With theirs, tuned to the hailstone-beaten beach As pours some pigeon, from the myrrhy lands Rapt by the whirlblast to fierce Scythian strands Where breed the swallows, her melodious cry Amid their barbarous twitter!
In Russia? Never! Spain were fitter ! Ay, most likely 'tis in Spain
That we and Waring meet again
Now, while he turns down that cool narrow lane
Into the blackness, out of grave Madrid
All fire and shine, abrupt as when there's slid Its stiff gold blazing pall
From some black coffin-lid. Or, best of all,
I love to think
The leaving us was just a feint; Back here to London did he slink, And now works on without a wink Of sleep, and we are on the brink Of something great in fresco-paint: Some garret's ceiling, walls and floor, Up and down and o'er and o'er He splashes, as none splashed before Since great Caldara Polidore.
Or music means this land of ours Some favour yet, to pity won
By Purcell from his Rosy Bowers,- "Give me my so-long promised son, Let Waring end what I begun!" Then down he creeps and out he steals Only when the night conceals His face; in Kent 'tis cherry-time, Or hops are picking: or at prime Of March he wanders as, too happy, Years ago when he was young,
Some mild eve when woods grew sappy
And the early moths had sprung To life from many a trembling sheath Woven the warm boughs beneath;
While small birds said to themselves What should soon be actual song,
And young gnats, by tens and twelves, Made as if they were the throng
That crowd around and carry aloft
The sound they have nursed, so sweet and pure,
Out of a myriad noises soft,
Into a tone that can endure
Amid the noise of a July noon
When all God's creatures crave their boon,
All at once and all in tune,
And get it, happy as Waring then,
Having first within his ken
What a man might do with nien : And far too glad, in the even-glow,
To mix with the world he meant to take Into his hand, he told you, so- And out of it his world to make, To contract and to expand
As he shut or oped his hand. Oh Waring, what's to really be? A clear stage and a crowd to see! Some Garrick, say, out shall not he The heart of Hamlet's mystery pluck? Or, where most unclean beasts are rife, Some Junius-am I right?-shall tuck His sleeve, and forth with flaying-knife! Some Chatterton shall have the luck Of calling Rowley into life!
Some one shall somehow run a muck With this old world for want of strife Sound asleep. Contrive, contrive To rouse us, Waring! Who's alive?
Our men scarce seem in earnest now.
Distinguished names !-but 'tis, somehow, As if they played at being names
Still more distinguished, like the games
Turn our sport to earnest
With a visage of the sternest!
Bring the real times back, confessed
Still better than our very best!
"WHEN I last saw Waring.. (How all turned to him who spoke ! You saw Waring? Truth or joke? In land-travel or sea-faring?)
"We were sailing by Triest
Where a day or two we harboured: A sunset was in the West,
When, looking over the vessel's side, One of our company espied
A sudden speck to larboard.
And as a sea-duck flies and swims At once, so came the light craft up, With its sole lateen sail that trims And turns (the water round its rims Dancing, as round a sinking cup) And by us like a fish it curled, And drew itself up close beside,
Its great sail on the instant furled,
And o'er its thwarts a shrill voice cried,
(A neck as bronzed as a Lascar's)
'Buy wine of us, you English Brig? Or fruit, tobacco and cigars? A pilot for you to Triest?
Without one, look you ne'er so big, They'll never let you up the bay! We natives should know best.'
I turned, and 'just those fellows' way,' Our captain said, 'The 'long-shore thieves Are laughing at us in their sleeves.'
"In truth, the boy leaned laughing back; And one, half-hidden by his side Under the furled sail, soon I spied, With great grass hat and kerchief black, Who looked up with his kingly throat, Said somewhat, while the other shook His hair back from his eyes to look Their longest at us: then the boat, I know not how, turned sharply round, Laying her whole side on the sea As a leaping fish does; from the lee, Into the weather, cut somehow Her sparkling path beneath our bow And so went off, as with a bound, Into the rosy and golden half O' the sky, to overtake the sun And reach the shore, like the sea-calf Its singing cave; yet I caught one Glance ere away the boat quite passed, And neither time nor toil could mar Those features: so I saw the last
Of Waring!"-You? Oh, never star Was lost here but it rose afar!
Look East, where whole new thousands are! In Vishnu-land what Avatar?
"Give" and "It-shall-be-given-unto-you.'
GRAND rough old Martin Luther Bloomed fables-flowers on furze,
The better the uncouther:
Do roses stick like burrs?
A beggar asked an alms
One day at an abbey-door,
Said Luther; but, seized with qualms, The Abbot replied, "We're poor!
Poor, who had plenty once,
When gifts fell thick as rain :
But they give us nought, for the nonce, And how should we give again?"
Then the beggar, "See your sins! Of old, unless I err,
Ye had brothers for inmates, twins, Date and Dabitur.
"While Date was in good case
Dabitur flourished too:
For Dabitur's lenten face
No wonder if Date rue.
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