Rhymes of the East and Re-collected Verses | Page 8

rage
Of your truculent Mamma;?We have urged the long-tailed gallop;
Lightly danced the still night through;?Smacked the ball, and oared the shallop
(In a vis-à-vis canoe);
We have walked this fair Oasis,
Keeping, more by skill than chance,?To the non-committal basis
Of indefinite romance;?Till, as love within me ripened,
I have wept the hours away,?Brooding on my meagre stipend,
Mourning mine exiguous pay.
Dear, 'tis hard, indeed, to stifle
Fervour such as mine has grown,?And I 'd freely give a trifle
Could I win you for mine own;?But the question simply narrows
Down to one persistent fact,?That we cannot say we're sparrows,
And we oughtn't so to act.
Married bliss is born of incomes;
While to drag the long years through?Till some hypothetic tin comes,
Seems a childish thing to do;?Rather let us own as lasting
Our unpardonable crime,?Giving thanks, with prayer and fasting,
For so very high a time.
Fare you well. Your dreadful Mother,
If I know that woman's mind,?Has her eye upon Another
_Vice_ me, my dear, resigned;?And I see you mated shortly
To some covenanted swain,?Not objectionably portly,
Not prohibitively plain.
Take his gifts, and ask a blessing.
Meddle not with minor cares.?Trust me, your unprepossessing
Dam soon settles those affairs!?Then will I, with honeyed suasion,
Pinch some thriftless man of bills?Of a mark of the occasion
For my Lady of the Hills.
THE SHORES OF NOTHING
There's a little lake that lies?In a valley, where the skies?Kiss the mountains, as they rise,
On the crown;?And the heaven-born élite?Are accustomed to retreat?From the pestilential heat
Lower down.
Where the Mighty, for a space,?Mix with Beauty, Rank, and Grace,?(I myself was in the place,
At my best!)?And the atmosphere's divine,?While the deodar and pine?Are particularly fine
For the chest.
And a little month ago,?When the sun was lying low,?And the water lay aglow
Like a pearl,?I, remarkably arrayed,?Dipped an unobtrusive blade?In the lake--and in the shade--
With a girl.
O 'twas pleasant thus to glide?On the 'softly-flowing tide'?(Which it's not!) and, undescried,
Take a hand?In the sweet, idyllic sports?That are known in such resorts,?To the sympathetic snorts
Of the Band.
Till, when o'er the 'still lagoon'?Passed the golden afternoon,?The preposterous bassoon,
Growling deep,?Saved the King and knelled the day?As the crimson changed to grey?And the little valley lay
Half asleep.
It is finished. She was kind.?'Out of sight is out of mind.'?But the taste remains behind,
(And the bills,)?And I'd give the world to know?If there's some one else in tow?With my love (a month ago)
In the Hills!
O ye valleys, tell me, pray,?Was she on the lake to-day??Does she foot it in the gay,
Social whirl??O ye Mountains of Gilboa,?Send a bird, or kindly blow a?Breeze to tell me all you know about
that girl!
THE LAST HOCKEY
_After A. T._
So for the last great Hockey of the Hills,?--Damsel _v._ Dame--by ruder cynics called?The Tournament of the Dead Dignities,?We gained the lists, and I, thro' humorous lens,?Perused the revels. Here on autumn grass?Leapt the lithe-elbowed Spin, and strongly merged?In scrimmage with the comfortable Wife?And temporary Widow,--know you not,?Such trifles are the merest commonplace?In loftier contours?--Twenty-two in all?They numbered, and none other trod the field?Save one, the bold Sir Referee, whose charge?It was to keep fair order in the lists,?And peace 'twixt Dame and Damsel: married, he.
O brothers, had ye seen them! O the games!?Fleet-footed some: lightly they leapt, and drave?Or missed the pellet; then, perchance, would turn?With hand that sought their tresses. Others moved?Careless, in half disdain, nor urged pursuit;?Yet ever and anon would shriek, and miss?The pellet, while the bold Sir Referee?Skipt in avoidance. From the factions came?The cry of voices shrilling woman-wise,?The clash of stick on stick, the muffled shin,?The sudden whistle, and the murmurous note?Of mutual disaffection. Otherwhere?The myriad coolie chortled, knightly palms?Clapped, and the whole vale echoed to the noise?Of ladies, who in session to the West?Sat with the light behind them, self-approved.
Fortune with equal favour poised the scale,?And loudlier rang the trouble, till I heard?'A Susan! Ho! A Susan!'--She, oh she,?One whom myself had picked from out the crowd?Of hot girl-athletes with their tousled hair,?Was on the ball. Deftly she smote, and drave?On, and so paddled swiftly in its wake.?The good ash gleamed and fell; the forward ranks?Gave passage; once again she smote, again?Paddled, nor passed, but paddling ever neared?The mournful guardian of the Sacred Goal,?Hewing and hacking. Little need to tell?Of Susan in her glory; whom she smote?She felled, and whom she shocked she overthrew;?And, shrieking, passed exultant to her doom.
For Susan, while she clove a devious course,?Moved crab-like, in a strange diagonal,?And, driving, crossed the frontiers. Thither came?The bold Sir Referee, and shrilled abroad?The tremulous, momentary 'touch.' But she,?Heaving with unaccustomed exercise,?Blinded and baffled, wild with all despair,?Stood sweeping, as a churl that sweeps the scythe?In earlier pastures. Twice he skipped, and poured?The desperate whistle. Once again, and he,?Skipping, diffused the whistle. But at last,?So shrewd a blow she dealt him on the shin,?That had he stood reverse-wise on his head,?Not on his feet, I know not what had chanced.?Then to the shuddering Orient skies there rose?A marvellous great shriek,