Selected Poems Read Online

You must take

A certain turn of mind for this, – a twist

I’ the flesh, as well. Be lazily alive,

Open-mouthed, like my friend the ant-eater,

[1060] Letting all nature’s loosely-guarded motes

Settle and, slick, be swallowed! Think yourself

The one i’ the world, the one for whom the world

Was made, expect it tickling at your mouth!

Then will the swarm of busy buzzing flies,

Clouds of coincidence, break egg-shell, thrive,

Breed, multiply, and bring you food enough.

I can’t pretend to mind your smiling, sir!

Oh, what you mean is this! Such intimate way,

Close converse, frank exchange of offices,

[1070] Strict sympathy of the immeasurably great

With the infinitely small, betokened here

By a course of signs and omens, raps and sparks, –

How does it suit the dread traditional text

O’ the ‘Great and Terrible Name’? Shall the Heaven of

Heavens

Stoop to such child’s play?

                         Please, sir, go with me

A moment, and I’ll try to answer you.

The ‘Magnum et terribile’ (is that right?)

Well, folk began with this in the early day;

And all the acts they recognized in proof

[1080] Were thunders, lightnings, earthquakes, whirlwinds, dealt

Indisputably on men whose death they caused.

There, and there only, folk saw Providence

At work, – and seeing it, ’twas right enough

All heads should tremble, hands wring hands amain,

And knees knock hard together at the breath

O’ the Name’s first letter; why, the Jews, I’m told,

Won’t write it down, no, to this very hour,

Nor speak aloud: you know best if’t be so.

Each ague-fit of fear at end, they crept

[1090] (Because somehow people once born must live)

Out of the sound, sight, swing and sway o’ the Name,

Into a corner, the dark rest of the world,

And safe space where as yet no fear had reached;

’Twas there they looked about them, breathed again,

And felt indeed at home, as we might say.

The current o’ common things, the daily life,

This had their due contempt; no Name pursued

Man from the mountain-top where fires abide,

To his particular mouse-hole at its foot

[1100] Where he ate, drank, digested, lived in short:

Such was man’s vulgar business, far too small

To be worth thunder: ‘small, ’ folk kept on, ‘small,’

With much complacency in those great days!

A mote of sand, you know, a blade of grass –

What was so despicable as mere grass,

Except perhaps the life o’ the worm or fly

Which fed there? These were ‘small’ and men were great.

Well, sir, the old way’s altered somewhat since,

And the world wears another aspect now:

[1110] Somebody turns our spyglass round, or else

Puts a new lens in it: grass, worm, fly grow big:

We find great things are made of little things,

And little things go lessening till at last

Comes God behind them. Talk of mountains now?

We talk of mould that heaps the mountain, mites

That throng the mould, and God that makes the mites.

The Name comes close behind a stomach-cyst,

The simplest of creations, just a sac

That’s mouth, heart, legs and belly at once, yet lives

[1120] And feels, and could do neither, we conclude,

If simplified still further one degree:

The small becomes the dreadful and immense!

Lightning, forsooth? No word more upon that!

A tin-foil bottle, a strip of greasy silk,

With a bit of wire and knob of brass, and there’s

Your dollar’s-worth of lightning! But the cyst –

The life of the least of the little things?

                                  No, no!

Preachers and teachers try another tack,

Come near the truth this time: they put aside

[1130] Thunder and lightning: ‘That’s mistake,’ they cry,

‘Thunderbolts fall for neither fright nor sport,

But do appreciable good, like tides,

Changes o’ the wind, and other natural facts –

“Good” meaning good to man, his body or soul.

Mediate, immediate, all things minister

To man, – that’s settled: be our future text

“We are His children!”’ So, they now harangue

About the intention, the contrivance, all

That keeps up an incessant play of love, –

See the Bridgewater book.

                              [1140] Amen to it!

Well, sir, I put this question: I’m a child?

I lose no time, but take you at your word:

How shall I act a child’s part properly?

Your sainted mother, sir, – used you to live

With such a thought as this a-worrying you?

‘She has it in her power to throttle me,

Or stab or poison: she may turn me out

Or lock me in, – nor stop at this today,

But cut me off tomorrow from the estate

[1150] I look for’ – (long may you enjoy it, sir!)

‘In brief, she may unchild the child I am.’

You never had such crotchets? Nor have I!

Who, frank confessing childship from the first,

Cannot both fear and take my ease at once,

So, don’t fear, – know what might be, well enough,

But know too, child-like, that it will not be,

At least in my case, mine, the son and heir

O’ the kingdom, as yourself proclaim my style.

But do you fancy I stop short at this?

[1160] Wonder if suit and service, son and heir

Needs must expect, I dare pretend to find?

If, looking for signs proper to such an one,

I straight perceive them irresistible?

Concede that homage is a son’s plain right,

And, never mind the nods and raps and winks,

’Tis the pure obvious supernatural

Steps forward, does its duty: why, of course!

I have presentiments; my dreams come true:

I fancy a friend stands whistling all in white

[1170] Blithe as a boblink, and he’s dead I learn.

I take dislike to a dog my favourite long,

And sell him; he goes mad next week and snaps.

I guess that stranger will turn up today

I have not seen these three years; there’s his knock.

I wager ‘sixty peaches on that tree!’ –

That I pick up a dollar in my walk,

That your wife’s brother’s cousin’s name was George –

And win on all points. Oh, you wince at this?

You’d fain distinguish between gift and gift,

[1180] Washington’s oracle and Sludge’s itch

O’ the elbow when at whist he ought to trump?

With Sludge it’s too absurd? Fine, draw the line

Somewhere, but, sir, your somewhere is not mine!

Bless us, I’m turning poet! It’s time to end.

How you have drawn me out, sir! All I ask

Is – am I heir or not heir? If I’m he,

Then, sir, remember, that same personage

(To judge by what we read i’ the newspaper)

Requires, beside one nobleman in gold

[1190] To carry up and down his coronet,

Another servant, probably a duke,

To hold egg-nog in readiness: why want

Attendance, sir, when helps in his father’s house

Abound, I’d like to know?

                           Enough of talk!

My fault is that I tell too plain a truth.

Why, which of those who say they disbelieve,

Your clever people, but has dreamed his dream,

Caught his coincidence, stumbled on his fact

He can’t explain, (he’ll tell you smilingly)

[1200] Which he’s too much of a philosopher

To count as supernatural, indeed,

So calls a puzzle and problem, proud of it, –

Bidding you still be on your guard, you know,

Because one fact don’t make a system stand,

Nor prove this an occasional escape

Of spirit beneath the matter: that’s the way!

Just so wild Indians picked up, piece by piece,

The fact in California, the fine gold

That underlay the gravel – hoarded these,

[1210] But never made a system stand, nor dug!

So wise men hold out in each hollowed palm

A handful of experience, sparkling fact

They can’t explain; and since their rest of life

Is all explainable, what proof in this?

Whereas I take the fact, the grain of gold,

And fling away the dirty rest of life,

And add this grain to the grain each fool has found

O’ the million other such philosophers, –

Till I see gold, all gold and only gold,

[1220] Truth questionless though unexplainable,

And the miraculous proved the commonplace!

The other fools believed in mud, no doubt –

Failed to know gold they saw: was that so strange?

Are all men born to play Bach’s fiddle-fugues,

‘Time’ with the foil in carte, jump their own height,

Cut the mutton with the broadsword, skate a five,

Make the red hazard with the cue, clip nails

While swimming, in five minutes row a mile,

Pull themselves three feet up with the left arm,

[1230] Do sums of fifty figures in their head,

And so on, by the scores of instances?

The Sludge with luck, who sees the spiritual facts

His fellows strive and fail to see, may rank

With these, and share the advantage.

                                Ay, but share

The drawback! Think it over by yourself;

I have not heart, sir, and the fire’s gone grey.

Defect somewhere compénsates for success,

Everyone knows that. Oh, we’re equals, sir!

The big-legged fellow has a little arm

[1240] And a less brain, though big legs win the race:

Do you suppose I ‘scape the common lot?

Say, I was born with flesh so sensitive,

Soul so alert, that, practice helping both,

I guess what’s going on outside the veil,

Just as a prisoned crane feels pairing-time

In the islands where his kind are, so must fall

To capering by himself some shiny night,

As if your back-yard were a plot of spice –

Thus am I ’ware o’ the spirit-world: while you,

[1250] Blind as a beetle that way, – for amends,

Why, you can double fist and floor me, sir!

Ride that hot hardmouthed horrid horse of yours,

Laugh while it lightens, play with the great dog,

Speak your mind though it vex some friend to hear,

Never brag, never bluster, never blush, –

In short, you’ve pluck, when I’m a coward – there!

I know it, I can’t help it, – folly or no,

I’m paralysed, my hand’s no more a hand,

Nor my head a head, in danger: you can smile

[1260] And change the pipe in your cheek. Your gift’s not mine.

Would you swap for mine? No! but you’d add my gift

To yours: I dare say! I too sigh at times,

Wish I were stouter, could tell truth nor flinch,

Kept cool when threatened, did not mind so much

Being dressed gaily, making strangers stare,

Eating nice things; when I’d amuse myself,

I shut my eyes and fancy in my brain

I’m – now the President, now Jenny Lind,

Now Emerson, now the Benicia Boy –

[1270] With all the civilized world a-wondering

And worshipping. I know it’s folly and worse;

I feel such tricks sap, honeycomb the soul,

But I can’t cure myself: despond, despair,

And then, hey, presto, there’s a turn o’ the wheel,

Under comes uppermost, fate makes full amends;

Sludge knows and sees and hears a hundred things

You all are blind to, – I’ve my taste of truth,

Likewise my touch of falsehood, – vice no doubt,

But you’ve your vices also: I’m content.

[1280] What, sir? You won’t shake hands? ‘Because I cheat!’

‘You’ve found me out in cheating!’ That’s enough

To make an apostle swear! Why, when I cheat,

Mean to cheat, do cheat, and am caught in the act,

Are you, or, rather, am I sure o’ the fact?

(There’s verse again, but I’m inspired somehow.)

Well then I’m not sure! I may be, perhaps,

Free as a babe from cheating: how it began,

My gift, – no matter; what ’tis got to be

In the end now, that’s the question; answer that!

[1290] Had I seen, perhaps, what hand was holding mine,

Leading me whither, I had died of fright:

So, I was made believe I led myself.

If I should lay a six-inch plank from roof

To roof, you would not cross the street, one step,

Even at your mother’s summons: but, being shrewd,

If I paste paper on each side the plank

And swear ’tis solid pavement, why, you’ll cross

Humming a tune the while, in ignorance

Beacon Street stretches a hundred feet below:

[1300] I walked thus, took the paper-cheat for stone.

Some impulse made me set a thing o’ the move

Which, started once, ran really by itself;

Beer flows thus, suck the siphon; toss the kite,

It takes the wind and floats of its own force.

Don’t let truth’s lump rot stagnant for the lack

Of a timely helpful lie to leaven it!

Put a chalk-egg beneath the clucking hen,

She’ll lay a real one, laudably deceived,

Daily for weeks to come. I’ve told my lie,

[1310] And seen truth follow, marvels none of mine;

All was not cheating, sir, I’m positive!

I don’t know if I move your hand sometimes

When the spontaneous writing spreads so far,

If my knee lifts the table all that height,

Why the inkstand don’t fall off the desk a-tilt,

Why the accordion plays a prettier waltz

Than I can pick out on the pianoforte,

Why I speak so much more than I intend,

Describe so many things I never saw.

[1320] I tell you, sir, in one sense, I believe

Nothing at all, – that everybody can,

Will, and does cheat: but in another sense

I’m ready to believe my very self –

That every cheat’s inspired, and every lie

Quick with a germ of truth.

                            You ask perhaps

Why I should condescend to trick at all

If I know a way without it? This is why!

There’s a strange secret sweet self-sacrifice

In any desecration of one’s soul

[1330] To a worthy end, – isn’t it Herodotus

(I wish I could read Latin!) who describes

The single gift o’ the land’s virginity,

Demanded in those old Egyptian rites,

(I’ve but a hazy notion – help me, sir!)

For one purpose in the world, one day in a life,

One hour in a day – thereafter, purity,

And a veil thrown o’er the past for evermore!

Well, now, they understood a many things

Down by Nile city, or wherever it was!

[1340] I’ve always vowed, after the minute’s lie,

And the end’s gain, – truth should be mine henceforth.

This goes to the root o’ the matter, sir, – this plain

Plump fact: accept it and unlock with it

The wards of many a puzzle!

                            Or, finally,

Why should I set so fine a gloss on things?

What need I care? I cheat in self-defence,

And there’s my answer to a world of cheats!

Cheat? To be sure, sir! What’s the world worth else?

Who takes it as he finds, and thanks his stars?

[1350] Don’t it want trimming, turning, furbishing up

And polishing over? Your so-styled great men,

Do they accept one truth as truth is found,

Or try their skill at tinkering? What’s your world?

Here are you born, who are, I’ll say at once,

Of the luckiest kind, whether in head and heart,

Body and soul, or all that helps them both.

Well, now, look back: what faculty of yours

Came to its full, had ample justice done

By growing when rain fell, biding its time,

[1360] Solidifying growth when earth was dead,

Spiring up, broadening wide, in seasons due?

Never! You shot up and frost nipped you off,

Settled to sleep when sunshine bade you sprout;

One faculty thwarted its fellow: at the end,

All you boast is ‘I had proved a topping tree

In other climes’ – yet this was the right clime

Had you foreknown the seasons. Young, you’ve force

Wasted like well-streams: old, – oh, then indeed,

Behold a labyrinth of hydraulic pipes

[1370] Through which you’d play off wondrous waterwork;

Only, no water’s left to feed their play.

Young, – you’ve a hope, an aim, a love: it’s tossed

And crossed and lost: you struggle on, some spark

Shut in your heart against the puffs around,

Through cold and pain; these in due time subside,

Now then for age’s triumph, the hoarded light

You mean to loose on the altered face of things, –

Up with it on the tripod! It’s extinct.

Spend your life’s remnant asking, which was best,

[1380] Light smothered up that never peeped forth once,

Or the cold cresset with full leave to shine?

Well, accept this too, – seek the fruit of it

Not in enjoyment, proved a dream on earth,

But knowledge, useful for a second chance,

Another life, – you’ve lost this world – you’ve gained

Its knowledge for the next. What knowledge, sir,

Except that you know nothing? Nay, you doubt

Whether ’twere better have made you man or brute,

If aught be true, if good and evil clash.

[1390] No foul, no fair, no inside, no outside,

There’s your world!

                 Give it me! I slap it brisk

With harlequin’s pasteboard sceptre: what’s it now?

Changed like a rock-flat, rough with rusty weed,

At first wash-over o’ the returning wave!

All the dry dead impracticable stuff

Starts into life and light again; this world

Pervaded by the influx from the next.

I cheat, and what’s the happy consequence?

You find full justice straightway dealt you out,

[1400] Each want supplied, each ignorance set at ease,

Each folly fooled. No life-long labour now

As the price of worse than nothing! No mere film

Holding you chained in iron, as it seems,

Against the outstretch of your very arms

And legs i’ the sunshine moralists forbid!

What would you have? Just speak and, there, you see!

You’re supplemented, made a whole at last,

Bacon advises, Shakespeare writes you songs,

And Mary Queen of Scots embraces you.

[1410] Thus it goes on, not quite like life perhaps,

But so near, that the very difference piques,

Shows that e’en better than this best will be –

This passing entertainment in a hut

Whose bare walls take your taste since, one stage more,

And you arrive at the palace: all half real,

And you, to suit it, less than real beside,

In a dream, lethargic kind of death in life,

That helps the interchange of natures, flesh

Transfused by souls, and such souls! Oh, ’tis choice!

[1420] And if at whiles the bubble, blown too thin,

Seem nigh on bursting, – if you nearly see

The real world through the false, – what do you see?

Is the old so ruined? You find you’re in a flock

O’ the youthful, earnest, passionate – genius, beauty,

Rank and wealth also, if you care for these:

And all depose their natural rights, hail you,

(That’s me, sir) as their mate and yoke-fellow,

Participate in Sludgehood – nay, grow mine,

I veritably possess them – banish doubt,

[1430] And reticence and modesty alike!

Why, here’s the Golden Age, old Paradise

Or new Eutopia! Here’s true life indeed,

And the world well won now, mine for the first time!

And all this might be, may be, and with good help

Of a little lying shall be: so, Sludge lies!

Why, he’s at worst your poet who sings how Greeks

That never were, in Troy which never was,

Did this or the other impossible great thing!

He’s Lowell – it’s a world (you smile applause),

[1440] Of his own invention – wondrous Longfellow,

Surprising Hawthorne! Sludge does more than they,

And acts the books they write: the more his praise!

But why do I mount to poets? Take plain prose –

Dealers in common sense, set these at work,

What can they do without their helpful lies?

Each states the law and fact and face o’ the thing

Just as he’d have them, finds what he thinks fit,

Is blind to what missuits him, just records

What makes his case out, quite ignores the rest.

[1450] It’s a History of the world, the Lizard Age,

The Early Indians, the Old Country War,

Jerome Napoleon, whatsoever you please,

All as the author wants it. Such a scribe

You pay and praise for putting life in stones,

Fire into fog, making the past your world.

There’s plenty of ‘How did you contrive to grasp

The thread which led you through this labyrinth?

How build such solid fabric out of air?

How on so slight foundation found this tale,

[1460] Biography, narrative?’ or, in other words,

‘How many lies did it require to make

The portly truth you here present us with?’

‘Oh,’ quoth the penman, purring at your praise,

‘’Tis fancy all; no particle of fact:

I was poor and threadbare when I wrote that book

“Bliss in the Golden City.” I, at Thebes?

We writers paint out of our heads, you see!’

‘– Ah, the more wonderful the gift in you,

The more creativeness and godlike craft!’

[1470] But I, do I present you with my piece,

It’s ‘What, Sludge? When my sainted mother spoke

The verses Lady Jane Grey last composed

About the rosy bower in the seventh heaven

Where she and Queen Elizabeth keep house, –

You made the raps? ’Twas your invention that?

Cur, slave and devil!’ – eight fingers and two thumbs

Stuck in my throat!

                       Well, if the marks seem gone

’Tis because stiffish cocktail, taken in time,

Is better for a bruise than arnica.

[1480] There, sir! I bear no malice: ’tisn’t in me.

I know I acted wrongly: still, I’ve tried

What I could say in my excuse, – to show

The devil’s not all devil … I don’t pretend,

He’s angel, much less such a gentleman

As you, sir! And I’ve lost you, lost myself,

Lost all-l-l-l- …

                       No – are you in earnest, sir?

O yours, sir, is an angel’s part! I know

What prejudice prompts, and what’s the common course

Men take to soothe their ruffled self-conceit:

[1490] Only you rise superior to it all!

No, sir, it don’t hurt much; it’s speaking long

That makes me choke a little: the marks will go!

What? Twenty V-notes more, and outfit, too,

And not a word to Greeley? One – one kiss

O’ the hand that saves me! You’ll not let me speak,

I well know, and I’ve lost the right, too true!

But I must say, sir, if She hears (she does)

Your sainted … Well, sir, – be it so! That’s, I think,

My bed-room candle. Good night! Bl-l-less you, sir!

[1500] R-r-r, you brute-beast and blackguard! Cowardly scamp!

I only wish I dared burn down the house

And spoil your sniggering! Oh what, you’re the man?

You’re satisfied at last? You’ve found out Sludge?

We’ll see that presently: my turn, sir, next!

I too can tell my story: brute, – do you hear? –

You throttled your sainted mother, that old hag,

In just such a fit of passion: no, it was …

To get this house of hers, and many a note

Like these … I’ll pocket them, however … five,

[1510] Ten, fifteen … ay, you gave her throat the twist,

Or else you poisoned her! Confound the cuss!

Where was my head? I ought to have prophesied

He’ll the in a year and join her: that’s the way.

I don’t know where my head is: what had I done?

How did it all go? I said he poisoned her,

And hoped he’d have grace given him to repent,

Whereon he picked this quarrel, bullied me

And called me cheat: I thrashed him, – who could help?

He howled for mercy, prayed me on his knees

[1520] To cut and run and save him from disgrace:

I do so, and once off, he slanders me.

An end of him! Begin elsewhere anew!

Boston’s a hole, the herring-pond is wide,

V-notes are something, liberty still more.

Beside, is he the only fool in the world?

Apparent Failure

‘We shall soon lose a celebrated building.’ Paris Newspaper

I

No, for I’ll save it! Seven years since,

I passed through Paris, stopped a day

To see the baptism of your Prince;

Saw, made my bow, and went my way:

Walking the heat and headache off,

I took the Seine-side, you surmise,

Thought of the Congress, Gortschakoff,

Cavour’s appeal and Buol’s replies,

So sauntered till – what met my eyes?

II

[10] Only the Doric little Morgue!

The dead-house where you show your drowned:

Petrarch’s Vaucluse makes proud the Sorgue,

Your Morgue has made the Seine renowned.

One pays one’s debt in such a case;

I plucked up heart and entered, – stalked,

Keeping a tolerable face

Compared with some whose cheeks were chalked:

Let them! No Briton’s to be balked!

III

First came the silent gazers; next,

[20] A screen of glass, we’re thankful for;

Last, the sight’s self, the sermon’s text;

The three men who did most abhor

Their life in Paris yesterday,

So killed themselves: and now, enthroned

Each on his copper couch, they lay

Fronting me, waiting to be owned.

I thought, and think, their sin’s atoned.

IV

Poor men, God made, and all for that!

The reverence struck me; o’er each head

[30] Religiously was hung its hat,

Each coat dripped by the owner’s bed,

Sacred from touch: each had his berth,

His bounds, his proper place of rest,

Who last night tenanted on earth

Some arch, where twelve such slept abreast, –

Unless the plain asphalt seemed best.

V

How did it happen, my poor boy?

You wanted to be Buonaparte

And have the Tuileries for toy,

[40] And could not, so it broke your heart?

You, old one by his side, I judge,

Were, red as blood, a socialist,

A leveller! Does the Empire grudge

You’ve gained what no Republic missed?

Be quiet, and unclench your fist!

VI

And this – why, he was red in vain,

Or black, – poor fellow that is blue!

What fancy was it turned your brain?

Oh, women were the prize for you!

[50] Money gets women, cards and dice

Get money, and ill-luck gets just

The copper couch and one clear nice

Cool squirt of water o’er your bust,

The right thing to extinguish lust!

VII

It’s wiser being good than bad;

It’s safer being meek than fierce:

It’s fitter being sane than mad.

My own hope is, a sun will pierce

The thickest cloud earth ever stretched;

[60] That, after Last, returns the First,

Though a wide compass round be fetched;

That what began best, can’t end worst,

Nor what God blessed once, prove accurst.

Epilogue [to Dramatis Personae]

First Speaker, as David

I

On the first of the Feast of Feasts,

The Dedication Day,

When the Levites joined the Priests

At the Altar in robed array,

Gave signal to sound and say, –

II

When the thousands, rear and van,

Swarming with one accord

Became as a single man

(Look, gesture, thought and word)

[10] In praising and thanking the Lord, –

III

When the singers lift up their voice,

And the trumpets made endeavour,

Sounding, ‘In God rejoice!’

Saying, ‘In Him rejoice

Whose mercy endureth for ever!’ –

IV

Then the Temple filled with a cloud,

Even the House of the Lord;

Porch bent and pillar bowed:

For the presence of the Lord,

[20] In the glory of His cloud,

Had filled the House of the Lord.

Second Speaker, as Renan

Gone now! All gone across the dark so far,

Sharpening fast, shuddering ever, shutting still,

Dwindling into the distance, dies that star

Which came, stood, opened once! We gazed our fill

With upturned faces on as real a Face

That, stooping from grave music and mild fire,

Took in our homage, made a visible place

Through many a depth of glory, gyre on gyre,

[30] For the dim human tribute. Was this true?

Could man indeed avail, mere praise of his,

To help by rapture God’s own rapture too,

Thrill with a heart’s red tinge that pure pale bliss?

Why did it end? Who failed to beat the breast,

And shriek, and throw the arms protesting wide,

When a first shadow showed the star addressed

Itself to motion, and on either side

The rims contracted as the rays retired;

The music, like a fountain’s sickening pulse,

[40] Subsided on itself; awhile transpired

Some vestige of a Face no pangs convulse,

No prayers retard; then even this was gone,

Lost in the night at last. We, lone and left

Silent through centuries, ever and anon

Venture to probe again the vault bereft

Of all now save the lesser lights, a mist

Of multitudinous points, yet suns, men say –

And this leaps ruby, this lurks amethyst,

But where may hide what came and loved our clay?

[50] How shall the sage detect in yon expanse

The star which chose to stoop and stay for us?

Unroll the records! Hailed ye such advance

Indeed, and did your hope evanish thus?

Watchers of twilight, is the worst averred?

We shall not look up, know ourselves are seen,

Speak, and be sure that we again are heard,

Acting or suffering, have the disk’s serene

Reflect our life, absorb an earthly flame,

Nor doubt that, were mankind inert and numb,

[60] Its core had never crimsoned all the same,

Nor, missing ours, its music fallen dumb?

Oh, dread succession to a dizzy post,

Sad sway of sceptre whose mere touch appals,

Ghastly dethronement, cursed by those the most

On whose repugnant brow the crown next falls!

Third Speaker

I

Witless alike of will and way divine,

How heaven’s high with earth’s low should intertwine!

Friends, I have seen through your eyes: now use mine!

II

Take the least man of all mankind, as I;

[70] Look at his head and heart, find how and why

He differs from his fellows utterly:

III

Then, like me, watch when nature by degrees

Grows alive round him, as in Arctic seas

(They said of old) the instinctive water flees

IV

Toward some elected point of central rock,

As though, for its sake only, roamed the flock

Of waves about the waste: awhile they mock

V

With radiance caught for the occasion, – hues

Of blackest hell now, now such reds and blues

[80] As only heaven could fitly interfuse, –

VI

The mimic monarch of the whirlpool, king

O’ the current for a minute: then they wring

Up by the roots and oversweep the thing,

VII

And hasten off, to play again elsewhere

The same part, choose another peak as bare,

They find and flatter, feast and finish there.

VIII

When you see what I tell you, – nature dance

About each man of us, retire, advance,

As though the pageant’s end were to enhance

IX

[90] His worth, and – once the life, his product, gained –

Roll away elsewhere, keep the strife sustained,

And show thus real, a thing the North but feigned –

X

When you acknowledge that one world could do

All the diverse work, old yet ever new,

Divide us, each from other, me from you, –

XI

Why, where’s the need of Temple, when the walls

O’ the world are that? What use of swells and falls

From Levites’ choir, Priests’ cries, and trumpet-calls?

XII

That one Face, far from vanish, rather grows,

[100] Or decomposes but to recompose,

Become my universe that feels and knows.

House

I

Shall I sonnet-sing you about myself?

Do I live in a house you would like to see?

Is it scant of gear, has it store of pelf?

‘Unlock my heart with a sonnet-key?’

II

Invite the world, as my betters have done?

‘Take notice: this building remains on view,

Its suites of reception every one,

Its private apartment and bedroom too;

III

‘For a ticket, apply to the Publisher.’

[10] No: thanking the public, I must decline.

A peep through my window, if folk prefer;

But, please you, no foot over threshold of mine!

IV

I have mixed with a crowd and heard free talk

In a foreign land where an earthquake chanced:

And a house stood gaping, naught to balk

Man’s eye wherever he gazed or glanced.

V

The whole of the frontage shaven sheer,

The inside gaped: exposed to day,

Right and wrong and common and queer,

[20] Bare, as the palm of your hand, it lay.

VI

The owner? Oh, he had been crushed, no doubt!

‘Odd tables and chairs for a man of wealth!

What a parcel of musty old books about!

He smoked, – no wonder he lost his health!

VII

‘I doubt if he bathed before he dressed.

A brasier? – the pagan, he burned perfumes!

You see it is proved, what the neighbours guessed:

His wife and himself had separate rooms.’

VIII

Friends, the goodman of the house at least

[30] Kept house to himself till an earthquake came:

’Tis the fall of its frontage permits you feast

On the inside arrangement you praise or blame.

IX

Outside should suffice for evidence:

And whoso desires to penetrate

Deeper, must dive by the spirit-sense –

No optics like yours, at any rate!

X

‘Hoity toity! A street to explore,

Your house the exception! “With this same key

Shakespeare unlocked his heart,” once more!’

[40] Did Shakespeare? If so, the less Shakespeare he!

Saint Martin’s Summer

I

No protesting, dearest!

Hardly kisses even!

   Don’t we both know how it ends?

How the greenest leaf turns serest,

Bluest outbreak – blankest heaven,

   Lovers – friends?

II

You would build a mansion,

I would weave a bower

   – Want the heart for enterprise.

[10] Walls admit of no expansion:

Trellis-work may haply flower

   Twice the size.

III

What makes glad Life’s Winter?

New buds, old blooms after.

   Sad the sighing ‘How suspect

Beams would ere mid-Autumn splinter,

Rooftree scarce support a rafter,

   Walls lie wrecked?’

IV

You are young, my princess!

[20] I am hardly older:

    Yet – I steal a glance behind.

Dare I tell you what convinces

Timid me that you, if bolder,

   Bold – are blind?

V

Where we plan our dwelling

Glooms a graveyard surely!

   Headstone, footstone moss may drape, –

Name, date, violets hide from spelling, –

But, though corpses rot obscurely,

[30]    Ghosts escape.

VI

Ghosts! O breathing Beauty,

Give my frank word pardon!

   What if I – somehow, somewhere –

Pledged my soul to endless duty

Many a time and oft? Be hard on

   Love – laid there?

VII

Nay, blame grief that’s fickle,

Time that proves a traitor,

   Chance, change, all that purpose warps, –

[40] Death who spares to thrust the sickle

Laid Love low, through flowers which later

   Shroud the corpse!

VIII

And you, my winsome lady,

Whisper with like frankness!

   Lies nothing buried long ago?

Are yon – which shimmer ‘mid the shady

Where moss and violet run to rankness –

   Tombs or no?

IX

Who taxes you with murder?

[50] My hands are clean – or nearly!

   Love being mortal needs must pass.

Repentance? Nothing were absurder.

Enough: we felt Love’s loss severely;

   Though now – alas!

X

Love’s corpse lies quiet therefore,

    Only Love’s ghost plays truant,

    And warns us have in wholesome awe

Durable mansionry; that’s wherefore

I weave but trellis-work, pursuant

    [60] – Life, to law.

XI

The solid, not the fragile,

Tempts rain and hail and thunder.

    If bower stand firm at Autumn’s close,

Beyond my hope, – why, boughs were agile;

If bower fall flat, we scarce need wonder

    Wreathing – rose!

XII

So, truce to the protesting,

So, muffled be the kisses!

    For, would we but avow the truth,

[70] Sober is genuine joy. No jesting!

Ask else Penelope, Ulysses –

   Old in youth!

XIII

For why should ghosts feel angered?

Let all their interference

    Be faint march-music in the air!

‘Up! Join the rear of us the vanguard!

Up, lovers, dead to all appearance,

    Laggard pair!’

XIV

The while you clasp me closer,

The while I press you deeper,

   [80] As safe we chuckle, – under breath,

Yet all the slyer, the jocoser, –

‘So, life can boast its day, like leap-year,

    Stolen from death!’

XV

Ah me – the sudden terror!

Hence quick – avaunt, avoid me,

    You cheat, the ghostly flesh-disguised!

Nay, all the ghosts in one! Strange error!

So, ’twas Death’s self that clipped and coyed me,

    [90] Loved – and lied!

XVI

Ay, dead loves are the potent!

Like any cloud they used you,

    Mere semblance you, but substance they!

Build we no mansion, weave we no tent!

Mere flesh – their spirit interfused you!

    Hence, I say!

XVII

All theirs, none yours the glamour!

Theirs each low word that won me,

    Soft look that found me Love’s, and left

[100] What else but you – the tears and clamour

That’s all your very own! Undone me –

   Ghost-bereft!

Ned Bratts

’Twas Bedford Special Assize, one daft Midsummer’s Day:

A broiling blasting June, – was never its like, men say.

Corn stood sheaf-ripe already, and trees looked yellow as that;

Ponds drained dust-dry, the cattle lay foaming around each flat.

Inside town, dogs went mad, and folk kept bibbing beer

While the parsons prayed for rain. ’Twas horrible, yes – but queer:

Queer – for the sun laughed gay, yet nobody moved a hand

To work one stroke at his trade: as given to understand

That all was come to a stop, work and such worldly ways,

[10] And the world’s old self about to end in a merry blaze.

Midsummer’s Day moreover was the first of Bedford Fair,

With Bedford Town’s tag-rag and bobtail a-bowsing there.

But the Court House, Quality crammed: through doors ope, windows wide,

High on the Bench you saw sit Lordships side by side.

There frowned Chief Justice Jukes, fumed learned Brother Small,

And fretted their fellow Judge: like threshers, one and all,

Of a reek with laying down the law in a furnace. Why?

Because their lungs breathed flame – the regular crowd forbye –

From gentry pouring in – quite a nosegay, to be sure!

[20] How else could they pass the time, six mortal hours endure

Till night should extinguish day, when matters might haply mend?

Meanwhile no bad resource was – watching begin and end

Some trial for life and death, in a brisk five minutes’ space,

And betting which knave would ’scape, which hang, from his sort of face.

So, their Lordships toiled and moiled, and a deal of work was done

(I warrant) to justify the mirth of the crazy sun,

As this and ’tother lout, struck dumb at the sudden show

Of red robes and white wigs, boggled nor answered ‘Boh!’

When asked why he, Tom Styles, should not – because Jack Nokes

[30] Had stolen the horse – be hanged: for Judges must have their jokes,

And louts must make allowance – let’s say, for some blue fly

Which punctured a dewy scalp where the frizzles stuck awry –

Else Tom had fleered scot-free, so nearly over and done

Was the main of the job. Full-measure, the gentles enjoyed their fun,

As a twenty-five were tried, rank puritans caught at prayer

In a cow-house and laid by the heels, – have at ’em, devil may care!–

And ten were prescribed the whip, and ten a brand on the cheek,

And five a slit of the nose – just leaving enough to tweak.

Well, things at jolly high-tide, amusement steeped in fire,

[40] While noon smote fierce the roof’s red tiles to heart’s desire,

The Court a-simmer with smoke, one ferment of oozy flesh,

One spirituous humming musk mount-mounting until its mesh

Entoiled all heads in a fluster, and Serjeant Postlethwayte

– Dashing the wig oblique as he mopped his oily pate –

Cried ‘Silence, or I grow grease! No loophole lets in air?

Jurymen, – Guilty, Death! Gainsay me if you dare!’

– Things at this pitch, I say, – what hubbub without the doors?

What laughs, shrieks, hoots and yells, what rudest of uproars?

Bounce through the barrier throng a bulk comes rolling vast!

[50] Thumps, kicks, – no manner of use! – spite of them rolls at last

Into the midst a ball which, bursting, brings to view

Publican Black Ned Bratts and Tabby his big wife too:

Both in a muck-sweat, both … were never such eyes uplift

At the sight of yawning hell, such nostrils – snouts that sniffed

Sulphur, such mouths a-gape ready to swallow flame!

Horrified, hideous, frank fiend-faces! yet, all the same,

Mixed with a certain … eh? how shall I dare style – mirth,

The desperate grin of the guess that, could they break from earth,

Heaven was above, and hell might rage in impotence

[60] Below the saved, the saved!

                       ‘Confound you! (no offence!)

Out of our way, – push, wife! Yonder their Worships be!’

Ned Bratts has reached the bar, and ‘Hey, my Lords,’ roars he,

‘A Jury of life and death, Judges the prime of the land,

Constables, javelineers, – all met, if I understand,

To decide so knotty a point as whether ’twas Jack or Joan

Robbed the henroost, pinched the pig, hit the “King’s Arms” with a stone,

Dropped the baby down the well, left the tithesman in the lurch,

Or, three whole Sundays running, not once attended church!

What a pother – do these deserve the parish-stocks or whip,

[70] More or less brow to brand, much or little nose to snip, –

When, in our Public, plain stand we – that’s we stand here,

I and my Tab, brass-bold, brick-built of beef and beer,

– Do not we, slut? Step forth and show your beauty, jade!

Wife of my bosom – that’s the word now! What a trade

We drove! None said us nay: nobody loved his life

So little as wag a tongue against us, – did they, wife?

Yet they knew us all the while, in their hearts, for what we are

– Worst couple, rogue and quean, unhanged – search near and far!

Eh, Tab? The pedlar, now – o’er his noggin – who warned a mate

[80] To cut and run, nor risk his pack where its loss of weight

Was the least to dread, – aha, how we two laughed a-good

As, stealing round the midden, he came on where I stood

With billet poised and raised, – you, ready with the rope, –

Ah, but that’s past, that’s sin repented of, we hope!

Men knew us for that same, yet safe and sound stood we!

The lily-livered knaves knew too (I’ve balked a d—)

Our keeping the “Pied Bull” was just a mere pretence:

Too slow the pounds make food, drink, lodging, from out the pence!

There’s not a stoppage to travel has chanced, this ten long year,

[90] No break into hall or grange, no lifting of nag or steer,

Not a single roguery, from the clipping of a purse

To the cutting of a throat, but paid us toll. Od’s curse!

When Gypsy Smouch made bold to cheat us of our due,

– Eh, Tab? the Squire’s strong-box we helped the rascal to –

I think he pulled a face, next Sessions’ swinging-time!

He danced the jig that needs no floor, – and, here’s the prime,

’Twas Scroggs that houghed the mare! Ay, those were busy days!

‘Well, there we flourished brave, like scripture-trees called bays,

Faring high, drinking hard, in money up to head

[100] – Not to say, boots and shoes, when … Zounds, I nearly said –

Lord, to unlearn one’s language! How shall we labour, wife?

Have you, fast hold, the Book? Grasp, grip it, for your life!

See, sirs, here’s life, salvation! Here’s – hold but out my breath –

When did I speak so long without once swearing? ’Sdeath,

No, nor unhelped by ale since man and boy! And yet

All yesterday I had to keep my whistle wet

While reading Tab this Book: book? don’t say “book” – they’re plays,

Songs, ballads and the like: here’s no such strawy blaze,

But sky wide ope, sun, moon, and seven stars out full-flare!

[110] Tab, help and tell! I’m hoarse. A mug! or – no, a prayer!

Dip for one out of the Book! Who wrote it in the Jail

– He plied his pen unhelped by beer, sirs, I’ll be bail!

‘I’ve got my second wind. In trundles she – that’s Tab.

“Why, Gammer, what’s come now, that – bobbing like a crab

On Yule-tide bowl – your head’s a-work and both your eyes

Break loose? Afeard, you fool? As if the dead can rise!

Say – Bagman Dick was found last May with fuddling-cap

Stuffed in his mouth: to choke’s a natural mishap!”

“Gaffer, be – blessed,” cries she, “and Bagman Dick as well!

[120] I, you, and he are damned: this Public is our hell:

We live in fire: live coals don’t feel! – once quenched, they learn –

Cinders do, to what dust they moulder while they burn!”

‘“If you don’t speak straight out,” says I – belike I swore –

“A knobstick, well you know the taste of, shall, once more,

Teach you to talk, my maid!” She ups with such a face,

Heart sunk inside me. “Well, pad on, my prate-apace!”

‘“I’ve been about those laces we need for … never mind!

If henceforth they tie hands, ’tis mine they’ll have to bind.

You know who makes them best – the Tinker in our cage,

[130] Pulled-up for gospelling, twelve years ago: no age

To try another trade, – yet, so he scorned to take

Money he did not earn, he taught himself the make

Of laces, tagged and tough – Dick Bagman found them so!

Good customers were we! Well, last week, you must know,

His girl, – the blind young chit, who hawks about his wares, –

She takes it in her head to come no more – such airs

These hussies have! Yet, since we need a stoutish lace, –

‘I’ll to the gaol-bird father, abuse her to his face!’

So, first I filled a jug to give me heart, and then,

[140] Primed to the proper pitch, I posted to their den –

Patmore – they style their prison! I tip the turnkey, catch

My heart up, fix my face, and fearless lift the latch –

Both arms a-kimbo, in bounce with a good round oath

Ready for rapping out: no ‘Lawks’ nor ‘By my troth!’

‘“There sat my man, the father. He looked up: what one feels

When heart that leapt to mouth drops down again to heels!

He raised his hand … Hast seen, when drinking out the night,

And in, the day, earth grow another something quite

Under the sun’s first stare? I stood a very stone.

[150] ‘“‘Woman!’ (a fiery tear he put in every tone),

‘How should my child frequent your house where lust is sport,

Violence – trade? Too true! I trust no vague report.

Her angel’s hand, which stops the sight of sin, leaves clear

The other gate of sense, lets outrage through the ear.

What has she heard! – which, heard shall never be again.

Better lack food than feast, a Dives in the – wain

Or reign or train – of Charles!’ (His language was not ours:

’Tis my belief, God spoke: no tinker has such powers).

‘Bread, only bread they bring – my laces: if we broke

[160] Your lump of leavened sin, the loaf’s first crumb would choke!’

‘“Down on my marrow-bones! Then all at once rose he:

His brown hair burst a-spread, his eyes were suns to see:

Up went his hands: ‘Through flesh, I reach, I read thy soul!

So may some stricken tree look blasted, bough and bole,

Champed by the fire-tooth, charred without, and yet, thrice-bound

With dreriment about, within may life be found,

A prisoned power to branch and blossom as before,

Could but the gardener cleave the cloister, reach the core,

Loosen the vital sap: yet where shall help be found?

[170] Who says “How save it?” – nor “Why cumbers it the ground?”

Woman, that tree art thou! All sloughed about with scurf,

Thy stag-horns fright the sky, thy snake-roots sting the turf!

Drunkenness, wantonness, theft, murder gnash and gnarl

Thine outward, case thy soul with coating like the marle

Satan stamps flat upon each head beneath his hoof!

And how deliver such? The strong men keep aloof,

Lover and friend stand far, the mocking ones pass by,

Tophet gapes wide for prey: lost soul, despair and die!

What then? “Look unto me and be ye saved!” saith God:

[180] “I strike the rock, outstreats the life-stream at my rod!

Be your sins scarlet, wool shall they seem like, – although

As crimson red, yet turn white as the driven snow!” ’

‘“There, there, there! All I seem to somehow understand

Is – that, if I reached home, ’twas through the guiding hand

Of his blind girl which led and led me through the streets

And out of town and up to door again. What greets

First thing my eye, as limbs recover from their swoon?

A book – this Book she gave at parting. ‘Father’s boon –

The Book he wrote: it reads as if he spoke himself:

[190] He cannot preach in bonds, so, – take it down from shelf

When you want counsel, – think you hear his very voice!’

‘“Wicked dear Husband, first despair and then rejoice!

Dear wicked Husband, waste no tick of moment more,

Be saved like me, bald trunk! There’s greenness yet at core,

Sap under slough! Read, read!”

                    ‘Let me take breath, my lords!

I’d like to know, are these – hers, mine, or Bunyan’s words?

I’m ’wildered – scarce with drink, – nowise with drink alone!

You’ll say, with heat: but heat’s no stuff to split a stone

Like this black boulder – this flint heart of mine: the Book –

[200] That dealt the crashing blow! Sirs, here’s the fist that shook

His beard till Wrestler Jem howled like a just-lugged bear!

You had brained me with a feather: at once I grew aware

Christmas was meant for me. A burden at your back,

Good Master Christmas? Nay, – yours was that Joseph’s sack,

– Or whose it was, – which held the cup, – compared with mine!

Robbery loads my loins, perjury cracks my chine,

Adultery … nay, Tab, you pitched me as I flung!

One word, I’ll up with fist … No, sweet spouse, hold your tongue!

‘I’m hasting to the end. The Book, sirs – take and read!

[210] You have my history in a nutshell, – ay, indeed!

It must off, my burden! See, – slack straps and into pit,

Roll, reach the bottom, rest, rot there – a plague on it!

For a mountain’s sure to fall and bury Bedford Town,

“Destruction” – that’s the name, and fire shall burn it down!

O ’scape the wrath in time! Time’s now, if not too late.

How can I pilgrimage up to the wicket-gate?

Next comes Despond the slough: not that I fear to pull

Through mud, and dry my clothes at brave House Beautiful –

But it’s late in the day, I reckon: had I left years ago

[220] Town, wife, and children dear … Well, Christmas did, you know! –

Soon I had met in the valley and tried my cudgel’s strength

On the enemy horned and winged, a-straddle across its length!

Have at his horns, thwick – thwack: they snap, see! Hoof and hoof –

Bang, break the fetlock-bones! For love’s sake, keep aloof

Angels! I’m man and match, – this cudgel for my flail, –

To thresh him, hoofs and horns, bat’s wing and serpent’s tail!

A chance gone by! But then, what else does Hopeful ding

Into the deafest ear except – hope, hope’s the thing?

Too late i’ the day for me to thrid the windings: but

[230] There’s still a way to win the race by death’s short cut!

Did Master Faithful need climb the Delightful Mounts?

No, straight to Vanity Fair, – a fair, by all accounts,

Such as is held outside, – lords, ladies, grand and gay, –

Says he in the face of them, just what you hear me say.

And the Judges brought him in guilty, and brought him out

To die in the market-place – Saint Peter’s Green’s about

The same thing: there they flogged, flayed, buffeted, lanced with knives,

Pricked him with swords, – I’ll swear, he’d full a cat’s nine lives, –

So to his end at last came Faithful, – ha, ha, he!

[240] Who holds the highest card? for there stands hid, you see,

Behind the rabble-rout, a chariot, pair and all:

He’s in, he’s off, he’s up, through clouds, at trumpet-call,

Carried the nearest way to Heaven-gate! Odds my life –

Has nobody a sword to spare? not even a knife?

Then hang me, draw and quarter! Tab – do the same by her!

O Master Worldly-Wiseman … that’s Master Interpreter,

Take the will, not the deed! Our gibbet’s handy close:

Forestall Last Judgement-Day! Be kindly, not morose!

There wants no earthly judge-and-jurying: here we stand –

[250] Sentence our guilty selves: so, hang us out of hand!

Make haste for pity’s sake! A single moment’s loss

Means – Satan’s lord once more: his whisper shoots across

All singing in my heart, all praying in my brain,

“It comes of heat and beer!” – hark how he guffaws plain!

“Tomorrow you’ll wake bright, and, in a safe skin, hug

Your sound selves, Tab and you, over a foaming jug!

You’ve had such qualms before, time out of mind!” He’s right!

Did not we kick and cuff and curse away, that night

When home we blindly reeled and left poor humpback Joe

[260] I’ the lurch to pay for what … somebody did, you know!

Both of us maundered then “Lame humpback, – never more

Will he come limping, drain his tankard at our door!

He’ll swing, while – somebody …” Says Tab, “No, for I’ll peach!”

“I’m for you, Tab,” cries I, “there’s rope enough for each!”

So blubbered we, and bussed, and went to bed upon

The grace of Tab’s good thought: by morning, all was gone!

We laughed – “What’s life to him, a cripple of no account?”

Oh, waves increase around – I feel them mount and mount!

Hang us! Tomorrow brings Tom Bearward with his bears:

[270] One new black-muzzled brute beats Sackerson, he swears:

(Sackerson, for my money!) And, baiting o’er, the Brawl

They lead on Turner’s Patch, – lads, lasses, up tails all, –

I’m i’ the thick o’ the throng! That means the Iron Cage,

– Means the Lost Man inside! Where’s hope for such as wage

War against light? Light’s left, light’s here, I hold light still,

So does Tab – make but haste to hang us both! You will?’

I promise, when he stopped you might have heard a mouse

Squeak, such a death-like hush sealed up the old Mote House.

But when the mass of man sank meek upon his knees,

[280] While Tab, alongside, wheezed a hoarse ‘Do hang us, please!’

Why, then the waters rose, no eye but ran with tears,

Hearts heaved, heads thumped, until, paying all past arrears

Of pity and sorrow, at last a regular scream out broke

Of triumph, joy and praise.

                        My Lord Chief Justice spoke,

First mopping brow and cheek, where still, for one that budged,

Another bead broke fresh: ‘What Judge, that ever judged

Since first the world began, judged such a case as this?

Why, Master Bratts, long since, folk smelt you out, I wis!

I had my doubts, i’ faith, each time you played the fox

[290] Convicting geese of crime in yonder witness-box –

Yea, much did I misdoubt, the thief that stole her eggs

Was hardly goosey’s self at Reynard’s game, i’ feggs!

Yet thus much was to praise – you spoke to point, direct –

Swore you heard, saw the theft: no jury could suspect –

Dared to suspect, – I’ll say, – a spot in white so clear:

Goosey was throttled, true: but thereof godly fear

Came of example set, much as our laws intend;

And, though a fox confessed, you proved the Judge’s friend.

What if I had my doubts? Suppose I gave them breath,

[300] Brought you to bar: what work to do, ere “Guilty, Death,” –

Had paid our pains! What heaps of witnesses to drag

From holes and corners, paid from out the County’s bag!

Trial three dog-days long! Amicus Curiae – that’s

Your title, no dispute – truth-telling Master Bratts!

Thank you, too, Mistress Tab! Why doubt one word you say?

Hanging you both deserve, hanged both shall be this day!

The tinker needs must be a proper man. I’ve heard

He lies in Gaol long since: if Quality’s good word

Warrants me letting loose, – some householder, I mean –

[310] Freeholder, better still, – I don’t say but – between

Now and next Sessions … Well! Consider of his case,

I promise to, at least: we owe him so much grace.

Not that – no, God forbid! – I lean to think, as you,

The grace that such repent is any goal-bird’s due:

I rather see the fruit of twelve years’ pious reign –

Astraea Redux, Charles restored his rights again!

– Of which, another time! I somehow feel a peace

Stealing across the world. May deeds like this increase!

So, Master Sheriff, stay that sentence I pronounced

[320] On those two dozen odd: deserving to be trounced

Soundly, and yet … well, well, at all events dispatch

This pair of – shall I say, sinner-saints? – ere we catch

Their gaol-distemper too.