"_ And a cat's in the water-b.u.t.t_."--ROBERT BROWNING.

Aye you're a man that! ye old mesmerizer Tyin' your meanin' in seventy swadelin's, One must of needs be a hang'd early riser To catch you at worm turning. Holy Odd's bodykins!

"Cat's i' the water b.u.t.t!" Thought's in your verse-barrel, Tell us this thing rather, then we'll believe you, You, Master Bob Browning, spite your apparel Jump to your sense and give praise as we'd lief do.

You wheeze as a head-cold long-tonsilled Calliope, But G.o.d! what a sight you ha' got o' our in'ards, Mad as a hatter but surely no Myope, Broad as all ocean and leanin' man-kin'ards.

Heart that was big as the bowels of Vesuvius, Words that were wing'd as her sparks in eruption, Eagled and thundered as Jupiter Pluvius, Sound in your wind past all signs o' corruption.

Here's to you, Old Hippety-hop o' the accents, True to the Truth's sake and crafty dissector, You grabbed at the gold sure; had no need to pack cents Into your versicles.

Clear sight's elector!

Fifine Answers

"_Why is it that, disgraced they seem to relish life the more?_"

--FIFINE AT THE FAIR, VII, 5.

Sharing his exile that hath borne the flame, Joining his freedom that hath drunk the shame And known the torture of the Skull-place hours Free and so bound, that mingled with the powers Of air and sea and light his soul's far reach Yet strictured did the body-lips beseech "To drink" "I thirst." And then the sponge of gall.

Wherefore we wastrels that the grey road's call Doth master and make slaves and yet make free, Drink all of life and quaffing l.u.s.tily Take bitter with the sweet without complain And sharers in his drink defy the pain That makes you fearful to unfurl your souls.

We claim no glory. If the tempest rolls About us we have fear, and then Having so small a stake grow bold again.

We know not definitely even this But 'cause some vague half knowing half doth miss Our consciousness and leaves us feeling That somehow all is well, that sober, reeling From the last carouse, or in what measure Of so called right or so d.a.m.ned wrong our leisure Runs out uncounted sand beneath the sun, That, spite your carping, still the thing is done With some deep sanction, that, we know not how, Sans thought gives us this feeling; you allow That this not need we _know_ our every thought Or see the work shop where each mask is wrought Wherefrom we view the world of box and pit, Careless of wear, just so the mask shall fit And serve our j.a.pe's turn for a night or two.

Call! eh bye! the little door at twelve!

I meet you there myself.

In Tempore Senectutis

"For we are old And the earth pa.s.sion dieth; We have watched him die a thousand times, When he wanes an old wind crieth, For we are old And pa.s.sion hath died for us a thousand times But we grew never weary.

Memory faileth, as the lotus-loved chimes Sink into fluttering of wind, But we grow never weary For we are old.

The strange night-wonder of your eyes Dies not, though pa.s.sion flieth Along the star fields of Arcturus And is no more unto our hands; My lips are cold And yet we twain are never weary, And the strange night-wonder is upon us, The leaves hold our wonder in their flutterings, The wind fills our mouths with strange words For our wonder that grows not old.

The moth-hour of our day is upon us Holding the dawn; There is strange Night-wonder in our eyes Because the Moth-Hour leadeth the dawn As a maiden, holding her fingers, The rosy, slender fingers of the dawn."

He saith: "Red spears bore the warrior dawn Of old Strange! Love, hast thou forgotten The red spears of the dawn, The pennants of the morning?"

She saith: "Nay, I remember, but now Cometh the Dawn, and the Moth-Hour Together with him; softly For we are old."

Famam Librosque Cano

Your songs?

Oh! The little mothers Will sing them in the twilight, And when the night Shrinketh the kiss of the dawn That loves and kills, What time the swallow fills Her note, the little rabbit folk That some call children, Such as are up and wide Will laugh your verses to each other, Pulling on their shoes for the day's business, Serious child business that the world Laughs at, and grows stale; Such is the tale --Part of it--of thy song-life

Mine?

A book is known by them that read That same. Thy public in my screed Is listed. Well! Some score years hence Behold mine audience, As we had seen him yesterday.

Scrawny, be-spectacled, out at heels, Such an one as the world feels A sort of curse against its guzzling And its age-lasting wallow for red greed And yet; full speed Though it should run for its own getting, Will turn aside to sneer at 'Cause he hath No coin, no will to s.n.a.t.c.h the aftermath Of Mammon.

Such an one as women draw away from For the tobacco ashes scattered on his coat And sith his throat Show razor's unfamiliarity And three days' beard:

Such an one picking a ragged Backless copy from the stall, Too cheap for cataloguing, Loquitur,

"Ah-eh! the strange rare name....

Ah-eh! He must be rare if even _I_ have not....

And lost mid-page Such age As his pardons the habit, He a.n.a.lyzes form and thought to see How I 'scaped immortality.

Scriptor Ignotus

Ferrara 1715

To K.R.H.

"When I see thee as some poor song-bird Battering its wings, against this cage we Today, Then would I speak comfort unto thee, From out the heights I dwell in, when That great sense of power is upon me And I see my greater soul-self bending Sibylwise with that great forty year epic That you know of, yet unwrit But as some child's toy 'tween my fingers, And see the sculptors of new ages carve me thus, And model with the music of my couplets in their hearts:

Surely if in the end the epic And the small kind deed are one; If to G.o.d the child's toy and the epic are the same, E'en so, did one make a child's toy, He might wright it well And cunningly, that the child might Keep it for his children's children And all have joy thereof.

Dear, an this dream come true, Then shall all men say of thee "She 'twas that played him power at life's morn, And at the twilight Evensong, And G.o.d's peace dwelt in the mingled chords She drew from out the shadows of the past, And old world melodies that else He had known only in his dreams Of Iseult and of Beatrice.

Dear, an this dream come true, I, who being poet only, Can give thee poor words only, Add this one poor other tribute, This thing men call immortality.

A gift I give thee even as Ronsard gave it.

Seeing before time, one sweet face grown old, And seeing the old eyes grow bright From out the border of Her fire-lit wrinkles, As she should make boast unto her maids "Ronsard hath sung the beauty, _my_ beauty, Of the days that I was fair."

So hath the boon been given, by the poets of old time (Dante to Beatrice,--an I profane not--) Yet with my lesser power shall I not strive To give it thee?

All ends of things are with Him From whom are all things in their essence.

If my power be lesser Shall my striving be less keen?