Selected Poems (Penguin Classics) (23 page)

IV

To mine, it serves for the old June weather

Blue above lane and wall;

And that farthest bottle labelled ‘Ether’

Is the house o’ertopping all.

V

At a terrace, somewhere near the stopper,

There watched for me, one June,

A girl: I know, sir, it’s improper,

[20] My poor mind’s out of tune.

VI

Only, there was a way … you crept

Close by the side, to dodge

Eyes in the house, two eyes except:

They styled their house ‘The Lodge.’

VII

What right had a lounger up their lane?

But, by creeping very close,

With the good wall’s help, – their eyes might strain

And stretch themselves to Oes,

VIII

Yet never catch her and me together,

[30] As she left the attic, there,

By the rim of the bottle labelled ‘Ether,’

And stole from stair to stair,

IX

And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas,

We loved, sir – used to meet:

How sad and bad and mad it was –

But then, how it was sweet!

Youth and Art

I

It once might have been, once only:

We lodged in a street together,

You, a sparrow on the housetop lonely,

I, a lone she-bird of his feather.

II

Your trade was with sticks and clay,

You thumbed, thrust, patted and polished,

Then laughed ‘They will see some day

Smith made, and Gibson demolished.’

III

[10] My business was song, song, song;

I chirped, cheeped, trilled and twittered,

‘Kate Brown’s on the boards ere long,

And Grisi’s existence embittered!’

IV

I earned no more by a warble

Than you by a sketch in plaster;

You wanted a piece of marble,

I needed a music-master.

V

We studied hard in our styles,

Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos,

[20] For air looked out on the tiles,

For fun watched each other’s windows.

VI

You lounged, like a boy of the South,

Cap and blouse – nay, a bit of beard too;

Or you got it, rubbing your mouth

With fingers the clay adhered to.

VII

And I – soon managed to find

Weak points in the flower-fence facing,

Was forced to put up a blind

And be safe in my corset-lacing.

VIII

[30] No harm! It was not my fault

If you never turned your eye’s tail up

As I shook upon E
in alt
,

Or ran the chromatic scale up:

IX

For spring bade the sparrows pair,

And the boys and girls gave guesses,

And stalls in our street looked rare

With bulrush and watercresses.

X

Why did not you pinch a flower

In a pellet of clay and fling it?

[40] Why did not I put a power

Of thanks in a look, or sing it?

XI

I did look, sharp as a lynx,

(And yet the memory rankles)

When models arrived, some minx

Tripped up-stairs, she and her ankles.

XII

But I think I gave you as good!

‘That foreign fellow, – who can know

How she pays, in a playful mood,

For his tuning her that piano?’

XIII

[50] Could you say so, and never say

‘Suppose we join hands and fortunes,

And I fetch her from over the way,

Her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes?’

XIV

No, no: you would not be rash,

Nor I rasher and something over:

You’ve to settle yet Gibson’s hash,

And Grisi yet lives in clover.

XV

But you meet the Prince at the Board,

I’m queen myself at
bals-paré
,

[60] I’ve married a rich old lord,

And you’re dubbed knight and an R.A.

XVI

Each life unfulfilled, you see;

It hangs still, patchy and scrappy:

We have not sighed deep, laughed free,

Starved, feasted, despaired, – been happy.

XVII

And nobody calls you a dunce,

And people suppose me clever:

This could but have happened once,

And we missed it, lost it for ever.

A Likeness

Some people hang portraits up

In a room where they dine or sup:

And the wife clinks tea-things under,

And her cousin, he stirs his cup,

Asks, ‘Who was the lady, I wonder?’

‘’Tis a daub John bought at a sale,’

Quoth the wife, – looks black as thunder:

‘What a shade beneath her nose!

Snuff-taking, I suppose, –’

[10] Adds the cousin, while John’s corns ail.

Or else, there’s no wife in the case,

But the portrait’s queen of the place,

Alone ’mid the other spoils

Of youth, – masks, gloves and foils,

And pipe-sticks, rose, cherry-tree, jasmine,

And the long whip, the tandem-lasher,

And the cast from a fist (‘not, alas! mine,

But my master’s, the Tipton Slasher’),

And the cards where pistol-balls mark ace,

[20] And a satin shoe used for cigar-case,

And the chamois-horns (‘shot in the Chablais’)

And prints – Rarey drumming on Cruiser,

And Sayers, our champion, the bruiser,

And the little edition of Rabelais:

Where a friend, with both hands in his pockets,

May saunter up close to examine it,

And remark a good deal of Jane Lamb in it,

‘But the eyes are half out of their sockets;

That hair’s not so bad, where the gloss is,

[30] But they’ve made the girl’s nose a proboscis:

Jane Lamb, that we danced with at Vichy!

What, is not she Jane? Then, who is she?’

All that I own is a print,

An etching, a mezzotint;

’Tis a study, a fancy, a fiction,

Yet a fact (take my conviction)

Because it has more than a hint

Of a certain face, I never

Saw elsewhere touch or trace of

[40] In women I’ve seen the face of:

Just an etching, and, so far, clever.

I keep my prints, an imbroglio,

Fifty in one portfolio.

When somebody tries my claret,

We turn round chairs to the fire,

Chirp over days in a garret,

Chuckle o’er increase of salary,

Taste the good fruits of our leisure,

Talk about pencil and lyre,

[50] And the National Portrait Gallery:

Then I exhibit my treasure.

After we’ve turned over twenty,

And the debt of wonder my crony owes

Is paid to my Marc Antonios,

He stops me –
‘Festina lentè!

What’s that sweet thing there, the etching?’

How my waistcoat-strings want stretching,

How my cheeks grow red as tomatoes,

How my heart leaps! But hearts, after leaps, ache.

[60] ‘By the by, you must take, for a keepsake,

That other, you praised, of Volpato’s.’

The fool! would he try a flight further and say –

He never saw, never before today,

What was able to take his breath away,

A face to lose youth for, to occupy age

With the dream of, meet death with, – why, I’ll not engage

But that, half in a rapture and half in a rage,

I should toss him the thing’s self – ‘’Tis only a duplicate,

A thing of no value! Take it, I supplicate!’

Mr Sludge, ‘The Medium’

Now, don’t, sir! Don’t expose me! Just this once!

This was the first and only time, I’ll swear, –

Look at me, – see, I kneel, – the only time,

I swear, I ever cheated, – yes, by the soul

Of Her who hears – (your sainted mother, sir!)

All, except this last accident, was truth –

This little kind of slip! – and even this,

It was your own wine, sir, the good champagne,

(I took it for Catawba, you’re so kind)

[10] Which put the folly in my head!

                        ‘Get up?’

You still inflict on me that terrible face?

You show no mercy? – Not for Her dear sake,

The sainted spirit’s, whose soft breath even now

Blows on my cheek – (don’t you feel something, sir?)

You’ll tell?

          Go tell, then! Who the devil cares

What such a rowdy chooses to …

                                Aie – aie – aie!

Please, sir! your thumbs are through my windpipe, sir!

Ch-ch!

       Well, sir, I hope you’ve done it now!

Oh Lord! I little thought, sir, yesterday,

[20] When your departed mother spoke those words

Of peace through me, and moved you, sir, so much,

You gave me – (very kind it was of you)

These shirt-studs – (better take them back again,

Please, sir) – yes, little did I think so soon

A trifle of trick, all through a glass too much

Of his own champagne, would change my best of friends

Into an angry gentleman!

                               Though, ’twas wrong.

I don’t contest the point; your anger’s just:

Whatever put such folly in my head,

[30] I know ’twas wicked of me. There’s a thick

Dusk undeveloped spirit (I’ve observed)

Owes me a grudge – a negro’s, I should say,

Or else an Irish emigrant’s; yourself

Explained the case so well last Sunday, sir,

When we had summoned Franklin to clear up

A point about those shares i’ the telegraph:

Ay, and he swore … or might it be Tom Paine? …

Thumping the table close by where I crouched,

He’d do me soon a mischief: that’s come true!

[40] Why, now your face clears! I was sure it would!

Then, this one time … don’t take your hand away,

Through yours I surely kiss your mother’s hand …

You’ll promise to forgive me? – or, at least,

Tell nobody of this? Consider, sir!

What harm can mercy do? Would but the shade

Of the venerable dead-one just vouchsafe

A rap or tip! What bit of paper’s here?

Suppose we take a pencil, let her write,

Make the least sign, she urges on her child

[50] Forgiveness? There now! Eh? Oh! ’Twas your foot,

And not a natural creak, sir?

                                     Answer, then!

Once, twice, thrice … see, I’m waiting to say ‘thrice!’

All to no use? No sort of hope for me?

It’s all to post to Greeley’s newspaper?

What? If I told you all about the tricks?

Upon my soul! – the whole truth, and naught else,

And how there’s been some falsehood – for your part,

Will you engage to pay my passage out,

And hold your tongue until I’m safe on board?

[60] England’s the place, not Boston – no offence!

I see what makes you hesitate: don’t fear!

I mean to change my trade and cheat no more,

Yes, this time really it’s upon my soul!

Be my salvation! – under Heaven, of course.

I’ll tell some queer things. Sixty Vs must do.

A trifle, though, to start with! We’ll refer

The question to this table?

                                      How you’re changed!

Then split the difference; thirty more, we’ll say.

Ay, but you leave my presents! Else I’ll swear

[70] ’Twas all through those: you wanted yours again,

So, picked a quarrel with me, to get them back!

Tread on a worm, it turns, sir! If I turn,

Your fault! ’Tis you’ll have forced me! Who’s obliged

To give up life yet try no self-defence?

At all events, I’ll run the risk. Eh?

                                           Done!

May I sit, sir? This dear old table, now!

Please, sir, a parting egg-nog and cigar!

I’ve been so happy with you! Nice stuffed chairs,

And sympathetic sideboards; what an end

[80] To all the instructive evenings! (It’s alight.)

Well, nothing lasts, as Bacon came and said.

Here goes, – but keep your temper, or I’ll scream!

Fol-lol-the-rido-liddle-iddle-ol!

You see, sir, it’s your own fault more than mine;

It’s all your fault, you curious gentlefolk!

You’re prigs, – excuse me, – like to look so spry,

So clever, while you cling by half a claw

To the perch whereon you puff yourselves at roost,

Such piece of self-conceit as serves for perch

[90] Because you chose it, so it must be safe.