Phantasmagoria and Other Poems | Page 6

have the best of it!"
Then, as my tears could never bring
The friendly Phantom back,
It
seemed to me the proper thing
To mix another glass, and sing
The
following Coronach.
'AND ART THOU GONE, BELOVED GHOST?
BEST OF
FAMILIARS!
NAY THEN, FAREWELL, MY DUCKLING
ROAST,
FAREWELL, FAREWELL, MY TEA AND TOAST,

MY MEERSCHAUM AND CIGARS!

THE HUES OF LIFE ARE DULL AND GRAY,
THE SWEETS
OF LIFE INSIPID,
WHEN thou, MY CHARMER, ART AWAY -

OLD BRICK, OR RATHER, LET ME SAY,
OLD
PARALLELEPIPED!'
Instead of singing Verse the Third,
I ceased--abruptly, rather:
But,
after such a splendid word
I felt that it would be absurd
To try it
any farther.
So with a yawn I went my way
To seek the welcome downy,
And
slept, and dreamed till break of day
Of Poltergeist and Fetch and Fay

And Leprechaun and Brownie!
For year I've not been visited
By any kind of Sprite;
Yet still they
echo in my head,
Those parting words, so kindly said,
"Old
Turnip-top, good-night!"
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 words are more than coronets,"
She said, and wondering
looked at me:
"It is the dead unhappy night, and I must hurry home to
tea."
A 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.
Ye Carpette Knyghte
I have a horse--a ryghte good horse -
Ne doe Y 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.
HIAWATHA'S 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