Punch (103.1892)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 177

TO MY SWEETHEART.

[" Those roses you bought and gave to me are marvels. They are still alive."—Ser Letter.]

v A Hothouse where some roses blew,

And, whilst the outer world was white,
The gentle roses softly grew
To fragrant visions of delight.

Some wretched florist owned them all,
And plucked them from their native
bowers,

Then gaily showed them on his stall
To swell the ranks of "Fresh-Cut
Mowers."

Some went beside a bed of pain
Where influenza claimed its due ;

They drooped and never smiled again,
The epidemic had them too.

A gay young gallant bought some buds,

And jauntily went out to dine
"With other reckless sporting bloods, _

Who talked of women, drank of wine ;

But whilst they talked, and smoked, and
drank,

And told tales not too sanctified,
Abashed the timid blossoms shrank,
Changed colour, faded, and then died.

Yet roses, too, I gave to you,

I saw jovl place them near your heart,
You wore them all the evening through,

You wore them when we came to part.

But now you write to me, my dear,
And marvel that they are not dead,

Their beauty does not disappear,
Their fragrant perfume has not fled.

The reason's plain. Somehow aright
The flowers know if we ignore them.

The roses live for sheer delight
At knowing, Sweetheart, that you wore
them.

October 15, 1892.]

There is no harshness in that mellow note,

No blot upon those bays;
For loyal love and knightly valour rang
Through rich immortal music when he
sang.

Arthur, his friend, the Modern Gentleman,

Arthur, the hero, his ideal Knight,
Inspired his strains. From fount to flood
they ran

A flawless course of melody and light.
A Christian chivalry shone in his song

From Locksley Hall to shadowy Lyonnesse,
Whence there stand forth two figures,
stately, strong,
Symbols of spirit's stress ;
The blameless King, saintship with scarce
a blot,

And song's most noble sinner, Lancelot.

Lover of England, lord of English hearts,
Master of English speech, painter supreme

Of English landscape ! Patriot passion starts
A-flame, pricked by the words that glow
and gleam

In those imperial pseans, which might arm
Pale cowards for the fray. Touched by
his hand

The simple sweetness, and the homely charm

Of our green garden-land
Take on a witchery as of Arden's glade,
Or verdant Vallombrosa's leafy shade.

The fragrant fruitfulness of wood and wold,
Of flowery upland, and of orchard-lawn,

Lit by the lingering evening's softened gold,
Or flushed with rose-hued radiance of the
dawn;

Bird-music beautiful; the robin's trill,
Or the rook's drowsy clangour; flats that
run

From sky to sky, dusk woods that drape the
hill,

Still lakes that draw the sun ;
All, all are mirror'd in his verse, and there
Familiar beauties shine most strangely fair.

Poet, the pass-key magical was thine,
To Beauty's Fairy World, in classic calm

Or rich romantic colour. Bagdat's shrine
By sheeny Tigris, Syrian pool and palm,

Avilion's bowery hollows, Ida's peak,
The lily-laden Lotos land, the fields

Of amaranth! What may vagrant Fancy
seek

More than thy rich song yielJs,
Of Orient odour, Faery wizardry,
Or soft Arcadian simplicity ?

From all, far Faery Land, Romance's realm,
Green English homestead, cloud-crown'd
Attic hill,

The Poet passes—whither ? Not the helm
Of wounded Arthur, lit by light that
fills

Avilion's fair horizons, gleamed more bright
Than does that leonine Lvurelled visage
now,

Fronting with steadfast look that mystic
Light.

Grave eye, and gracious brow
Turn from the evening bell, the earthly
shore,

To face the Light that floods him evermore.

Farewell! How fitlier should a poet pass
Than thou from that dim chamber and the
gleam

Of poor earth's purest radiance P Love, alas !
Of that strange scene must long in sorrow
dream.

But we—we hear thy manful music still!

A royal requiem for a kingly soul!
No sadness of farewell! Away regret,

When greatness nears its goal!
We follow thee, in thought, through light,
afar

Divinely piloted beyond the bar!

TNOUGHTS-NOT WORTH A PENNY.

{Fragment from the Burlesque-Romance of " No
Cents; or, The New Criticism."

The Critic of the new cult visited a tailor's
establishment, and was delighted with all he
saw. There were coats, and vests, and other
garments.

" I make some fifty per cent, profit," said
the proprietor of the establishment, stroking
his ^moustache with a hand adorned with
many a diamond ring. " Of course it causes
some labour, thought, and time—but I get
my money for my trouble."

"And why not ? " replied the Critic. "Are
you not worth it ? Do. you not devote your
energy to it ? Must you not live ? "

And, having said this, the Reviewer visited
another place of business. This time he had
entered the office of a Stockbroker.

" Of course it is rather anxious work some-
times," said the alternative representative of
a bull and a bear. " But it pays in the long
run. I manage to keep up a house in South
Kensington, and a carriage and pair, out of
my takings."

"Again, why not ? " responded the Critic.
" You have a wife and family. Must
you not live?" Then the Critic visited
Cheesemongers, and Bankers, Solicitors, and
Upholsterers. At last, he reached the modest
abode of an Author.

"Ah!" said he, in a tone of contempt;
"you write books and plays ! Why ?

".Why, to sell them," answered the Poet,
in a faltering voice.

"Sell them!" echoed the Critic, in tones
of thunder. '' What do you mean by that ? "

" Why, one must live ! "

"Nonsense! The universe can get on

very well without anyone. You might be
dispensed with ; and, if it comes to that, so
might I. Yes, I am not wanted."

Quite true!" murmured the Author;
"indeed, you are not! "

" And, after all, what is your work ? Mere
brain action! Anyone who could wield a pen
could do it for you! And you expect to be
paid, as if you were a tradesman—a Tailor or
an Upholsterer!"

"But am I not a man and a brother ? Do
I not get hungry, like anyone else ? Have I
not a wife and family ? "

"That is entirely beside the question,"
persisted the Critic. "All you have to
consider are the claims of Art. Now, Art is
not to be served by paid votaries."

" Then I suppose I am unworthy," replied
the Author, mournfully shaking his head.
Well, let us exchange places. You shall be
the Author, and I will be the Critic."

" Very sorry, my dear friend, but that is
an unjust division. By that means you would
receive all the money."

4' And why not ? If I am to write, why am
I not to be paid ? "

" Because it is beneath the dignity of an
Author to write with a view to obtaining
cash."

"Indeed! Well, I am tired of work.
You have nothing to do but criticise. Let
us swap positions."

"Are you mad?" shouted the Critic.
Why, I am fond of my work. You don't
imagine I am going to give up my salary to
you ? Why, it would demoralise you. I
know the drawback of the system." And
the Author applied himself to the study of
the New Criticism, and it seemed as great a
mystery to him as ever.