Part 10

I would my days had been in other times, That I in some old abbey of Touraine Had watched the rounding grapes, and lived my life, Ere ever Luther came or Rabelais!

I would my days had been in other times, When quiet life to death not terrible Drifted, as ashes of the Santhal dead Drift down the sacred Rivers to the Sea!

ART.

A VERY WOFUL BALLADE OF THE ART CRITIC.

(TO E. A. ABBEY.)

A SPIRIT came to my sad bed, And weary sad that night was I, Who’d tottered, since the dawn was red, Through miles of Grosvenor Gallery, Yea, leagues of long Academy Awaited me when morn grew white, ’Twas then the Spirit whispered nigh, “Take up the pen, my friend, and write!

“Of many a portrait grey as lead, Of many a mustard-coloured sky, Say much, where little should be said, Lay on thy censure dexterously, With microscopic glances pry At textures, Tadema’s delight, Praise foreign swells they always sky, Take up the pen, my friend, and write!”

I answered, “’Tis for daily bread, A sorry crust, I ween, and dry, That still, with aching feet and head, I push this lawful industry, ’Mid pictures hung or low, or high, But, touching that which I indite, Do artists hold me lovingly? Take up the pen, my friend, and write.”

The Spirit writeth in form of

ENVOY.

“They fain would black thy dexter eye, They hate thee with a bitter spite, But scribble since thou must, or die, Take tip the pen, my friend, and write!”

ART’S MARTYR.

Telleth of a young man that fain would be fairly tattooed on his flesh, after the heathen manner, in devices of blue, and that, falling among the Dyacks, a folk of Borneo, was by them tattooed in modern fashion and device, and of his misery that fell upon him, and his outlawry.

HE said, The China on the shelf Is very fair to view, And wherefore should mine outer self, Not correspond thereto? In blue My frame I must tattoo.

Where may tattooing men abound, And ah, where might they be? Nay, well I wot they are not found In lands of Christentie, (Quoth he) But I must cross the sea!

So forth he sailed to Borneo, (A land that culture lacks,) And there his money did bestow To purchase pricks and hacks, (Dyacks Are famed tattooing blacks.)

But European commerce had Debased the savage kind, And they this most unhappy lad Before (and eke behind) Designed In colours to their mind!

Such awful colours as are blent On terrible placards Where flames the fierce advertisement Yea, or on Christmas cards (Not Ward’s, But common Christmas cards!)

Thus never more to Chelsea might The luckless boy return, He knew himself too dreadful, quite, A thing his friends would spurn, And turn To praise some Grecian urn!

But still he dwells in Borneo, A land that culture lacks, And there they all admire him so, They bring him heads in sacks, Dyacks Are not æsthetic blacks!

THE PALACE OF BRIC-À-BRAC.

HERE, where old Nankin glitters, Here, where men’s tumult seems As faint as feeble twitters Of sparrows heard in dreams, We watch Limoges enamel, An old chased silver camel, A shawl, the gift of Schamyl, And manuscripts in reams.

Here, where the hawthorn pattern On flawless cup and plate Need fear no housemaid slattern, Fell minister of fate, ’Mid webs divinely woven, And helms and hauberks cloven, On music of Beethoven We dream and meditate.

We know not, and we need not To know how mortals fare, Of Bills that pass, or speed not, Time finds us unaware, Yea, creeds and codes may crumble, And Dilke and Gladstone stumble, And eat the pie that’s humble, We neither know nor care!

Can kings or clergies alter The crackle on one plate? Can creeds or systems palter With what is truly great? With Corots and with Millets, With April daffodillies, Or make the maiden lilies Bloom early or bloom late?

Nay, here ’midst Rhodian roses, ’Midst tissues of Cashmere, The Soul sublime reposes, And knows not hope nor fear; Here all she sees her own is, And musical her moan is, O’er Caxtons and Bodonis, Aldine and Elzevir!

RONDEAUX OF THE GALLERIES.

Camelot.