entered with her guide 
The garden called "Botanic",
And there a fierce Wild Boar she spied, 
Enough to cause a panic:

But Maggie didn't mind, not she, 
She would have faced, alone, 
That fierce wild boar, because, you see, 
The thing was made of stone.

On Magdalen walls they saw a face 
That filled her with delight, 
A giant face, that made grimace 
And grinned with all its might.

A little friend, industrious, 
Pulled upwards all the while 
The corner of its mouth, and thus 
He helped that face to smile!

"How nice", thought Maggie, "it would be 
If I could have a friend 
To do that very thing for me 
And make my mouth turn up with glee,
By pulling at one end."

In Magdalen Park the deer are wild 
With joy, that Maggie brings 
Some bread a friend had given the child, 
To feed the pretty things.

They flock round Maggie without fear:
They breakfast and they lunch, 
They dine, they sup, those happy deer-
Still, as they munch and munch, 
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!

"Yes, Deer are we, 
And dear is she!
We love this child 
So sweet and mild:
We all rejoice 
At Maggie's voice:
We all are fed 
With Maggie's bread...
For Maggie may be
Bootles' Baby!"

They met a Bishop on their way...
A Bishop large as life, 
With loving smile that seemed to say 
"Will Maggie be my wife?"

Maggie thought not, because, you see, 
She was so very young, 
And he was old as old could be...
So Maggie held her tongue.

"My Lord, she's Bootles' Baby, we 
Are going up and down", 
Her friend explained, "that she may see 
The sights of Oxford Town."

"Now say what kind of place it is," 
The Bishop gaily cried.
"The best place in the Provinces!" 
That little maid replied.

Away, next morning, Maggie went 
From Oxford town: but yet 
The happy hours she there had spent 
She could not soon forget.

The train is gone, it rumbles on:
The engine-whistle screams; 
But Maggie deep in rosy sleep...
And softly in her dreams, 
Whispers the Battle-cry of Freedom.

"Oxford, good-bye!" 
She seems to sigh.
"You dear old City, 
With gardens pretty, 
And lanes and flowers, 
And college-towers, 
And Tom's great Bell...
Farewell- farewell:
For Maggie may be 
Bootles' Baby!"

1889


THE MAJESTY OF JUSTICE
AN OXFORD IDYLL

THEY passed beneath the College gate; 
And down the High went slowly on; 
Then spake the Undergraduate To that 
benign and portly Don:
"They say that justice is a Queen-
A Queen of awful Majesty-
Yet in the papers I have seen 
Some things that puzzle me.

"A Court obscure, so rumour states, 
There is, called 'Vice-Cancellarii', 
Which keeps on Undergraduates, 
Who do not pay their bills, a wary eye.
A case I'm told was lately brought 
Into that tiniest of places, 
And justice in that case was sought-
As in most other cases.

"Well! Justice as I hold, dear friend, 
Is Justice, neither more than less:
I never dreamed it could depend 
On ceremonial or dress.
I thought that her imperial sway 
In Oxford surely would appear, 
But all the papers seem to say 
She's not majestic here."

The portly Don he made reply, 
With the most roguish of his glances, 
"Perhaps she drops her Majesty 
Under peculiar circumstances." 
"But that's the point!" the young man cried, 
"The puzzle that I wish to pen you in-
How are the public to decide 
Which article is genuine?

"Is't only when the Court is large 
That we for 'Majesty' need hunt? 
Would what is Justice in a barge 
Be something different in a punt?
"Nay, nay!" the Don replied, amused, 
"You're talking nonsense, sir! You know it!
Such arguments were never used 
By any friend of Jowett."

"Then is it in the men who trudge 
(Beef-eaters I believe they call them) 
Before each wigged and ermined judge, 
For fear some mischief should befall them? 
If I should recognise in one 
(Through all disguise) my own domestic, 
I fear 'twould shed a gleam of fun 
Even on the 'Majestic'!"

The portly Don replied, "Ahem!
They can't exactly be its essence:
I scarcely think the want of them 
The 'Majesty of Justice' lessens.
Besides, they always march awry; 
Their gorgeous garments never fit:
Processions don't make Majesty-
I'm quite convinced of it."

"Then is it in the wig it lies, 
Whose countless rows of rigid curls 
Are gazed at with admiring eyes 
By country lads and servant-girls?" 
Out laughed that bland and courteous Don:
"Dear sir, I do not mean to flatter-
But surely you have hit upon 
The essence of the matter.

"They will not own the Majesty
 Of Justice, making Monarchs bow, 
Unless as evidence they see 
The horsehair wig upon her brow.
Yes, yes! That makes the silliest men 
Seem wise; the meanest men look big:
The Majesty of Justice, then, 
Is seated in the WIG." 

March 1863.


MELANCHOLETTA

WITH saddest music all day long 
She soothed her secret sorrow:
At night she sighed "I fear 'twas wrong 
Such cheerful words to borrow.
Dearest, a sweeter, sadder song 
I'll sing to thee to-morrow."

I thanked her, but I could not say 
That I was glad to hear it:
I left the house at break of day, 
And did not venture near it 
Till time, I hoped, had worn away 
Her grief, for nought could cheer it!

My dismal sister! Couldst thou know 
The wretched home thou keepest!
Thy brother, drowned in daily woe, 
Is thankful when thou sleepest; 
For if I laugh, however low,
When thou'rt awake, thou weepest!

I took my sister t'other day 
(Excuse the slang expression) 
To Sadler's Wells to see the play 
In hopes the new impression 
Might in her thoughts, from grave to gay 
Effect some slight digression.

I asked three gay young dogs from town 
To join us in our folly, 
Whose mirth, I thought, might serve to drown 
My sister's melancholy:
The lively Jones, the sportive Brown, 
And Robinson the jolly.

The maid announced the meal in tones 
That I myself had taught her, 
Meant to allay my sister's moans 
Like oil on troubled water:
I rushed to Jones, the lively Jones, 
And begged him to escort her.

Vainly he strove, with ready wit, 
To joke about the weather-
To ventilate the last "on dit"-
To quote the price of leather-
She groaned "Here I and Sorrow sit:
Let us lament together!"

I urged "You're wasting time, you know 
Delay will spoil the venison." 
"My heart is wasted with my woe!
There is no rest- in Venice, on 
The Bridge of Sighs!" she quoted low 
From Byron and from Tennyson.

I need not tell of soup and fish 
In solemn silence swallowed, 
The sobs that ushered in each dish, 
And its departure followed, 
Nor yet my suicidal wish 
To be the cheese I hollowed.

Some desperate attempts were made
To start a conversation; 
"Madam," the sportive Brown essayed, 
"Which kind of recreation, 
Hunting or fishing, have you made 
Your special occupation?"

Her lips curved downwards instantly, 
As if of india-rubber.
"Hounds in full cry I like," said she:
(Oh, how I longed to snub her!) 
"Of fish, a whale's the one for me, 
It is so full of blubber!"

The night's performance was "King John".
"It's dull", she wept, "and so-so!" 
Awhile I let her tears flow on, 
She said they soothed her woe so!
At length the curtain rose upon 
"Bombastes Furioso".

In vain we roared; in vain we tried 
To rouse her into laughter:
Her pensive glances wandered wide 
From orchestra to rafter-
"Tier upon tier!" she said, and sighed; 
And silence followed after.

1869


MELODIES

I
THERE was an old farmer of Readall, 
Who made holes in his face with a needle, 
Then went far deeper in 
Than to pierce through the skin, 
And yet strange to say he was made beadle.

II
There was an eccentric old draper, 
Who wore a hat made of brown paper, 
It went up to a point, 
Yet it looked out of joint, 
The cause of which he said was "vapour".

III
There was once a young man of Oporta, 
Who daily got shorter and shorter, 
The reason he said 
Was the hod on his head, 
Which was filled with the heaviest mortar.

His sister, named Lucy O'Finner, 
Grew constantly thinner and thinner; 
The reason was plain, 
She slept out in the rain, 
And was never allowed any dinner.

1845


MISUNDERSTANDINGS

IF such a thing had been my thought, 
I should have told you so before, 
But as I didn't, then you ought 
To ask for such a thing no more, 
For to teach one who has been taught 
Is always thought an awful bore.

Now to commence my argument, 
I shall premise an observation, 
On which the greatest kings have leant 
When striving to subdue a nation, 
And e'en the wretch who pays no rent 
By it can solve a hard equation.

Its truth is such, the force of reason 
Can not avail to shake its power, 
Yet e'en the sun in summer season 
Doth not dispel so mild a shower 
As this, and he who sees it, sees on
Beyond it to a sunny bower-
No more, when ignorance is treason, 
Let wisdom's brows be cold and sour.

1850

THE MOCK TURTLE'S SONG
(Early Version)

BENEATH the waters of the sea 
Are lobsters thick as thick can be-
They love to dance with you and me, 
My own, my gentle Salmon!

CHORUS 

Salmon, come up! Salmon, go down!
Salmon, come twist your tail around!
Of all the fishes of the sea 
There's none so good as Salmon!

1862


MY FAIRY

I HAVE a fairy by my side 
Which says I must not sleep, 
When once in pain I loudly cried 
It said "You must not weep".

If, full of mirth, I smile and grin, 
It says "You must not laugh"; 
When once I wished to drink some gin 
It said "You must not quaff".

When once a meal I wished to taste 
It said "You must not bite"; 
When to the wars I went in haste 
It said "You must not fight".

"What may I do?" at length I cried, 
Tired of the painful task.
The fairy quietly replied, 
And said "You must not ask".

Moral: "You mustn't." 
(1845)


MY FANCY
I PAINTED her a gushing thing, 
With years perhaps a score; 
I little thought to find they were 
At least a dozen more; 
My fancy gave her eyes of blue, 
A curly auburn head:
I came to find the blue a green, 
The auburn turned to red.

She boxed my ears this morning, 
They tingled very much; 
I own that I could wish her 
A somewhat lighter touch; And if 
you were to ask me how 
Her charms might be improved, 
I would not have them added to, 
But just a few removed!

She has the bear's ethereal grace,
The bland hyena's laugh, 
The footstep of the elephant, 
The neck of the giraffe; 
I love her still, believe me, 
Though my heart its passion hides; 
"She's all my fancy painted her," 
But oh! how much besides!

Mar. 15, 1862.


A NURSERY DARLING
DEDICATION TO THE NURSERY "ALICE", 1889

A MOTHER'S breast:
Safe refuge from her childish fears, 
From childish troubles, childish tears, 
Mists that enshroud her dawning years!
See how in sleep she seems to sing 
A voiceless psalm- an offering 
Raised, to the glory of her King, 
In Love: for Love is Rest.

A Darling's kiss:
Dearest of all the signs that fleet 
From lips that lovingly repeat 
Again, again, their message sweet!
Full to the brim with girlish glee, 
A child, a very child is she, 
Whose dream of Heaven is still to be 
At Home: for Home is Bliss.

1889


ODE TO DAMON 
(From Chloe, who Understands His Meaning.)

"OH, do not forget the day when we met 
At the fruiterer's shop in the city:
When you said I was plain and excessively vain, 
But I knew that you meant I was pretty.

"Recollect, too, the hour when I purchased the flour 
(For the dumplings, you know) and the suet; 
Whilst the apples I told my dear Damon to hold, 
(just to see if you knew how to do it).

"Then recall to your mind how you left me behind, 
And went off in a 'bus with the pippins; 
When you said you'd forgot, but I knew you had not; 
(It was merely to save the odd threepence!).

"Don't forget your delight in the dumplings that night, 
Though you said they were tasteless and doughy:
But you winked as you spoke, and I saw that the joke
(If it was one) was meant for your Chloe!

"Then remember the day when Joe offered to pay 
For us all at the Great Exhibition; 
You proposed a short cut, and we found the thing shut, 
(We were two hours too late for admission).

"Your 'short cut', dear, we found took us seven miles round 
(And Joe said exactly what we did):
Well, I helped you out then- it was just like you men-
Not an atom of sense when it's needed!

"You said 'What's to be done?' and I thought you in fun 
(Never dreaming you were such a ninny).
'Home directly!' said I, and you paid for the fly, 
(And I think that you gave him a guinea).

"Well, that notion, you said, had not entered your head:
You proposed 'The best thing, as we're come, is 
(Since it opens again in the morning at ten) 
To wait'- Oh, you Prince of all dummies!

"And when Joe asked you 'Why, if a man were to die, 
Just as you ran a sword through his middle, 
You'd be hung for the crime?' and you said 'Give me time!' 
And brought to your Chloe the riddle-

"Why, remember, you dunce, how I solved it at once-
(The question which Joe had referred to you), 
Why, I told you the cause, was 'the force of the laws', 
And you said 'It had never occurred to you.'

"This instance will show that your brain is too slow, 
And (though your exterior is showy), 
Yet so arrant a goose can be 
no sort of use To society- come to your Chloe!

"You'll find no one like me, who can manage to see 
Your meaning, you talk so obscurely:
Why, if once I were gone, how would you get on? 
Come, you know what I mean, Damon, surely." 

1861.

ONLY A WOMAN'S HAIR

["After the death of Dean Swift, there was found among his papers a small packet containing a single lock of hair and 
inscribed with the above words."]

"ONLY a woman's hair!" Fling it aside!
A bubble on Life's mighty stream:
Heed it not, man, but watch the broadening tide 
Bright with the western beam.

Nay! In those words there rings from other years 
The echo of a long low cry, 
Where a proud spirit wrestles with its tears 
In loneliest agony.

And, as I touch that lock, strange visions throng 
Upon my soul with dreamy grace-
Of woman's hair, the theme of poet's 
song In every time and place.

A child's bright tresses, by the breezes kissed 
To sweet disorder as she flies, 
Veiling, beneath a cloud of golden mist, 
Flushed cheek and laughing eyes-

Or fringing, like a shadow, raven-black, 
The glory of a queen-like face-
Or from a gipsy's sunny brow tossed back 
In wild and wanton grace-

Or crown-like on the hoary head of Age, 
Whose tale of life is well-nigh told-
Or, last, in dreams I make my pilgrimage 
To Bethany of old.

I see the feast- the purple and the gold; 
The gathering crowd of Pharisees, 
Whose scornful eyes are centred to behold 
Yon woman on her knees.

The stifled sob rings strangely on mine ears, 
Wrung from the depth of sin's despair:
And still she bathes the sacred feet with tears, 
And wipes them with her hair.

He scorned not then the simple loving deed 
Of her, the lowest and the last; 
Then scorn not thou, but use with earnest heed 
This relic of the past.

The eyes that loved it once no longer wake:
So lay it by with reverent care-
Touching it tenderly for sorrow's sake-
It is a woman's hair.

Feb. 17, 1862.


THE PATH OF ROSES

(Florence Nightingale was at the height of her fame when this was written, after the Crimean War.) 

IN the dark silence of an ancient room, 
Whose one tall window fronted to the West, 
Where, through laced tendrils of a hanging vine, 
The 
sunset-glow was fading into-night, 
Sat a pale Lady, resting weary hands 
Upon a great clasped volume, and her face 
Within her hands. Not as in rest she bowed, 
But large hot tears were coursing down her cheek, 
And her low-panted sobs broke awefully 
Upon the sleeping echoes of the night.
Soon she unclasp'd the volume once again, 
And read the words in tone of agony, 
As in self-torture, weeping as she read:

"He crowns the glory of his race:
He prayeth but in some fit place 
To meet his foeman face to face:

"And, battling for the True, the Right, 
From ruddy dawn to Purple night, 
To perish in the midmost fight:

"Where hearts are fierce and hands are strong, 
Where peals the bugle loud and long, 
Where blood is dropping in the throng:

"Still, with a dim and glazing eye, 
To watch the tide of victory, 
To hear in death the battle-cry:

"Then, gathered grandly to his grave, 
To rest among the true and brave, 
In holy ground, where yew-trees wave:

"Where, from church-windows sculptured fair, 
Float out upon the evening air 
The note of praise, the voice of prayer:

"Where no vain marble mockery 
Insults with loud and boastful lie
The simple soldier's memory:

"Where sometimes little children go, 
And read, in whisper'd accent slow, 
The name of him who sleeps below."

Her voice died out: like one in dreams she sat.
"Alas!" she sighed. "For what can Woman do? 
Her life is aimless, and her death unknown:
Hemmed in by social forms she pines in vain.
Man has his work, but what can Woman do?" 
And answer came there from the creeping gloom, 
The creeping gloom that settled into night:
"Peace! For thy lot is other than a man's:
His is a path of thorns: he beats them down:
He faces death: he wrestles with despair.
Thine is of roses, to adorn and cheer 
His lonely life, and hide the thorns in flowers." 
She spake again: in bitter tone she spake:
"Aye, as a toy, the puppet of an hour, 
Or a fair posy, newly plucked at morn, 
But flung aside and withered ere the night."
And answer came there from the creeping gloom, 
The creeping gloom that blackened into night:
"So shalt thou be the lamp to light his path, 
What time the shades of sorrow close around." 
And, so it seemed to her, an awful light 
Pierced slowly through the darkness, orbed, and grew, 
Until all passed away- the ancient roomThe sunlight 
dying through the trellised vine-
The one tall window- all had passed away, 
And she was standing on the mighty hills.
Beneath, around, and far as eye could see, 
Squadron on squadron, stretched opposing hosts, 
Ranked as for battle, mute and motionless.
Anon a distant thunder shook the ground, 
The tramp of horses, and a troop shot by-
Plunged headlong in that living sea 
of menPlunged to their death: back from that fatal field 
A scattered handful, fighting hard for life, 
Broke through the serried lines; but, as she gazed, 
They shrank and melted, and their forms grew thin-
Grew pale as ghosts when the first morning ray 
Dawns from the East- the trumpet's brazen blare
Died into silence- and the vision passed-
Passed to a room where sick and dying lay 
In long, sad line- there brooded Fear 
and PainDarkness was there, the shade of Azrael's wing.
But there was one that ever, to and fro, 
Moved with light footfall: purely calm her face, 
And those deep steadfast eyes that starred the gloom:
Still, as she went, she ministered to each 
Comfort and counsel; cooled the fevered brow 
With softest touch, and in the listening ear 
Of the pale sufferer whispered words of peace.
That dying warrior, gazing as she passed, 
Clasped his thin hands and blessed her. 
Bless her too, Thou, who didst bless the merciful of old!
So prayed the Lady, watching tearfully 
Her gentle moving onward, till the night 
Had veiled her wholly, and the vision passed.
Then once again the solemn whisper came:
"So in the darkest path of man's despair, 
Where War and Terror shake the troubled earth, 
Lies woman's mission; with unblenching brow 
To pass through scenes of horror and affright
Where men grow sick and tremble: unto her 
All things are sanctified, for all are good.
Nothing so mean, but shall deserve her care:
Nothing so great, but she may bear her part.
No life is vain: each hath his place assigned:
Do thou thy task, and leave the rest to God." 
And there was silence, but the Lady made 
No answer, save one deeply-breathed "Amen".
And she arose, and in that darkening room 
Stood lonely as a spirit of the night-
Stood calm and fearless in the gathered night-
And raised her eyes to heaven. There were tears 
Upon her face, but in her heart was peace, 
Peace that the world nor gives nor takes away!

April 10, 1856.


PHOTOGRAPHY EXTRAORDINARY

The Milk and Water School

ALAS! she would not hear my prayer!
Yet it were rash to tear my hair; 
Disfigured, I should be less fair.

She was unwise, I may say blind; 
Once she was lovingly inclined; 
Some circumstance has changed her mind.

The Strong Minded or Matter of Fact School

Well! so my offer was no go!
She might do worse, I told her so; 
She was a fool to answer "No".
However, things are as they stood; 
Nor would I have her if I could, 
For there are plenty more as good.

The Spasmodic or German School

Firebrands and daggers! hope hath fled!
To atoms dash the doubly dead!
My brain is fire- my heart is lead!
Her soul is flint, and what am I? 
Scorch'd by her fierce, relentless eye, 
Nothingness is my destiny!

1855


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 sure 
Throughout 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 gratia'."

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 lad 
Rush madly for his pen and ink 
And for his blotting-pad-
But, when he thought of publishing, 
His face grew stern and sad.

1863


PUCK LOST AND FOUND ACROSTIC

["Inscribed in two books... presented to a little girl and boy, as a sort of memento of a visit paid by them to the author one day, on which occasion he taught them the pastime of folding paper 'pistols'."]

PUCK has fled the haunts of men:
Ridicule has made him wary:
In the woods, and down the glen, 
No one meets a Fairy!

"Cream!" the greedy Goblin cries 
Empties the deserted dairy-
Steals the spoons, and off he flies.
Still we seek our Fairy!

Ah! What form is entering? 
Lovelit eyes and laughter airy!
Is not this a better thing, 
Child, whose visit thus I sing,
Even than a Fairy?

Nov. 22, 1891.

PUCK has ventured back agen:
Ridicule no more affrights him:
In the very haunts of men 
Newer sport delights him.

Capering lightly to and fro, 
Ever frolicking and funning-
"Crack!" the mimic pistols go!
Hark! The noise is stunning!

All too soon will Childhood gay 
Realize Life's sober sadness.
Let's be merry while we may, 
Innocent and happy Fay!
Elves were made for gladness!

Nov. 25, 1891.


PUNCTUALITY

MAN naturally loves delay, 
And to procrastinate; 
Business put off from day to day 
Is always done too late.

Let every hour be in its place 
Firm fixed, nor loosely shift, 
And well enjoy the vacant space, 
As though a birthday gift.

And when the hour arrives, be there, 
Where'er that "there" may be; 
Uncleanly hands or ruffled hair 
Let no one ever see.

If dinner at "half-past" be placed, 
At "half-past" then be dressed.
If at a "quarter-past" make haste 
To be down with the rest.

Better to be before your time, 
Than e'er to be behind; 
To ope the door while strikes the chime, 
That shows a punctual mind.

Moral Let punctuality and care 
Seize every flitting hour, 
So shalt thou cull a floweret fair, 
E'en from a fading flower.

1845


PUZZLE

(To Mary, Ina, and Harriet or "Hartie" Watson.) 
WHEN .a.y and I.a told .a..ie they'd seen a 
Small ..ea.u.e with .i..., 
dressed in crimson and blue, 
.a..ie cried "'Twas a.ai.y! Why, I.a and .a.y, 
I should have been happy if I had been you!"

Said .a.y "You wouldn't." Said I.a "You shouldn't-
Since you ca'n't be us, and we couldn't be you.
You are one, my dear .a..ie, but we are a.a..y, 
And a.i...e.i. tells us that one isn't two."

1869


PUZZLES FROM WONDERLAND

I
DREAMING of apples on a wall, 
And dreaming often, dear, 
I dreamed that, if I counted all, 
-How many would appear?

II
A stick I found that weighed two pound:
I sawed it up one day 
In pieces eight of equal weight!
How much did each piece weigh? 
(Everybody says "a quarter of a pound", which is wrong.)

III
John gave his brother James a box:
About it there were many locks.

James woke and said it gave him pain; 
So gave it back to John again.

The box was not with lid supplied, 
Yet caused two lids to open wide:

And all these locks had never a key-
What kind of a box, then, could it be?

IV
What is most like a bee in May? 
"Well, let me think: perhaps-" you say 
Bravo! You're guessing well to-day!

V
Three sisters at breakfast were feeding the cat, 
The first gave it sole- Puss was grateful for that:
The next gave it salmon- which Puss thought a treat:
The third gave it herring- which Puss wouldn't eat.
(Explain the conduct of the cat.)

VI
Said the Moon to the Sun, 
"Is the daylight begun?" 
Said the Sun to the Moon, 
"Not a minute too soon."

"You're a Full Moon," said he.
She replied with a frown, 
"Well! I never did see 
So uncivil a clown!" 
(Query. Why was the moon so angry?)

VII
WHEN the King found that his money was nearly all gone, and that he really must live more economically, he decided on sending away most of his Wise Men. There were some hundreds of them- very fine old men, and magnificently dressed in green velvet gowns with gold buttons: if they had a fault, it was that they always contradicted one another when he asked for their advice - and they certainly ate and drank enormously. So, on the whole, he was rather glad to get rid of them. But there was an old law, which he did not dare to disobey, which said that there must always be

"Seven blind of both eyes:
Two blind of one eye:
Four that see with both eyes:
Nine that see with one eye." 
(Query. How many did he keep?)

SOLUTIONS

I
Ten.

II
In Shylock's bargain for the flesh was found No mention of the blood that flowed around:
So when the stick was sawed in eight, The sawdust lost diminished from the weight.

III
As curly-headed Jemmy was sleeping in bed, 
His brother John gave him a blow on the head; 

James opened his eyelids, and spying his brother, 
Doubled his fist, and gave him another.

This kind of box then is not so rare; 
The lids are the eyelids, the locks are the hair, 

And so every schoolboy can tell to his cost,
The key to the tangles is constantly lost.

IV
'Twixt "Perhaps" and "May be" Little difference we see:
Let the question go round, The answer is found.

V
That salmon and sole Puss should think very grand 
Is no such remarkable thing.
For more of these dainties Puss took up her stand; 
But when the third sister stretched out her fair hand 
Pray why should Puss swallow her ring?

VI
"In these degenerate days", we oft hear said, 
"Manners are lost and chivalry is dead!" 
No wonder, since in high exalted spheres
The same degeneracy, in fact, appears.
The Moon, in social matters interfering, 
Scolded the Sun, when early in appearing; 
And the rude Sun, her gentle sex ignoring, 
Called her a fool, thus her pretensions flooring.

VII
Five seeing, and seven blind 
Give us twelve, in all, we find; 
But all of these, 'tis very plain, 
Come into account again.
For take notice, it may be true, 
That those blind of one eye are blind for two; 
And consider contrariwise, That to see 
with your eye you may have your eyes; 
So setting one against the other-
For a mathematician no great bother- 
And working the sum, you will understand 
That sixteen wise men still trouble the land.

1870


RHYME? AND REASON?
(To Miss Emmie Drury.) 

"I'm EMInent in RHYME!" she said.
"I make WRY Mouths of RYE-Meal gruel!" 
The Poet smiled, and shook his head:
"Is REASON, then, the missing jewel?"

1883


RIDDLE
(To Miss Gaynor Simpson.)

MY first lends his aid when I plunge into trade:
My second in jollifications:
My whole, laid on thinnish, imparts a neat finish 
To pictorial representations.

Answer: Copal.
1869


RULES AND REGULATIONS

A SHORT direction 
To avoid dejection, 
By variations 
In occupations, 
And prolongation 
Of relaxation, 
And combinations 
Of recreations, 
And disputation 
On the state of the nation 
In adaptation 
To your station, 
By invitations 
To friends and relations, 
By evitation Of amputation, 
By permutation 
In conversation, 
And deep reflection
You'll avoid dejection.

Learn well your grammar, 
And never stammer, 
Write well and neatly, 
And sing most sweetly, 
Be enterprising, 
Love early rising, 
Go walk of six miles, 
Have ready quick smiles, 
With lightsome laughter, 
Soft flowing after.
Drink tea, not coffee; 
Never eat toffy.
Eat bread with butter.
Once more, don't stutter.

Don't waste your money, 
Abstain from honey.
Shut doors behind you, 
(Don't slam them, mind you.) 
Drink beer, not porter.
Don't enter the water 
Till to swim you are able.
Sit close to the table.
Take care of a candle.
Shut a door by the handle, 
Don't push with your shoulder 
Until you are older.
Lose not a button.
Refuse cold mutton.
Starve your canaries.
Believe in fairies.
If you are able, 
Don't have a stable 
With any mangers.
Be rude to strangers.

Moral: Behave.
1845


SAILORS WIFE

SEE! There are tears upon her face-
ears newly shed, and scarcely dried:
Close, in an agonized embrace, 
She clasps the infant at her side.

Peace dwells in those soft-lidded eyes, 
Those parted lips that faintly smile-
Peace, the foretaste of Paradise, 
In heart too young for care or guile.

No peace that mother's features wear; 
But quivering lip, and knotted brow, 
And broken mutterings, all declare 
The fearful dream that haunts her now,

The storm-wind, rushing through the sky, 
Wails from the depths of cloudy space; 
Shrill, piercing as the seaman's cry 
When death and he are face to face.

Familiar tones are in the gale:
They ring upon her startled ear:
And quick and low she pants the tale 
That tells of agony and fear:

"Still that phantom-ship is nigh-
With a vexed and life-like motion, 
All beneath an angry sky, 
Rocking on an angry ocean.

"Round the straining mast and shrouds 
Throng the spirits of the storm:
Darkly seen through driving clouds, 
Bends each gaunt and ghastly form.

"See! The good ship yields at last!
Dumbly yields, and fights no more; 
Driving, in the frantic blast, 
Headlong on the fatal shore.

"Hark! I hear her battered side,
With a low and sullen shock, 
Dashed, amid the foaming tide, 
Full upon a sunken rock.

"His face shines out against the sky, 
Like a ghost, so cold and white; 
With a dead despairing eye 
Gazing through the gathered night.

"Is he watching, through the dark, 
Where a mocking ghostly hand 
Points a faint and feeble spark 
Glimmering from the distant land?

"Sees he, in this hour of dread, 
Hearth and home and wife and child? 
Loved ones who, in summers fled, 
Clung to him and wept and smiled?

"Reeling sinks the fated bark 
To her tomb beneath the wave:
Must he perish in the dark-
Not a hand stretched out to save?

"See the spirits, how they crowd!
Watching death with eyes that burn!
Waves rush in-" she shrieks aloud, 
Ere her waking sense return.

The storm is gone: the skies are clear:
Hush'd is that bitter cry of pain:
The only sound, that meets her ear, 
The heaving of the sullen main.

Though heaviness endure the night, 
Yet joy shall come with break of day:
She shudders with a strange delight-
The fearful dream is pass'd away.

She wakes: the gray dawn streaks the dark:
With early song the copses ring:
Far off she hears the watch-dog bark 
A joyful bark of welcoming!

Feb. 23, 1857.


SEA DIRGE
THERE are certain things- as, a spider, a ghost, 
The income-tax, gout, an umbrella for three-
That I hate, but the thing that I hate the most 
Is a thing they call the Sea.

Pour some salt water over the floor-
Ugly I'm sure you'll allow it to be:
Suppose it extended a mile or more, 
That's very like the Sea.

Beat a dog till it howls outright-
Cruel, but all very well for a spree:
Suppose that he did so day and night, 
That would be like the Sea.

I had a vision of nursery-maids; 
Tens of thousands passed by me-
All leading children with wooden spades, 
And this was by the Sea.

Who invented those spades of wood? 
Who was it cut them out of the tree? 
None, I think, but an idiot could-
Or one that loved the Sea.

It is pleasant and dreamy, no doubt, to float 
With "thoughts as boundless, and souls as free":
But, suppose you are very unwell in the boat, 
How do you like the Sea?

There is an insect that people avoid 
(Whence is derived the verb "to flee").
Where have you been by it most annoyed? 
In lodgings by the Sea.

If you like your coffee with sand for dregs, 
A decided hint of salt in your tea, 
And a fishy taste in the very eggs-
By all means choose the Sea.

And if, with these dainties to drink and eat,
You prefer not a vestige of grass or tree, 
And a chronic state of wet in your feet, 
Then- I recommend the Sea.

For I have friends who dwell by the coast-
Pleasant friends they are to me!
It is when I am with them I wonder most 
That anyone likes the Sea.

They take me a walk: though tired and stiff, 
To climb the heights I madly agree; 
And, after a tumble or so from the 
cliff, They kindly suggest the Sea.

I try the rocks, and I think it cool 
That they laugh with such an excess of glee, 
As I heavily slip into every pool 
That skirts the cold cold Sea.

1861


SIZE AND TEARS

WHEN on the sandy shore I sit, 
Beside the salt sea-wave, 
And falling into a weeping fit
Because I dare not shave-
A little whisper at my ear 
Enquires 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! You're 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!

1863


SOLITUDE

I LOVE the stillness of the wood:
I love the music of the rill:
I love to couch in pensive mood 
Upon some silent hill.

Scarce heard, beneath yon arching trees, 
The silver-crested ripples pass; 
And, like a mimic brook, the breeze 
Whispers among the grass.

Here from the world I win release, 
Nor scorn of men, nor footstep rude, 
Break in to mar the holy peace 
Of this great solitude.

Here may the silent tears I weep 
Lull the vexed spirit into rest, 
As infants sob themselves to sleep 
Upon a mother's breast.

But when the bitter hour is gone, 
And the keen throbbing pangs are still, 
Oh, sweetest then to couch alone 
Upon some silent hill!

To live in joys that once have been, 
To put the cold world out of sight, 
And deck life's drear and barren scene 
With hues of rainbow-light.

For what to man the gift of breath, 
If sorrow be his lot below; 
If all the day that ends in death 
Be dark with clouds of woe?

Shall the poor transport of an hour 
Repay long years of sore distress-
The fragrance of a lonely flower 
Make glad the wilderness?

Ye golden hours of Life's young spring,
Of innocence, of love and truth!
Bright, beyond all imagining, 
Thou fairy-dream of youth!

I'd give all wealth that years have piled, 
The slow result of Life's decay, 
To be once more a little child 
For one bright summer-day.

March 16, 1853.


STOLEN WATERS
THE light was faint, and soft the air 
That breathed around the place; 
And she was lithe, and tall, and fair, 
And with a wayward grace 
Her queenly head she bare.

With glowing cheek, with gleaming eye, 
She met me on the way:
My spirit owned the witchery 
Within her smile that lay:
I followed her, I know not why.

The trees were thick with many a fruit, 
The grass with many a flower:
My soul was dead, my tongue was mute, 
In that accursed hour.

And, in my dream, with silvery voice, 
She said, or seemed to say,
"Youth is the season to rejoice"-
I could not choose but stay:
I could not say her nay.

She plucked a branch above her head; 
With rarest fruitage laden:
"Drink of the juice, Sir Knight," she said:
"'Tis good for knight and maiden."

Oh, blind mine eye that would not trace-
Oh, deaf mine ear that would not heed-
The mocking smile upon her face, The 
mocking voice of greed!

I drank the juice; and straightway felt 
A fire within my brain:
My soul within me seemed to melt 
In sweet delirious pain.

"Sweet is the stolen draught," she said:
"Hath sweetness stint or measure? 
Pleasant the secret hoard of bread:
What bars us from our pleasure?"

"Yea, take we pleasure while we may," 
I heard myself replying.
In the red sunset, far away, 
My happier life was dying:
My heart was sad, my voice was gay.

And unawares, I knew not how, 
I kissed her dainty finger-tips, 
I kissed her on the lily brow, 
I kissed her on the false, false lips-
That burning kiss, I feel it now!

"True love gives true love of the best:
Then take", I cried, "my heart to thee!" 
The very heart from out my breast 
I plucked, I gave it willingly:
Her very heart she gave to me-
Then died the glory from the west.

In the gray light I saw her face,
And it was withered, old, and gray; 
The flowers were fading in their place, 
Were fading with the fading day.

Forth from her, like a hunted deer, 
Through all that ghastly night I fled, 
And still behind me seemed to hear 
Her fierce unflagging tread; 
And scarce drew breath for fear.

Yet marked I well how strangely seemed 
The heart within my breast to sleep:
Silent it lay, or so I dreamed, 
With never a throb or leap.

For hers was now my heart, she said, 
The heart that once had been mine own:
And in my breast I bore instead 
A cold, cold heart of stone.
So grew the morning overhead.

The sun shot downward through the trees
His old familiar flame:
All ancient sounds upon the breeze 
From copse and meadow came-
But I was not the same.

They call me mad: I smile, I weep, 
Uncaring how or why:
Yea, when one's heart is laid asleep, 
What better than to die? 
So that the grave be dark and deep.

To die! To die? And yet, methinks, 
I drink of life, to-day, 
Deep as the thirsty traveler drinks 
Of fountain by the way:
My voice is sad, my heart is gay.

When yestereve was on the wane, 
I heard a clear voice singing 
So sweetly that, like summer-rain, 
My happy tears came springing:
My human heart returned again.

"A rosy child, 
Sitting and singing, in a garden fair, 
The joy of hearing, seeing, 
The simple joy of being-
Or twining rosebuds in the golden hair 
That ripples free and wild.

"A sweet pale child-
Wearily looking to the purple West-
Waiting the great For-ever 
That suddenly shall sever The cruel 
chains that hold her from her rest-
By earth-joys unbeguiled.

"An angel-child-
Gazing with living eyes on a dead face:
The mortal form forsaken, 
That none may now awaken, 
That lieth painless, moveless in her place, 
As though in death she smiled!

"Be as a child-
So shalt thou sing for very joy of breath-
So shalt thou wait thy dying, 
In holy transport lying-
So Pass rejoicing through the gate of death, 
In garment undefiled."

Then call me what they will, 
I know That now my soul is glad:
If this be madness, better so, 
Far better to be mad, 
Weeping or smiling as I go.

For if I weep, it is that now 
I see how deep a loss is mine, 
And feel how brightly round my brow 
The coronal might shine, 
Had I but kept mine early vow:

And if I smile, it is that now 
I see the promise of the years-
The garland waiting for my brow,
That must be won with tears, 
With pain- with death- I care not how.

May 9, 1862.


THEME WITH VARIATIONS

[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 recognizing 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 recognize 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 admire
And 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.

1869


THOSE HORRID HURDY-GURDIES!
A MONODY, BY A VICTIM 

"MY mother bids me bind my hair," 
And not go about such a figure; 
It's a bother, of course, but what do I care? 
I shall do as I please when I'm bigger.

"My lodging is on the cold, cold ground," 
As the first-floor and attic were taken.
I tried the garret but once, and found 
That my wish for a change was mistaken.

"Ever of thee!" yes, "Ever of thee!" 
They chatter more and more, 
Till I groan aloud, "Oh! let me be!
I have heard it all before!"

"Please remember the organ, sir," 
What? hasn't he left me yet? 
I promise, good man; for its tedious burr 
I never can forget.

1861.


THREE CHILDREN
(To Miss Mary Watson.) 

THREE children (their names were so fearful 
You'll excuse me for leaving them out) 
Sat silent, with faces all tearful-
What was it about?

They were sewing, but needles are prickly, 
And fingers were cold as could be-
So they didn't get on very quickly, 
And they wept, silly Three!

"O Mother!" said they, "Guildford's not a 
Nice place for the winter, that's flat.
If you know any country that's hotter, 
Please take us to that!"

"Cease crying," said she, "little daughter!
And when summer comes back with the flowers, 
You shall roam by the edge of the water,
In sunshiny hours."

"And in summer", said sorrowful Mary, 
"We shall hear the shrill scream of the train 
That will bring that dear writer of fairy-
tales hither again."

(Now the person she meant to allude to 
Was- well it is best to forget.
It was some one she always was rude to, 
Whenever they met.)

"It's my duty", their Mother continued, 
"To fill with things useful and right 
Your small minds: if I put nothing in, you'd 
Be ignorant quite.

But enough now of lessons and thinking:
Your meal is quite ready, I see-
So attend to your eating and drinking, 
You thirsty young Three!" 

Apr. 10, 1871.


THREE LITTLE MAIDS
(To the three Misses Drury.) 

THREE little maids, one winter day, 
While others went to feed, 
To sing, to laugh, to dance, to play, 
More wisely went to - Reed.

Others, when lesson-time's begun, 
Go, half inclined to cry, 
Some in a walk, some in a run; 
But these went in a - Fly.

I give to other little maids 
A smile, a kiss, a look, 
Presents whose memory quickly fades; 
I give to these - a Book.

Happy Arcadia may blind, 
While all abroad, their eyes; 
At home, this book (I trust) they'll find 
A very catching prize.

1869


THREE SUNSETS

HE saw her once, and in the glance, 
A moment's glance of meeting eyes, 
His heart stood still in sudden trance:
He trembled with a sweet surprise-
All in the waning light she stood, 
The star of perfect womanhood.

That summer-eve his heart was light:
With lighter step he trod the ground:
And life was fairer in his sight, 
And music was in every sound:
He blessed the world where there could be 
So beautiful a thing as she.

There once again, as evening fell 
And stars were peering overhead, 
Two lovers met to bid farewell:
The western sun gleamed faint and red, 
Lost in a drift of purple cloud
That wrapped him like a funeral-shroud.

Long time the memory of that night-
The hand that clasped, the lips that kissed, 
The form that faded from his sight 
Slow sinking through the tearful mist-
In dreamy music seemed to roll 
Through the dark chambers of his soul.

So after many years he came 
A wanderer from a distant shore:
The street, the house, were still the same, 
But those he sought were there no more:
His burning words, his hopes and fears, 
Unheeded fell on alien ears.

Only the children from their play 
Would pause the mournful tale to hear, 
Shrinking in half-alarm away, 
Or, step by step, would venture near 
To touch with timid curious hands 
That strange wild man from other lands.

He sat beside the busy street, 
There, where he last had seen her face; 
And thronging memories, bitter-sweet, 
Seemed yet to haunt the ancient place:
Her footfall ever floated near:
Her voice was ever in his ear.

He sometimes, as the daylight waned 
And evening mists began to roll, 
In half-soliloquy complained 
Of that black shadow on his soul, 
And blindly fanned, with cruel care, 
The ashes of a vain despair.

The summer fled: the lonely man 
Still lingered out the lessening days:
Still, as the night drew on, would scan 
Each passing face with closer gaze-
Till, sick at heart, he turned away, 
And sighed "She will not come to-day."

So by degrees his spirit bent
To mock its own despairing cry, 
In stern self-torture to invent 
New luxuries of agony, 
And people all the vacant space 
With visions of her perfect face.

Then for a moment she was nigh, 
He heard no step, but she was there; 
As if an angel suddenly 
Were bodied from the viewless air, 
And all her fine ethereal frame 
Should fade as swiftly as it came.

So, half in fancy's sunny trance, 
And half in misery's aching void, 
With set and stony countenance 
His bitter being he enjoyed, 
And thrust for ever from his mind 
The happiness he could not find.

As when the wretch, in lonely room, 
To selfish death is madly hurled,
The glamour of that fatal fume 
Shuts out the wholesome living world-
So all his manhood's strength and pride One 
sickly dream had swept aside.

Yea, brother, and we passed him there, 
But yesterday, in merry mood, 
And marvelled at the lordly air 
That shamed his beggar's attitude, 
Nor heeded that ourselves might be 
Wretches as desperate as he;

Who let the thought of bliss denied 
Make havoc of our life and powers, 
And pine, in solitary pride, 
For peace that never shall be ours, 
Because we will not work and wait 
In trustful patience for our fate.

And so it chanced once more that she 
Came by the old familiar spot:
The face he would have died to see
Bent o'er him, and he knew it not; 
Too rapt in selfish grief to hear, 
Even when happiness was near.

And pity filled her gentle breast 
For him that would not stir nor speak, 
The dying crimson of the west, 
That faintly tinged his haggard cheek, 
Fell on her as she stood, and shed 
A glory round the patient head.

Ah, let him wake! The moments fly:
This awful tryst may be the last.
And see, the tear, that dimmed her eye, 
Had fallen on him ere she passed-
She passed: the crimson paled to gray:
And hope departed with the day.

The heavy hours of night went by, 
And silence quickened into sound, 
And light slid up the eastern sky, 
And life began its daily round-
But light and life for him were fled:
His name was numbered with the dead.

Nov. 1861.


THE THREE VOICES

A parody of Tennyson's poem "The Two Voices." 

FIRST VOICE HE trilled a carol fresh and free, 
He laughed aloud for very glee:
There came a breeze from off the sea:

It passed athwart the glooming flat-
It fanned his forehead as he sat-
It lightly bore away his hat,

All to the feet of one who stood 
Like maid enchanted in a wood, 
Frowning as darkly as she could.

With huge umbrella, lank and brown, 
Unerringly she pinned it down, 
Right through the centre of the crown.

Then, with an aspect cold and grim, 
Regardless of its battered rim,
She took it up and gave it him.

A while like one in dreams he stood, 
Then faltered forth his gratitude 
In words just short of being rude:

For it had lost its shape and shine, 
And it had cost him four-and-nine, 
And he was going out to dine.

"To dine!" she sneered in acid tone 
"To bend thy being to a bone 
Clothed in a radiance not its own!"

The tear-drop trickled to his chin:
There was a meaning in her grin 
That made him feel on fire within.

"Term it not 'radiance'," said he:
"'Tis solid nutriment to me.
Dinner is Dinner: Tea is Tea."

And she, "Yea so? Yet wherefore cease? 
Let thy scant knowledge find increase.
Say 'Men are Men, and Geese are Geese'."

He moaned: he knew not what to say.
The thought "That I could get away!" 
Strove with the thought "But I must stay".

"To dine!" she shrieked in dragon-wrath.
"To swallow wines all foam and froth!
To simper at a table-cloth!

"Say, can thy noble spirit stoop 
To join the gormandizing troop 
Who find a solace in the soup?

"Canst thou desire or pie or puff? 
Thy well-bred manners were enough, 
Without such gross material stuff."

"Yet well-bred men", he faintly said, 
"Are not unwilling to be fed:
Nor are they well without the bread."

Her visage scorched him ere she spoke:
"There are", she said, "a kind of folk 
Who have no horror of a joke.

"Such wretches live: they take their share 
Of common earth and common air:
We come across them here and there:

"We grant them- there is no escape-
A sort of semi-human shape 
Suggestive of the man-like Ape."

"In all such theories", said he, 
"One fixed exception there must be.
That is, the Present Company."

Baffled, she gave a wolfish bark:
He, aiming blindly in the dark, 
With random shaft had pierced the mark.

She felt that her defeat was plain, 
Yet madly strove with might and main 
To get the upper hand again.

Fixing her eyes upon the beach, 
As though unconscious of his speech, 
She said "Each gives to more than each".

He could not answer yea or nay:
He faltered "Gifts may pass away".
Yet knew not what he meant to say.

"If that be so," she straight replied, 
"Each heart with each doth coincide.
What boots it? For the world is wide."

"The world is but a Thought," said he:
"The vast unfathomable sea 
Is but a Notion- unto me."

And darkly fell her answer dread 
Upon his unresisting head,
Like half a hundredweight of lead.

"The Good and Great must ever shun 
That reckless and abandoned one 
Who stoops to perpetrate a pun.

"The man that smokes- that reads The Times-
That goes to Christmas Pantomimes-
Is capable of any crimes!"

He felt it was his turn to speak, 
And, with a shamed and crimson cheek, 
Moaned "This is harder than Bezique!"

But when she asked him "Wherefore so?" 
He felt his very whiskers glow, 
And frankly owned "I do not know".

While, like broad waves of golden grain, 
Or sunlit hues on cloistered pane, 
His colour came and went again.

Pitying his obvious distress, 
Yet with a tinge of bitterness, 
She said "The More exceeds the Less".

"A (A truth of such undoubted weight", 
He urged, "and so extreme in date, 
It were superfluous to state."

Roused into sudden passion, she 
In tone of cold malignity:
"To others, yea: but not to thee."

But when she saw him quail and quake, 
And when he urged "For pity's sake!" 
Once more in gentle tones she spake.

"Thought in the mind doth still abide 
That is by Intellect supplied, 
And within that Idea doth hide:

"And he, that yearns the truth to know 
Still further inwardly may go,
And find Idea from Notion flow:

"And thus the chain, that sages sought, 
Is to a glorious circle wrought, 
For Notion hath its source in Thought."

So passed they on with even pace:
Yet gradually one might trace 
A shadow growing on his face.

SECOND VOICE 

THEY walked beside the wave-worn beach:
Her tongue was very apt to teach, 
And now and then he did beseech

She would abate her dulcet tone, 
Because the talk was all her own, 
And he was dull as any drone.

She urged "No cheese is made of chalk":
And ceaseless flowed her dreary talk, 
Tuned to the footfall of a walk.

Her voice was very full and rich, 
And, when at length she asked him "Which?" 
It mounted to its highest pitch.

He a bewildered answer gave, 
Drowned in the sullen moaning wave, 
Lost in the echoes of the cave.

He answered her he knew not what:
Like shaft from bow at random shot, 
He spoke, but she regarded not.

She waited not for his reply, 
But with a downward leaden eye 
Went on as if he were not by-

Sound argument and grave defence, 
Strange questions raised on "Why?" and "Whence?" 
And wildly tangled evidence.

When he, with racked and whirling brain, 
Feebly implored her to explain,
She simply said it all again.

Wrenched with an agony intense, 
He spake, neglecting Sound and Sense, 
And careless of all consequence:

"Mind- I believe- is Essence- Ent-
Abstract- that is- an Accident-
Which we- that is to say- I meant-"

When, with quick breath and cheeks all flushed, 
At length his speech was somewhat hushed, 
She looked at him, and he was crushed.

It needed not her calm reply:
She fixed him with a stony eye, 
And he could neither fight nor fly.

While she dissected, word by word, 
His speech, half-guessed at and half-heard, 
As might a cat a little bird.

Then, having wholly overthrown 
His views, and stripped them to the bone, 
Proceeded to unfold her own.

"Shall Man be Man? And shall he miss 
Of other thoughts no thought but this, 
Harmonious dews of sober bliss?

"What boots it? Shall his fevered eye 
Through towering nothingness descry 
The grisly phantom hurry by?

"And hear dumb shrieks that fill the air:
See mouths that gape, and eyes that stare 
And redden in the dusky glare?

"The meadows breathing amber light, 
The darkness toppling from the height, 
The feathery train of granite Night?

"Shall he, grown gray among his peers, 
Through the thick curtain of his tears
Catch glimpses of his earlier years,

"And hear the sounds he knew of yore, 
Old shufflings on the sanded floor, 
Old knuckles tapping at the door?

"Yet stir before him as he flies 
One pallid form shall ever rise, 
And, bodying forth in glassy eyes

"The vision of a vanished good, 
Low peering through the tangled wood, 
Shall freeze the current of his blood."

Still from each fact, with skill uncouth 
And savage rapture, like a tooth 
She wrenched some slow reluctant truth.

Till, like a silent water-mill, 
When summer suns have dried the rill, 
She reached a full stop, and was still.

Dead calm succeeded to the fuss, 
As when the loaded omnibus 
Has reached the railway terminus:

When, for the tumult of the street, 
Is heard the engine's stifled beat, 
The velvet tread of porters' feet.

With glance that ever sought the ground, 
She moved her lips without a sound, 
And every now and then she frowned.

He gazed upon the sleeping sea, 
And joyed in its tranquillity, 
And in that silence dead, but she

To muse a little space did seem, 
Then, like the echo of a dream, 
Harked back upon her threadbare theme.

Still an attentive ear he lent 
But could not fathom what she meant:
She was not deep, nor eloquent.

He marked the ripple on the sand:
The even swaying of her hand 
Was all that he could understand.

He saw in dreams a drawing-room, 
Where thirteen wretches sat in gloom, 
Waiting- he thought he knew for whom:

He saw them drooping here and there, 
Each feebly huddled on a chair, 
In attitudes of blank despair:

Oysters were not more mute than they, 
For all their brains were pumped away, 
And they had nothing more to say-

Save one, who groaned "Three hours are gone!" 
Who shrieked "We'll wait no longer, John!
Tell them to set the dinner on!" 

The vision passed: the ghosts were fled:
He saw once more that woman dread:
He heard once more the words she said.

He left her, and he turned aside:
He sat and watched the coming tide 
Across the shores so newly dried.

He wondered at the waters clear, 
The breeze that whispered in his ear, 
The billows heaving far and near,

And why he had so long preferred 
To hang upon her every word:
"In truth", he said, "it was absurd." 

THIRD VOICE 

NOT long this transport held its place:
Within a little moment's space 
Quick tears were raining down his face.

His heart stood still, aghast with fear; 
A wordless voice, nor far nor near, 
He seemed to hear and not to hear.

"Tears kindle not the doubtful spark.
If so, why not? Of this remark 
The bearings are profoundly dark."

"Her speech", he said, "hath caused this pain.
Easier I count it to explain 
The jargon of the howling main,

"Or, stretched beside some babbling brook, 
To con, with inexpressive look, 
An unintelligible book."

Low spake the voice within his head, 
In words imagined more than said, 
Soundless as ghost's intended tread:

"If thou art duller than before, 
Why quittedst thou the voice of lore? 
Why not endure, expecting more?" 

"Rather than that", he groaned aghast, 
"I'd writhe in depths of cavern vast, 
Some loathly vampire's rich repast."

"'Twere hard," it answered, "themes immense 
To coop within the narrow fence 
That rings thy scant intelligence."

"Not so," he urged, "nor once alone:
But there was something in her tone 
That chilled me to the very bone.

"Her style was anything but clear, 
And most unpleasantly severe; 
Her epithets were very queer.

"And yet, so grand were her replies, 
I could not choose but deem her wise; 
I did not dare to criticise;

"Nor did I leave her, till she went 
So deep in tangled argument 
That all my powers of thought were spent."

A little whisper inly slid, 
"Yet truth is truth: you know you did."
A little wink beneath the lid.

And, sickened with excess of dread, 
Prone to the dust he bent his head, 
And lay like one three-quarters dead.

The whisper left him- like a breeze 
Lost in the depths of leafy trees-
Left him by no means at his ease.

Once more he weltered in despair, 
With hands, through denser-matted hair, 
More tightly clenched than then they were.

When, bathed in Dawn of living red, 
Majestic frowned the mountain head, 
"Tell me my fault," was all he said.

When, at high Noon, the blazing sky 
Scorched in his head each haggard eye, 
Then keenest rose his weary cry.

And when at Eve the unpitying sun
Smiled grimly on the solemn fun, 
"Alack," he sighed, "what have I done?"

But saddest, darkest was the sight, 
When the cold grasp of leaden Night 
Dashed him to earth, and held him tight.

Tortured, unaided, and alone, 
Thunders were silence to his groan, 
Bagpipes sweet music to its tone:

"What? Ever thus, in dismal round, 
Shall Pain and Mystery profound 
Pursue me like a sleepless hound,

"With crimson-dashed and eager jaws, 
Me, still in ignorance of the cause, 
Unknowing what I broke of laws?"

The whisper to his ear did seem 
Like echoed flow of silent stream, 
Or shadow of forgotten dream,

The whisper trembling in the wind:
"Her fate with thine was intertwined," 
So spake it in his inner mind:

"Each orbed on each a baleful star:
Each proved the other's blight and bar:
Each unto each were best, most far:

"Yea, each to each was worse than foe:
Thou, a scared dullard, gibbering low, 
AND SHE, AN AVALANCHE OF WOE!"

1856


TO M.A.B.
(To Miss Marion Terry, "Mary Ann Bessie Terry.")

THE royal MAB, dethroned, discrowned 
By fairy rebels wild, 
Has found a home on English ground, 
And lives an English child.
I know it, Maiden, when I see 
A fairy-tale upon your knee-
And note the page that idly lingers 
Beneath those still and listless fingers-
And mark those dreamy looks that stray 
To some bright vision far away, 
Still seeking, in the pictured story, 
The memory of a vanished glory.

1869


TO MY CHILD FRIEND
DEDICATION TO "THE GAME OF LOGIC".

I CHARM in vain: for never again, 
All keenly as my glance I bend, 
Will Memory, goddess coy, 
Embody for my joy 
Departed days, nor let me gaze 
On thee, my Fairy Friend!

Yet could thy face, in mystic grace, 
A moment smile on me, 'twould send 
Far-darting rays of light 
From Heaven athwart the night, 
By which to read in very deed 
Thy spirit, sweetest Friend!

So may the stream of Life's long dream 
Flow gently onward to its end, 
With many a floweret gay, 
A-down its willowy way:
May no sigh vex, no care perplex, 
My loving little Friend!

1886.


TO THREE PUZZLED LITTLE GIRLS, 
FROM THE AUTHOR 
(To the three Misses Drury.)

THREE little maidens weary of the rail, 
Three pairs of little ears listening to a tale, 
Three little hands held out in readiness, 
For three little puzzles very hard to guess.
Three pairs of little eyes, open wonder-wide, 
At three little scissors lying side by side.
Three little mouths that thanked an unknown Friend, 
For one little book, he undertook to send.
Though whether they'll remember a friend, or book, or day-
In three little weeks is very hard to say.

August 1869.


TWO ACROSTICS
(To Miss Ruth Dymes.) 

ROUND the wondrous globe I wander wild, 
Up and down-hill- Age succeeds to youth-
Toiling all in vain to find a child 
Half so loving, half so dear as Ruth.

(To Miss Margaret Dymes.)

MAIDENS, if a maid you meet 
Always free from pout and pet, 
Ready smile and temper sweet, 
Greet my little Margaret.
And if loved by all she be 
Rightly, not a pampered pet, 
Easily you then may see 
'Tis my little Margaret.

1869


THE TWO BROTHERS

THERE were two brothers at Twyford school, 
And when they had left the place, 
It was, "Will ye learn Greek and 
Latin? Or will ye run me a race? 
Or will ye go up to yonder bridge, 
And there we will angle for dace?"

"I'm too stupid for Greek and for Latin, 
I'm too lazy by half for a race, 
So I'll even go up to yonder bridge, 
And there we will angle for dace."

He has fitted together two joints of his rod, 
And to them he has added another, 
And then a great hook he took from his 
book, And ran it right into his brother.

Oh much is the noise that is made among boys 
When playfully pelting a pig, 
But a far greater pother was made by his 
brother When flung from the top of the brigg.

The fish hurried up by the dozens, 
All ready and eager to bite, 
For the lad that he flung was so tender and young, 
It quite gave them an appetite.

Said he, "Thus shall he wallop about 
And the fish take him quite at their ease, 
For me to annoy it was ever his joy, 
Now I'll teach him the meaning of 'Tees'!"

The wind to his ear brought a voice, 
"My brother, you didn't had ought ter!
And what have I done that you think it such fun 
To indulge in the pleasure of slaughter?

"A good nibble or bite is my chiefest delight, 
When I'm merely expected to see, 
But a bite from a fish is not quite what 
I wish, When I get it performed upon me; 
And just now here's a swarm of dace at my arm, 
And a perch has got hold of my knee.

"For water my thirst was not great at the first, 
And of fish I have quite sufficien-" 
"Oh fear not!" he cried, "for whatever betide, 
We are both in the selfsame condition!

"I am sure that our state's very nearly alike 
(Not considering the question of slaughter), 
For I have my perch on the top of the bridge, 
And you have your perch in the water.

"I stick to my perch and your perch sticks to you, 
We are really extremely alike; 
I've a turn-pike up here, and I very much fear 
You may soon have a turn with a pike."

"Oh, grant but one wish! If I'm took by a fish 
(For your bait is your brother, good man!) 
Pull him up if you like, but I hope you will strike 
As gently as ever you can."

"If the fish be a trout, I'm afraid there's no doubt 
I must strike him like lightning that's greased; 
If the fish be a pike, I'll engage not, to strike, 
Till I've waited ten minutes at least."

"But in those ten minutes to desolate Fate 
Your brother a victim may fall!" 
"I'll reduce it to five, so perhaps you'll survive, 
But the chance is exceedingly small."

"Oh hard is your heart for to act such a part; 
Is it iron, or granite, or steel?" 
"Why, I really can't say- it is many a day 
Since my heart was accustomed to feel.

"'Twas my heart-cherished wish for to slay many fish 
Each day did my malice grow worse, 
For my heart didn't soften with doing it so often 
But rather, I should say, the reverse."

"Oh would I were back at Twyford school, 
Learning lessons in fear of the birch!" 
"Nay, brother!" he cried, "for whatever betide, 
You are better off here with your perch!

"I am sure you'll allow you are happier now, 
With nothing to do but to play; 
And this single line here, it is perfectly 
clear, Is much better than thirty a day!

"And as to the rod hanging over your head, 
And apparently ready to fall, 
That, you know, was the case, when you lived in that place, 
So it need not be reckoned at all.

"Do you see that old trout with a turn-up-nose snout? 
(Just to speak on a pleasanter theme), 
Observe, my dear brother, our love for each other-
He's the one I like best in the stream.

"To-morrow I mean to invite him to dine 
(We shall all of us think it a treat); 
If the day should be fine, I'll just drop him 
a line, And we'll settle what time we're to meet.

"He hasn't been into society yet, 
And his manners are not of the best, 
So I think it quite fair that it should be my care, 
To see that he's properly dressed."

Many words brought the wind of "cruel" and "kind", 
And that "man suffers more than the brute":
Each several word with patience he heard, 
And answered with wisdom to boot.

"What? prettier swimming in the stream, 
Than lying all snugly and flat? 
Do but look at that dish filled with glittering fish, 
Has Nature a picture like that?

"What? a higher delight to be drawn from the sight 
Of fish full of life and of glee? 
What a noodle you are! 'tis delightfuller far 
To kill them than let them go free!

"I know there are people who prate by the hour 
Of the beauty of earth, sky, and ocean; 
Of the birds as they fly, of the fish darting by, 
Rejoicing in Life and in Motion.

"As to any delight to be got from the sight, 
It is all very well for a flat, 
But I think it all gammon, for hooking a salmon 
Is better than twenty of that!

"They say that a man of a right-thinking mind 
Will love the dumb creatures he sees-
What's the use of his mind, if he's never inclined 
To pull a fish out of the Tees?

"Take my friends and my home- as an outcast I'll roam:
Take the money I have in the Bank; 
It is just what I wish, but deprive me of fish, 
And my life would indeed be a blank!"

Forth from the house his sister came, 
Her brothers for to see, 
But when she saw that sight of awe, 
The tear stood in her e'e.

"Oh what bait's that upon your hook, 
My brother, tell to me?" 
"It is but the fantailed pigeon, 
He would not sing for me."

"Whoe'er would expect a pigeon to sing, 
A simpleton he must be!
But a pigeon-cote is a different thing 
To the coat that there I see!"

"Oh what bait's that upon your hook, 
Dear brother, tell to me?" 
"It is my younger brother," he cried, 
"Oh woe and dole is me!

"I's mighty wicked, that I is!
Or how could such things be? 
Farewell, farewell, sweet sister, 
I'm going o'er the sea."

"And when will you come back again, 
My brother, tell to me?" 
"When chub is good for human food, 
And that will never be!"

She turned herself right round about, 
And her heart brake into three, 
Said, "One of the two will be wet through and through, 
And t'other'll be late for his tea!" 

(1853)


TWO POEMS TO RACHEL DANIEL

I
"OH pudgy podgy pup!
Why did they wake you up? 
Those crude nocturnal yells 
Are not like silver bells:
Nor ever would recall 
Sweet Music's 'dying fall'.
They rather bring to mind 
The bitter winter wind 
Through keyholes shrieking shrilly 
When nights are dark and chilly:
Or like some dire duett, 
Or quarrelsome quartette, 
Of cats who chant their joys 
With execrable noise, 
And murder Time and Tune 
To vex the patient Moon!" 

Nov. 1880.

II
FOR "THE GARLAND OF RACHEL" (1881)

WHAT hand may wreathe thy natal crown, 
O tiny tender Spirit-blossom, 
That out of Heaven hast fluttered down 
Into this Earth's cold bosom?

And how shall mortal bard aspire-
All sin-begrimed and sorrow-laden-
To welcome, with the Seraph-choir, 
A pure and perfect Maiden?

Are not God's minstrels ever near, 
Flooding with joy the woodland mazes? 
Which shall we summon, Baby dear, 
To carol forth thy praises?

With sweet sad song the Nightingale 
May soothe the broken hearts that languish 
Where graves are green- the orphans' 
wail, The widow's lonely anguish:

The Turtle-dove with amorous coo 
May chide the blushing maid that lingers 
To twine her bridal wreath anew 
With weak and trembling fingers:

But human loves and human woes 
Would dim the radiance of thy glory 
Only the Lark such music knows 
As fits thy stainless story.

The world may listen as it will-
She recks not, to the skies up-springing:
Beyond our ken she singeth still 
For very joy of singing.

1881


TWO THIEVES
(To the Misses Drury.) 

TWO thieves went out to steal one day 
Thinking that no one knew it:
Three little maids, I grieve to say, 
Encouraged them to do it.

'Tis said that little children should 
Encourage men in stealing!
But these, I've always understood, 
Have got no proper feeling.

An aged friend, who chanced to pass 
Exactly at the minute, 
Said "Children! Take this Looking-glass, 
And see your badness in it."

Jan. 11, 1872.


A VALENTINE
[Sent to a friend who had complained that I was glad enough to see him when he came, but didn't seem to miss him if he stayed away.]

AND cannot pleasures, while they last, 
Be actual unless, when past, 
They leave us shuddering and aghast, 
With anguish smarting? 
And cannot friends be firm and fast, 
And yet bear parting?

And must I then, at Friendship's call, 
Calmly resign the little all 
(Trifling, I grant, it is and small) 
I have of gladness, 
And lend my being to the thrall 
Of gloom and sadness?

And think you that I should be dumb, 
And full dolorum omnium, 
Excepting when you choose to come
And share my dinner? 
At other times be sour and glum 
And daily thinner?

Must he then only live to weep, 
Who'd prove his friendship true and deep, 
By day a lonely shadow creep, 
At night-time languish, 
Oft raising in his broken sleep 
The moan of anguish?

The lover, if for certain days 
His fair one be denied his gaze, 
Sinks not in grief and wild amaze, 
But, wiser wooer, 
He spends the time in writing lays, 
And posts them to her.

And if the verse flow free and fast, 
Till even the poet is aghast, 
A touching Valentine at last 
The post shall carry,
When thirteen days are gone and past 
Of February.

Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet, 
In desert waste or crowded street, 
Perhaps before this week shall fleet, 
Perhaps to-morrow, 
I trust to find your heart the seat 
Of wasting sorrow.

1860


VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH

HARK said the dying man, and sighed, 
To that complaining tone-
Like sprite condemned, each eventide, 
To walk the world alone.
At sunset, when the air is still, 
I hear it creep from yonder hill:
It breathes upon me, dead and chill, 
A moment, and is gone.

My son, it minds me of a day 
Left half a life behind, 
That I have prayed to put away 
For ever from my mind.
But bitter memory will not die:
It haunts my soul when none is nigh:
I hear its whisper in the sigh 
Of that complaining wind.

And now in death my soul is fain 
To tell the tale of fear 
That hidden in my breast hath lain 
Through many a weary year:
Yet time would fail to utter all-
The evil spells that held me thrall, 
And thrust my life from fall to fall, 
Thou needest not to hear.

The spells that bound me with a chain, 
Sin's stern behests to do, 
Till Pleasure's self, invoked in vain, 
A heavy burden grew-
Till from my spirit's fevered eye, 
A hunted thing, I seemed to fly 
Through the dark woods that underlie 
Yon mountain-range of blue.

Deep in those woods I found a vale 
No sunlight visiteth, 
Nor star, nor wandering moonbeam pale; 
Where never comes the breath
Of summer-breeze- there in mine ear, 
Even as I lingered half in fear, 
I heard a whisper, cold and clear, 
"That is the gate of Death.

"O bitter is it to abide 
In weariness alway:
At dawn to sigh for eventide, 
At eventide for day.
Thy noon hath fled: thy sun hath shone:
The brightness of thy day is gone:
What need to lag and linger on 
Till life be cold and gray?

"O well," it said, "beneath yon pool, 
In some still cavern deep, 
The fevered brain might slumber cool, 
The eyes forget to weep:
Within that goblet's mystic rim 
Are draughts of healing, stored for him 
Whose heart is sick, whose sight is dim, 
Who prayeth but to sleep!"

The evening-breeze went moaning by, 
Like mourner for the dead, 
And stirred, with shrill complaining sigh, 
The tree-tops overhead:
My guardian-angel seemed to stand 
And mutely wave a warning hand-
With sudden terror all unmanned, 
I turned myself and fled!

A cottage-gate stood open wide:
Soft fell the dying ray 
On two fair children, side by side, 
That rested from their play-
Together bent the earnest head, 
As ever and anon they read 
From one dear Book: the words they said 
Come back to me to-day.

Like twin cascades on mountain-stair 
Together wandered down 
The ripples of the golden hair,
The ripples of the brown:
While, through the tangled silken haze, 
Blue eyes looked forth in eager gaze, 
More starlike than the gems that blaze 
About a monarch's crown.

My son, there comes to each an hour 
When sinks the spirit's pride-
When weary hands forget their power 
The strokes of death to guide:
In such a moment, warriors say, 
A word the panic-rout may stay, 
A sudden charge redeem the day 
And turn the living tide.

I could not see, for blinding tears, 
The glories of the west:
A heavenly music filled mine ears, 
A heavenly peace my breast.
"Come unto Me, come unto Me-
All ye that labour, unto Me-
Ye heavy-laden, come to Me-
And I will give you rest."

The night drew onwards: thin and blue 
The evening mists arise 
To bathe the thirsty land in dew, 
As erst in Paradise-
While, over silent field and town, 
The deep blue vault of heaven looked down; 
Not, as of old, in angry frown, 
But bright with angels' eyes.

Blest day! Then first I heard the voice 
That since hath oft beguiled 
These eyes from tears, and bid rejoice 
This heart with anguish wild-
Thy mother, boy, thou hast not known; 
So soon she left me here to moan-
Left me to weep and watch, alone, 
Our one beloved child.

Though, parted from my aching sight, 
Like homeward-speeding dove, 
She passed into the perfect light 
That floods the world above; 
Yet our twin spirits, well I know-
Though one abide in pain below-
Love, as in summers long ago, 
And evermore shall love.

So with a glad and patient heart 
I move toward mine end:
The streams, that flow awhile apart, 
Shall both in ocean blend.
I dare not weep: I can but bless 
The Love that pitied my distress, 
And lent me, in Life's wilderness, 
So sweet and true a friend.

But if there be- O if there be 
A truth in what they say, 
That angel-forms we cannot see 
Go with us on our way;
Then surely she is with me here, 
I dimly feel her spirit near-
The morning-mists grow thin and clear, 
And Death brings in the Day.

April 1868.


THE WILLOW TREE

THE morn was bright, the steeds were light, 
The wedding guests were gay:
Young Ellen stood within the wood 
And watched them pass away.
She scarcely saw the gallant train:
The tear-drop dimmed her e'e:
Unheard the maiden did complain 
Beneath the Willow-Tree.

"Oh, Robin, thou didst love me well, 
Till, on a bitter day, She came, the Lady Isabel, 
And stole thy heart away.
My tears are vain: I live again 
In days that used to be, 
When I could meet thy welcome feet 
Beneath the Willow-Tree.

"Oh, Willow gray, I may not stay 
Till Spring renew thy leaf; 
But I will hide myself away, 
And nurse a lonely grief.
It shall not dim Life's joy for him:
My tears he shall not see:
While he is by, I'll come not nigh 
My weeping Willow-Tree.

"But when I die, oh, let me lie 
Beneath thy loving shade, 
That he may loiter careless by, 
Where I am lowly laid.
And let the white white marble tell, 
If he should stoop to see, 
'Here lies a maid that loved thee well, 
Beneath the Willow-Tree.'"

1859.


YE CARPETTE KNYGHTE

A poem written with pseudo-medieval spelling. Despite Carroll's ignorance of basic medieval English, its appeal to his imagination led to this experiment.

I HAVE a horse- a ryghte goode horse-
Ne doe I envye those 
Who scoure ye playne yn headye course 
Tyll soddayne on theyre nose 
They lyghte wyth unexpected force 
Yt ys- a horse of clothes.

I have a saddel- "Say'st thou soe? 
Wyth styrruppes, Knyghte, to boote?" 
I sayde not that- I answere "Noe"-
Yt lacketh such, I woote:
Yt ys a mutton-saddel, loe!
Parte of ye fleecye brute.

I have a bytte- a ryghte good bytte-
As shall bee seene yn tyme.
Ye jawe of horse yt wyll not fytte; 
Yts use ys more sublyme.
Fayre Syr, how deemest thou of yt? 
Yt ys- thys bytte of rhyme.

1856