Rhymes à la Mode | Page 4

Elysian,?The fairest meadow that may be,?With all green fragrant trees for shade?And every scented wind to fan,?And sweetest flowers to strew the lea;?The soft Winds are their servants fleet?To fetch them every fruit at will?And water from the river chill;?And every bird that singeth sweet?Throstle, and merle, and nightingale?Brings blossoms from the dewy vale, -?Lily, and rose, and asphodel -?With these doth each guest twine his crown?And wreathe his cup, and lay him down?Beside some friend he loveth well.
There with the shining Souls I lay?When, lo, a Voice that seemed to say,?In far-off haunts of Memory,?Whoso death taste the Dead Men's bread,?Shall dwell for ever with these Dead,?Nor ever shall his body lie?Beside his friends, on the grey hill?Where rains weep, and the curlews shrill?And the brown water wanders by!
Then did a new soul in me wake,?The dead men's bread I feared to break,?Their fruit I would not taste indeed?Were it but a pomegranate seed.?Nay, not with these I made my choice?To dwell for ever and rejoice,?For otherwhere the River rolls?That girds the home of Christian souls,?And these my whole heart seeks are found?On otherwise enchanted ground.
Even so I put the cup away,?The vision wavered, dimmed, and broke,?And, nowise sorrowing, I woke?While, grey among the ruins grey?Chill through the dwellings of the dead,?The Dawn crept o'er the Northern sea,?Then, in a moment, flushed to red,?Flushed all the broken minster old,?And turned the shattered stones to gold,?And wakened half the world with me!
L'ENVOI--To E. W. G.
(Who also had rhymed on the Fortune Islands of Lucian).
Each in the self-same field we glean?The field of the Samosatene,?Each something takes and something leaves?And this must choose, and that forego?In Lucian's visionary sheaves,?To twine a modern posy so;?But all any gleanings, truth to tell,?Are mixed with mournful asphodel,?While yours are wreathed with poppies red,?With flowers that Helen's feet have kissed,?With leaves of vine that garlanded?The Syrian Pantagruelist,?The sage who laughed the world away,?Who mocked at Gods, and men, and care,?More sweet of voice than Rabelais,?And lighter-hearted than Voltaire.
A VISION IN THE STRAND
The jaded light of late July?Shone yellow down the dusty Strand,?The anxious people bustled by,?Policeman, Pressman, you and I,?And thieves, and judges of the land.
So swift they strode they had not time?To mark the humours of the Town,?But I, that mused an idle rhyme,?Looked here and there, and up and down,?And many a rapid cart I spied?That drew, as fast as ponies can,?The Newspapers of either side,?These joys of every Englishman!
The Standard here, the Echo there,?And cultured ev'ning papers fair,?With din and fuss and shout and blare?Through all the eager land they bare,?The rumours of our little span.
'Midst these, but ah, more slow of speed,?A biggish box of sanguine hue?Was tugged on a velocipede,?And in and out the crowd, and through,?An earnest stripling urged it well?Perched on a cranky tricycle!
A seedy tricycle he rode,?Perchance some three miles in the hour,?But, on the big red box that glowed?Behind him, was a name of Power,?JUSTICE, (I read it e'er I wist,)?THE ORGAN OF THE SOCIALIST!
The paper carts fled fleetly by?And vanished up the roaring Strand,?And eager purchasers drew nigh?Each with his penny in his hand,?But JUSTICE, scarce more fleet than I,?Began to permeate the land,?And dark, methinks, the twilight fell,?Or ever JUSTICE reached Pall Mall.
Oh Man, (I stopped to moralize,)?How eager thou to fight with Fate,?To bring Astraea from the skies;?Yet ah, how too inadequate?The means by which thou fain wouldst cope?With Laws and Morals, King and Pope!?"JUSTICE!"--how prompt the witling's sneer, -?"Justice! Thou wouldst have Justice here!?And each poor man should be a squire,?Each with his competence a year,?Each with sufficient beef and beer,?And all things matched to his desire,?While all the Middle Classes should?With every vile Capitalist?Be clean reformed away for good,?And vanish like a morning mist!
"Ah splendid Vision, golden time,?An end of hunger, cold, and crime.?An end of Rent, an end of Rank,?An end of balance at the Bank,?An end of everything that's meant?To bring Investors five per cent!"
How fair doth Justice seem, I cried,?Yet oh, how strong the embattled powers?That war against on every side?Justice, and this great dream of ours,?And what have we to plead our cause?'Gainst Masters, Capital, and laws,?What but a big red box indeed,?With copies of a weekly screed,?That's slowly jolted, up and down,?Behind an old velocipede?To clamour JUSTICE through the town:?How touchingly inadequate?These arms wherewith we'd vanquish Fate!
Nay, the old Order shall endure?And little change the years shall know,?And still the Many shall be poor,?And still the Poor shall dwell in woe;?Firm in the iron Law of things?The strong shall be the wealthy still,?And (called Capitalists or Kings)?Shall seize and hoard the fruits of skill.?Leaving the weaker for their gain,?Leaving the gentler for their prize?Such dens and husks as beasts disdain, -?Till slowly from the wrinkled skies?The fireless frozen Sun shall wane,?Nor Summer come with golden grain;?Till