The New Morning | Page 9

lay dead.
And we dance, dance, dreaming of a lady most beautiful
That shall
walk the green valleys of this dark earth one day, And call to us gently,
"O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham,
I am looking for my children.
Awake, and come away."
TO A SUCCESSFUL MAN
(_What the Ghosts Said_)
And after all the labour and the pains,
After the heaping up of gold on
gold,
After success that locked your feet in chains,
And left you
with a heart so tired and old,
Strange--is it not?--to find your chief desire
Is what you might have

had for nothing then--
The face of love beside a cottage fire
And
friendly laughter with your fellow-men?
You were so rich when fools esteemed you poor.
You ruled a field
that kings could never buy;
The glory of the sea was at your door;

And all those quiet stars were in your sky.
The nook of ferns below the breathless wood
Where one poor book
could unlock Paradise ...
What will you give us now for that lost good?

Better forget. You cannot pay the price.
You left them for the fame in which you trust.
But youth, and
hope--did you forsake them, too?
Courage! When dust at length
returns to dust,
In your last dreams they may come back to you.
THE OLD GENTLEMAN WITH THE AMBER SNUFF-BOX
_The old gentleman, tapping his amber snuff-box
(A heart-shaped
snuff-box with a golden clasp)
Stared at the dying fire. "I'd like them
all
To understand, when I am gone," he muttered.
"But how to do it
delicately! I can't
Apologize. I'll hint at it ... in verse;
And, to be
sure that Rosalind reads it through,
I'll make it an appendix to my
will!"
--Still cynical, you see. He couldn't help it.
He had seen much,
felt much. He snapped the snuff box,
Shook his white periwig,
trimmed a long quill pen,
And then began to write, most carefully,

These couplets, in the old heroic style:--_
O, had I known in boyhood, only known
The few sad truths that time
has made my own,
I had not lost the best that youth can give,
Nay,
life itself, in learning how to live.
This laboring heart would not be
tired so soon,
This jaded blood would jog to a livelier tune:
And
some few friends, could I begin again,
Should know more happiness,
and much less pain.
I should not wound in ignorance, nor turn
In
foolish pride from those for whom I yearn.
I should have kept nigh
half the friends I've lost,
And held for dearest those I wronged the

most.
Yet, when I see more cunning men evade
With colder tact, the
blunders that I made;
Sometimes I wonder if the better part
Is not
still mine, who lacked their subtle art.
For I have conned my book in
harsher schools,
And learned from struggling what they worked by
rules;
Learned--with some pain--more quickly to forgive
My
fellow-blunderers, while they learn to live;
Learned--with some
tears--to keep a steadfast mind,
And think more kindly of my own
poor kind.
_He read the verses through, shaking his wig.
"Perhaps ...
perhaps"--he whispered to himself,
"I'd better leave it to the will of
God.
They might upset my own. I do not think
They'd understand.
Jocelyn might, perhaps;
And Dick, if only they were left alone.
But
Rosalind never; nor that nephew of mine,
The witty politician. No.
No. No.
They'd say my mind was wandering, I'm afraid."
So, with a
frozen face, reluctantly,
He tossed his verses into the dying fire,

And watched the sparks fly upward.
There, at dawn,
They found him, cold and stiff by the cold hearth,

His amber snuff-box in his ivory hand.
"You see," they said, "he
never needed friends.
He had that curious antique frozen way.
He
had no heart--only an amber snuff-box.
He died quite happily, taking
a pinch of snuff."
His nephew, that engaging politician,
Inherited the snuff-box, and
remarked
His epitaph should be "Snuffed Out." The clubs
Laughed,
and the statesman's reputation grew._
WHAT GRANDFATHER SAID
(_An epistle from a narrow-minded old gentleman to a young artist of
superior intellect and intense realism._)

Your thoughts are for the poor and weak?
Ah, no, the picturesque's
your passion!
Your tongue is always in your cheek
At poverty that's
not in fashion.
You like a ploughman's rugged face,
Or painted eyes in Piccadilly;

But bowler hats are commonplace,
And thread-bare tradesmen simply
silly.
The clerk that sings "God save the King,"
And still believes his Tory
paper,--
You hate the anæmic fool? I thought
You loved the weak!
Was that all vapour?
Ah, when you sneer, dear democrat,
At such a shiny-trousered Tory

Because he doffs his poor old hat
To what he thinks his country's
glory,
To you it's just a coloured rag.
You hate the "patriots" that bawl so.

Well, my Ulysses, there's a flag
That lifts men in Republics also.
No doubt his thoughts are cruder far;
And, where those linen folds are
shaking,
Perhaps he sees a kind of star
Because his eyes are tired
and aching.
Banal enough! Banal as truth!
But I'm not thinking of his banners.

I'm thinking of his pinched white youth
And your disgusting "new
art" manners.
His meek submission stirs your hate?
Better, my lad, if you're so
fervent,
Turn