Part 20

“There’s not a modest maiden elf But dreads the final Trumpet, Lest half of her should rise herself, And half some local strumpet!

“From restorations of Thy fane, From smoothings of Thy sward, From zealous Churchmen’s pick and plane Deliver us O Lord! Amen!”

1882.

THE RUINED MAID

“O ’Melia, my dear, this does everything crown! Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town? And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?”— “O didn’t you know I’d been ruined?” said she.

—“You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks, Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks; And now you’ve gay bracelets and bright feathers three!”— “Yes: that’s how we dress when we’re ruined,” said she.

—“At home in the barton you said ‘thee’ and ‘thou,’ And ‘thik oon,’ and ‘theäs oon,’ and ‘t’other’; but now Your talking quite fits ’ee for high compa-ny!”— “Some polish is gained with one’s ruin,” said she.

—“Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak, But now I’m bewitched by your delicate cheek, And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!”— “We never do work when we’re ruined,” said she.

—“You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream, And you’d sigh, and you’d sock; but at present you seem To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!”— “True. There’s an advantage in ruin,” said she.

—“I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown, And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!”— “My dear—a raw country girl, such as you be, Isn’t equal to that. You ain’t ruined,” said she.

WESTBOURNE PARK VILLAS, 1866.

THE RESPECTABLE BURGHER ON “THE HIGHER CRITICISM”

SINCE Reverend Doctors now declare That clerks and people must prepare To doubt if Adam ever were; To hold the flood a local scare; To argue, though the stolid stare, That everything had happened ere The prophets to its happening sware; That David was no giant-slayer, Nor one to call a God-obeyer In certain details we could spare, But rather was a debonair Shrewd bandit, skilled as banjo-player: That Solomon sang the fleshly Fair, And gave the Church no thought whate’er; That Esther with her royal wear, And Mordecai, the son of Jair, And Joshua’s triumphs, Job’s despair, And Balaam’s ass’s bitter blare; Nebuchadnezzar’s furnace-flare, And Daniel and the den affair, And other stories rich and rare, Were writ to make old doctrine wear Something of a romantic air: That the Nain widow’s only heir, And Lazarus with cadaverous glare (As done in oils by Piombo’s care) Did not return from Sheol’s lair: That Jael set a fiendish snare, That Pontius Pilate acted square, That never a sword cut Malchus’ ear And (but for shame I must forbear) That — — did not reappear! . . . —Since thus they hint, nor turn a hair, All churchgoing will I forswear, And sit on Sundays in my chair, And read that moderate man Voltaire.

ARCHITECTURAL MASKS

THERE is a house with ivied walls, And mullioned windows worn and old, And the long dwellers in those halls Have souls that know but sordid calls, And daily dote on gold.

In blazing brick and plated show Not far away a “villa” gleams, And here a family few may know, With book and pencil, viol and bow, Lead inner lives of dreams.

III

The philosophic passers say, “See that old mansion mossed and fair, Poetic souls therein are they: And O that gaudy box! Away, You vulgar people there.”

THE TENANT-FOR-LIFE

THE sun said, watching my watering-pot “Some morn you’ll pass away; These flowers and plants I parch up hot— Who’ll water them that day?

“Those banks and beds whose shape your eye Has planned in line so true, New hands will change, unreasoning why Such shape seemed best to you.

“Within your house will strangers sit, And wonder how first it came; They’ll talk of their schemes for improving it, And will not mention your name.

“They’ll care not how, or when, or at what You sighed, laughed, suffered here, Though you feel more in an hour of the spot Than they will feel in a year

“As I look on at you here, now, Shall I look on at these; But as to our old times, avow No knowledge—hold my peace! . . .

“O friend, it matters not, I say; Bethink ye, I have shined On nobler ones than you, and they Are dead men out of mind!”

THE KING’S EXPERIMENT

IT was a wet wan hour in spring, And Nature met King Doom beside a lane, Wherein Hodge trudged, all blithely ballading The Mother’s smiling reign.

“Why warbles he that skies are fair And coombs alight,” she cried, “and fallows gay, When I have placed no sunshine in the air Or glow on earth to-day?”