Ban and Arriere Ban [7]
we cried,
And, sinking back exhausted, sighed,
Like Gargery, Wot larx!
We turn his pages, and we see
The Mississippi flowing free;
We turn again, and grin
O'er all Tom Sawyer did and planned,
With him of the Ensanguined Hand,
With Huckleberry Finn!
Spirit of mirth, whose chime of bells
Shakes on his cap, and sweetly swells
Across the Atlantic main,
Grant that Mark's laughter never die,
That men, through many a century,
May chuckle o'er Mark Twain!
MIST
Mist, though I love thee not, who puttest down
Trout in the Lochs, (they feed not, as a rule,
At least on fly, in mere or river-pool
When fogs have fallen, and the air is lown,
And on each Ben, a pillow not a crown,
The fat folds rest,) thou, Mist, hast power to cool
The blatant declamations of the fool
Who raves reciting through the heather brown.
Much do I bar the matron, man, or lass
Who cries 'How lovely!' and who does not spare
When light and shadow on the mountain pass,--
Shadow and light, and gleams exceeding fair,
O'er rock, and glade, and glen,--to shout, the Ass,
To me, to me the Poet, 'Oh, look there!'
LINES
[Written under the influence of Wordsworth, with a slate-pencil on
a window of the dining-room at the Lowood Hotel, Windermere, while
waiting for tea, after being present at the Grasmere Sports on a
very wet day, and in consequence of a recent perusal of Belinda, a
Novel, by Miss Broughton, whose absence is regretted.]
How solemn is the front of this Hotel,
When now the hills are swathed in modest mist,
And none can speak of scenery, nor tell
Of 'tints of amber,' or of 'amethyst.'
Here once thy daughters, young Romance, did dwell,
Here Sara flirted with whoever list,
Belinda loved not wisely but too well,
And Mr. Ford played the Philologist!
Haunted the house is, and the balcony
Where that fond Matron knew her Lover near,
And here we sit, and wait for tea, and sigh,
While the sad rain sobs in the sullen mere,
And all our hearts go forth into the cry,
Would that the teller of the tale were here!
LINES
[Written on the window pane of a railway carriage after reading an
advertisement of sunlight soap, and Poems, by William Wordsworth.]
I passed upon the wings of Steam
Along Tay's valley fair,
The book I read had such a theme
As bids the Soul despair.
A tale of miserable men
Of hearts with doubt distraught,
Wherein a melancholy pen
With helpless problems fought.
Where many a life was brought to dust,
And many a heart laid low,
And many a love was smirched with lust -
I raised mine eyes, and, oh! -
I marked upon a common wall,
These simple words of hope,
That mute appeal to one and all,
Cheer up! Use Sunlight Soap!
Our moral energies have range
Beyond their seeming scope,
How tonic were the words, how strange,
Cheer up! Use Sunlight Soap!
'Behold,' I cried, 'the inner touch
That lifts the Soul through cares!
I loved that Soap-boiler so much
I blessed him unawares!
Perchance he is some vulgar man,
Engrossed in pounds s. d.
But, ah! through Nature's holy plan
He whispered hope to me!
ODE TO GOLF
'Delusive Nymph, farewell!'
How oft we've said or sung,
When balls evasive fell,
Or in the jaws of 'Hell,'
Or salt sea-weeds among,
'Mid shingle and sea-shell!
How oft beside the Burn,
We play the sad 'two more';
How often at the turn,
The heather must we spurn;
How oft we've 'topped and swore,'
In bent and whin and fern!
Yes, when the broken head
Bounds further than the ball,
The heart has inly bled.
Ah! and the lips have said
Words we would fain recall -
Wild words, of passion bred!
In bunkers all unknown,
Far beyond 'Walkinshaw,
Where never ball had flown -
Reached by ourselves alone -
Caddies have heard with awe
The music of our moan!
Yet, Nymph, if once alone,
The ball hath featly fled -
Not smitten from the bone -
That drive doth still atone;
And one long shot laid dead
Our grief to the winds hath blown!
So, still beside the tee,
We meet in storm or calm,
Lady, and worship thee;
And, sinking back exhausted, sighed,
Like Gargery, Wot larx!
We turn his pages, and we see
The Mississippi flowing free;
We turn again, and grin
O'er all Tom Sawyer did and planned,
With him of the Ensanguined Hand,
With Huckleberry Finn!
Spirit of mirth, whose chime of bells
Shakes on his cap, and sweetly swells
Across the Atlantic main,
Grant that Mark's laughter never die,
That men, through many a century,
May chuckle o'er Mark Twain!
MIST
Mist, though I love thee not, who puttest down
Trout in the Lochs, (they feed not, as a rule,
At least on fly, in mere or river-pool
When fogs have fallen, and the air is lown,
And on each Ben, a pillow not a crown,
The fat folds rest,) thou, Mist, hast power to cool
The blatant declamations of the fool
Who raves reciting through the heather brown.
Much do I bar the matron, man, or lass
Who cries 'How lovely!' and who does not spare
When light and shadow on the mountain pass,--
Shadow and light, and gleams exceeding fair,
O'er rock, and glade, and glen,--to shout, the Ass,
To me, to me the Poet, 'Oh, look there!'
LINES
[Written under the influence of Wordsworth, with a slate-pencil on
a window of the dining-room at the Lowood Hotel, Windermere, while
waiting for tea, after being present at the Grasmere Sports on a
very wet day, and in consequence of a recent perusal of Belinda, a
Novel, by Miss Broughton, whose absence is regretted.]
How solemn is the front of this Hotel,
When now the hills are swathed in modest mist,
And none can speak of scenery, nor tell
Of 'tints of amber,' or of 'amethyst.'
Here once thy daughters, young Romance, did dwell,
Here Sara flirted with whoever list,
Belinda loved not wisely but too well,
And Mr. Ford played the Philologist!
Haunted the house is, and the balcony
Where that fond Matron knew her Lover near,
And here we sit, and wait for tea, and sigh,
While the sad rain sobs in the sullen mere,
And all our hearts go forth into the cry,
Would that the teller of the tale were here!
LINES
[Written on the window pane of a railway carriage after reading an
advertisement of sunlight soap, and Poems, by William Wordsworth.]
I passed upon the wings of Steam
Along Tay's valley fair,
The book I read had such a theme
As bids the Soul despair.
A tale of miserable men
Of hearts with doubt distraught,
Wherein a melancholy pen
With helpless problems fought.
Where many a life was brought to dust,
And many a heart laid low,
And many a love was smirched with lust -
I raised mine eyes, and, oh! -
I marked upon a common wall,
These simple words of hope,
That mute appeal to one and all,
Cheer up! Use Sunlight Soap!
Our moral energies have range
Beyond their seeming scope,
How tonic were the words, how strange,
Cheer up! Use Sunlight Soap!
'Behold,' I cried, 'the inner touch
That lifts the Soul through cares!
I loved that Soap-boiler so much
I blessed him unawares!
Perchance he is some vulgar man,
Engrossed in pounds s. d.
But, ah! through Nature's holy plan
He whispered hope to me!
ODE TO GOLF
'Delusive Nymph, farewell!'
How oft we've said or sung,
When balls evasive fell,
Or in the jaws of 'Hell,'
Or salt sea-weeds among,
'Mid shingle and sea-shell!
How oft beside the Burn,
We play the sad 'two more';
How often at the turn,
The heather must we spurn;
How oft we've 'topped and swore,'
In bent and whin and fern!
Yes, when the broken head
Bounds further than the ball,
The heart has inly bled.
Ah! and the lips have said
Words we would fain recall -
Wild words, of passion bred!
In bunkers all unknown,
Far beyond 'Walkinshaw,
Where never ball had flown -
Reached by ourselves alone -
Caddies have heard with awe
The music of our moan!
Yet, Nymph, if once alone,
The ball hath featly fled -
Not smitten from the bone -
That drive doth still atone;
And one long shot laid dead
Our grief to the winds hath blown!
So, still beside the tee,
We meet in storm or calm,
Lady, and worship thee;