Fringilla: Some Tales In Verse

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Title: Fringilla: Some Tales In Verse
Author: Richard Doddridge Blackmore
Illustrator: Louis Fairfax-Muckley and James W. R. Linton
Release Date: August 31, 2007 [EBook #22474]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
0. START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRINGILLA:
SOME TALES IN VERSE ***
Produced by David Widger
FRINGILLA: SOME TALES IN VERSE
By Richard Doddridge Blackmore
Illustrated by Louis Fairfax-Muckley and James W. R. Linton
CONTENTS:
TO MY PEN
LITA OF THE NILE

KADISHA; OR, THE FIRST JEALOUSY
MOUNT ARAFA
THE WELL OF SAINT JOHN
PAUSIAS AND GLYCERA; OR, THE FIRST
FLOWER-PAINTER
BUSCOMBE; OR, A MICHAELMAS GOOSE
FAME
[Illustration: 013]
[_Fringilla loquitur_]
"What means your finch?"
"Being well aware that he cannot sing like a Nightingale,
He flits
about from tree to tree, and twitters a little tale."
Albeit he is an ancient bird, who tried
his pipe in better days, and
then was
scared by random shots, he is fain to
lift the migrant wing
once more towards the
humble perch, among the trees he loves. All

gardeners own that he does no harm, unless
he flits into a thicket of
young buds, or a very
choice ladies' seed-bed. And he hopes that he is

now too wise to commit such indiscretions.
Perhaps it would have been wiser still to
have shut up his little
mandible, or employed it
only upon grub. But the long gnaw of last
winter's frost, which set
mankind a-shivering,
even in their most downy nest, has made them

kindly to the race that has no roof for shelter
and no hearth for
warmth.

Anyhow, this little finch can do no harm,
if he does no good; and if
he pleases nobody,
he will not be surprised, because he has never

satisfied himself.
May-day, 1895.
NOTE
With kind consent of Messrs. Harper, "Buscombe" returns in altered
form from the other side of the ocean. Two other little tales appeared of
old, but nobody would look at them, and now they are offered after
careful trimming.
Standing afar. I gaze with doubt at other trimmings which are not mine.
They have conquered the taste of the day perhaps, and high art
announces them as her last transfiguration. Moreover they are highly
recommended-- as the purest art not always is--by the modesty of the
artist.
The cover design, borders, initial letters and the whole of the full-page
illustrations--with the exception of the three to 'Pausias and Glycera' by
James W. R. Linton--are by Louis Fairfax-Muckley.
[Illustration: 017.]
I
Thou feeble implement of mind,
Wherewith she strove to scrawl her

name;
But, like a mitcher, left behind
No signature, no stroke, no
claim,
No hint that she hath pined--
Shall ever come a stronger time,
When thou shalt be a tool of skill,
And steadfast purpose, to fulfil
A
higher task than rhyme?
II

Thou puny instrument of soul,
Wherewith she labours to impart
Her
efforts at some arduous goal;
But fails to bring thy coarser art

Beneath a fine control--
Shall ever come a fairer day,
When thou shalt be a buoyant plume,

To soar, where clearer suns illume,
And fresher breezes play?
[Illustration: 020.]
[Illustration: 023.]
III
Thou weak interpreter of heart,
So impotent to tell the tale
Of love's
delight, of envy's smart,
Of passion, and ambition's bale,
Of pride
that dwells apart--
Shall I, in length of time, attain
(By walking in the human ways,

With love of Him, who made and sways)
To ply thee, less in vain?
If so, thou shalt be more to me
Than sword, or sceptre, flag, or crown;

With mind, and soul, and heart in thee,
Despising gold, and sham
renown;
But truthful, kind, and free--
Then come; though now a pithless quill,

Uncouth, unfledged, indefinite,--
In time, thou shalt be taught to
write,
By patience, and good-will.
LITA OF THE NILE
A TALE IN THREE PARTS
PART I
I
"KING, and Father, gift and giver,
God revealed in form of river,


Issuing perfect, and sublime,
From the fountain-head of time;
"Whom eternal mystery shroudeth,
Unapproached, untracked,
unknown;
Whom the Lord of heaven encloudeth
With the curtains
of His throne;
"From the throne of heaven descending,
Glory, power, and goodness
blending,
Grant us, ere the daylight dies,
Token of thy rapid rise,"
II
Ha, it cometh! Furrowing, flashing,
Red blood rushing o'er brown
breast;
Peaks, and ridges, and domes, dashing
Foam on foam, and
crest on crest!
'Tis the signal Thebes hath waited,
Libyan Thebes, the hundred-gated:

Rouse, and robe thee, River-priest
For thy dedication feast!
Follows him the loveliest maiden,
Afric's thousand hills can show;

White apparel'd, flower-laden,
With the lotus on her brow.
III
Votive maid, who hath espousal
Of the river's high carousal;

Twenty cubits if he rise,
This shall be his bridal prize.
Calm, and meek of face and carriage,
Deigning scarce a