Till thou hast won thyself a name
Exceeding even Euclid’s glory.
To My Child-Friend
Dedication to “The Game Of Logic”
I charm in vain: for never again,
All keenly as my glance I bend,
Will Memory, goddess coy,
Embody for my joy
Departed days, nor let me gaze
On thee, my Fairy Friend!
Yet could thy face, in mystic grace,
A moment smile on me, ’twould send
Far-darting rays of light
[10] From Heaven athwart the night,
By which to read in very deed
Thy spirit, sweetest Friend!
So may the stream of Life’s long dream
Flow gently onward to its end,
With many a floweret gay,
A-down its willowy way:
May no sigh vex, no care perplex,
My loving little Friend!
1886.
To Miss Emmie Drury
“I’m EMInent in RHYME!” she said.
“I make WRY Mouths of RYE-Meal gruel!”
The Poet smiled, and shook his head:
“Is REASON, then, the missing jewel?”
A Nursery Darling
Dedication to the Nursery “Alice,” 1889
A Mother’s breast:
Safe refuge from her childish fears,
From childish troubles, childish tears,
Mists that enshroud her dawning years!
See how in sleep she seems to sing
A voiceless psalm – an offering
Raised, to the glory of her King,
In Love: for Love is Rest.
A Darling’s kiss:
[10] Dearest of all the signs that fleet
From lips that lovingly repeat
Again, again, their message sweet!
Full to the brim with girlish glee,
A child, a very child is she,
Whose dream of Heaven is still to be
At Home: for Home is Bliss.
[“Girlie to whom in perennial bloom”]
Girlie to whom in perennial bloom
Life is all “Os” and no crosses:
Artists may take other themes for their skill,
Dreaming of fairyland just as they will;
You desire nothing but horses.
Sunbeams may glance, happy midges may dance,
Brooks prattle on in their courses;
Artists may paint just whatever they please,
Landscapes and Seascapes and Mountains and Trees;
[10] You are content with your horses.
[Double Acrostics]
(To Miss E. M. Argles.)
I sing a place wherein agree
All things on land that fairest be,
All that is sweetest of the sea.
Nor can I break the silken knot
That binds my memory to the spot
And friends too dear to be forgot.
On rocky brow we loved to stand
And watch in silence, hand in hand,
The shadows veiling sea and land.
[10] Then dropped the breeze; no vessel passed:
So silent stood each taper mast,
You would have deemed it chained and fast.
Above the blue and fleecy sky:
Below, the waves that quivering lie,
Like crispèd curls of greenery.
“A sail!” resounds from every lip.
Mizzen, no, square-sail – ah, you trip!
Edith, it cannot be a ship!
So home again from sea and beach,
[20] One nameless feeling thrilling each.
A sense of beauty, passing speech.
Let lens and tripod be unslung!
“Dolly!”’s the word on every tongue;
Dolly must sit, for she is young!
Photography shall change her face,
Distort it with uncouth grimace –
Make her bloodthirsty, fierce, and base.
I end my song while scarce begun;
For I should want, ere all was done,
[30] Four weeks to tell the tale of one:
And I should need as large a hand,
To paint a scene so wild and grand,
As he who traversed Egypt’s land.
What say you, Edith? Will it suit ye?
Reject it, if it fails in beauty:
You know your literary duty!
On the rail between Torquay and Guildford, Sep. 28, 1869.
[Double Acrostic for Agnes and Emily]
Two little maids were heard to say
(They dwell in London city)
“This summers-day’s too hot to play,
And picture-books are pretty.”
So, curling up like little mice,
And clasping hand in hand,
They read (& whispered “Ain’t it nice?”)
The tale of Wonderland.
Bright streamed the sunlight on the floor,
[10] To tempt them out to run;
But they (like mice, I’ve said before)
Loved shadow more than sun.
And one cried “Sister! Let’s invent
A dream – and plan to go
Where Mr. Dodgson says he went –
That Russian fair, you know.”
The other said “It’s nearly three:
Papa will call us soon,
His picture’s in the stand, and we
[20] Must sit this afternoon.”
“And if we sit extremely good”
The younger cried in haste,
“He’ll give us wine – he said he would –
A little tiny taste.”
[“Two little girls near London dwell”]
Two little girls near London dwell,
More naughty than I like to tell.
Upon the lawn the hoops are seen:
The balls are rolling on the green.
The Thames is running deep and wide:
And boats are rowing on the tide.
In winter-time, all in a row,
The happy skaters come and go.
“Papa!” they cry, “Do let us stay!”
[10] He does not speak, but says they may.
“There is a land,” he says, “my dear,
Which is too hot to skate, I fear.”
[“Thanks, thanks, fair Cousins, for your gift”]
Thanks, thanks, fair Cousins, for your gift
So swiftly borne to Albion’s isle –
Though angry waves their crests uplift
Between our shores, for many a league!
(“So far, so good,” you say: “but how
Your Cousins?” Let me tell you, Madam.
We’re both descended, you’ll allow,
From one great-great-great-grandsire, Noah.)
Your picture shall adorn the book
[10] That’s bound, so neatly and moroccoly,
With that bright green which every cook
Delights to see in beds of cauliflower.
The carte is very good, but pray
Send me the larger one as well!
“A cool request!” I hear you say.
“Give him an inch, he takes an acre!
“But we’ll be generous, because
We well remember, in the story,
How good and gentle Alice was,
[20] The day she argued with the Parrot!”
[“I saw a child; even if blind”]
I saw a child; even if blind,
I could have seen she was not kind.
“My child,” said I, “don’t make that noise!
Here, choose among this heap of toys.”
She said “I’ve tumbled in the river:
And that’s what makes me shake and shiver.”
“And what’s your name, my child?” said I.
“It’s Juliet, sir,” she made reply.
“You know,” said she, “I hates my pa –
[10] Never says nothing to my ma” –
“My child,” I cried, “you make me sad.
How can you be so very bad?”
At which she laughed in such a way,
I lost my hearing from that day.
A Day in the Country
Come, pack my things, and let the clothes
Be neatly brushed and folded well:
The friends I visit all suppose
That I’m a perfect London swell.
I wield a magic art, whose skill
Would make you open both your eyes:
And any friend of mine, who will,
I’m ready to immortalise.
“But is there water?” I demand,
[10] “Water in limitless supplies?”
They say “ ’Tis ready to your hand,
And in prodigious quantities.”
“Our long-legged Johnnie shall attend:
He’ll fetch it for you at a word.”
I said “My worthy long-legged friend,
You’re very like a monstrous bird!”
“Arrange the group! Our eldest boy
As Shakespeare’s lover shall be dressed;
And it shall be his sole employ
[20] To roll his eyes and thump his chest.”
“He has such genius!” says Momma.
“He got the fortieth prize at Eton!
In tragedy he’s best, by far –
As Hamlet he can not be beaten
“And don’t forget to write below
Some neat Shakespearian quotation –
The picture’ll strike our friend, I know
All of a heap with admiration.
“But is it really here you mean
[30] To group the family together?
You really must devise a screen –
The sun will bake us brown as leather!”
’Tis done. This happy English home
Is now immortalised securely:
The great historian of Rome
Could not have done it half as surely!
But evening’s now drawing on,
So for today we’ll give it up:
The light, you see is nearly gone –
[40] But come indoors and take a cup.
“Our larger cups are broken all,
So this must do – it’s made of chiney.”
“Indeed,” said I, “it’s very small:
I never saw a cup so tiny!”
I’ve taken pictures bad and good:
But that, I think, was worse than any
The great Logician never could
Have proved it worth a single penny!
They tell me it is turning green –
[50] All change, I’m sure, will be a blessing:
For never, never was there seen
A thing so hideous, so distressing!
Maggie’s Visit to Oxford
(June 9th to 13th, 1889)
When Maggie once to Oxford came,
On tour as “Bootles’ Baby,”
She said, “I’ll see this place of fame,
However dull the day be.”
So with her friend she visited
The sights that it was rich in:
And first of all she popped her head
Inside the Christ Church kitchen.
The Cooks around that little child
[10] Stood waiting in a ring:
And every time that Maggie smiled
Those Cooks began to sing –
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!
“Roast, boil and bake,
For Maggie’s sake:
Bring cutlets fine
For her to dine,
Meringues so sweet
For her to eat –
[20] For Maggie may be
Bootles’ Baby!”
Then hand in hand in pleasant talk
They wandered and admired
The Hall, Cathedral and Broad Walk,
Till Maggie’s feet were tired:
To Worcester Garden next they strolled,
Admired its quiet lake:
Then to St. John, a college old,
Their devious way they take.
[30] In idle mood they sauntered round
Its lawn so green and flat,
And in that garden Maggie found
A lovely Pussy-Cat!
A quarter of an hour they spent
In wandering to and fro:
And everywhere that Maggie went,
The Cat was sure to go –
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!
“Maiow! Maiow!
[40] Come, make your bow,
Take off your hats,
Ye Pussy-Cats!
And purr and purr,
To welcome her,
For Maggie may be
Bootles’ Baby!”
So back to Christ Church, not too late
For them to go and see
A Christ Church undergraduate,
[50] Who gave them cakes and tea.
Next day she entered with her guide
The garden called “Botanic,”
And there a fierce Wild Boar she spied,
Enough to cause a panic:
But Maggie didn’t mind, not she,
She would have faced, alone,
That fierce wild boar, because, you see,
The thing was made of stone.
On Magdalen walls they saw a face
[60] That filled her with delight,
A giant face, that made grimace
And grinned with all its might.
A little friend, industrious,
Pulled upwards all the while
The corner of its mouth, and thus
He helped that face to smile!
“How nice,” thought Maggie, “it would be
If I could have a friend
To do that very thing for me
[70] And make my mouth turn up with glee,
By pulling at one end.”
In Magdalen Park the deer are wild
With joy, that Maggie brings
Some bread a friend had given the child,
To feed the pretty things.
They flock round Maggie without fear:
They breakfast and they lunch,
They dine, they sup, those happy deer –
Still, as they munch and munch,
[80] Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!
“Yes, Deer are we,
And dear is she!
We love this child
So sweet and mild:
We all rejoice
At Maggie’s voice:
We all are fed
With Maggie’s bread …
For Maggie may be
[90] Bootles’ Baby!”
They met a Bishop on their way …
A Bishop large as life,
With loving smile that seemed to say
“Will Maggie be my wife?”
Maggie thought not, because, you see,
She was so very young,
And he was old as old could be …
So Maggie held her tongue.
“My Lord, she’s Bootles’ Baby, we
[100] Are going up and down,”
Her friend explained, “that she may see
The sights of Oxford Town.”
“Now say what kind of place it is,”
The Bishop gaily cried.
“The best place in the Provinces!”
That little maid replied.
Away, next morning, Maggie went
From Oxford town: but yet
The happy hours she there had spent
[110] She could not soon forget.
The train is gone, it rumbles on:
The engine-whistle screams;
But Maggie deep in rosy sleep …
And softly in her dreams,
Whispers the Battle-cry of Freedom.
“Oxford, good-bye!”
She seems to sigh.
“You dear old City,
With gardens pretty,
[120] And lanes and flowers,
And college-towers,
And Tom’s great Bell …
Farewell – farewell:
For Maggie may be
Bootles’ Baby!”
A Lesson in Latin
Our Latin books, in motley row,
Invite us to our task –
Gay Horace, stately Cicero:
Yet there’s one verb, when once we know,
No higher skill we ask:
This ranks all other lore above –
We’ve learned “ ‘Amare’ means ‘to love’!”
So, hour by hour, from flower to flower,
We sip the sweets of Life:
[10] Till, all too soon, the clouds arise,
And flaming cheeks and flashing eyes
Proclaim the dawn of strife:
With half a smile and half a sigh,
“Amare! Bitter One!” we cry.
Last night we owned, with looks forlorn,
“Too well the scholar knows
There is no rose without a thorn” –
But peace is made! We sing, this morn,
“No thorn without a rose!”
[20] Our Latin lesson is complete:
We’ve learned that Love is Bitter-Sweet!
May 1888.
[“My First has no beard – but its whiskers abound”]
My First has no beard – but its whiskers abound:
My Next has a beard – but no eyes:
My whole has two eyes – and a nourishing sound
That reminds me of puddings and pies.
To Miss Véra Beringer
There was a young lady of station,
“I love man” was her sole exclamation;
But when men cried, “You flatter,”
She replied, “Oh! no matter,
Isle of Man is the true explanation.”
Riddle Poem
VIOLET
VIOLET
VIOLET
VIOLET
VIOLET
To find the eldest of the pets,
Go search among the violets!
My First is a berry:
My Second is sorrow:
My Third from the cherry
Its sweetness doth borrow:
My Whole is too merry
To care for the morrow!
[Some Poems to accompany Photographs]
The Castle Builder
We are building little homes on the sands;
We are making little rooms very gay;
We are busy with our hearts and hands;
Jabberwocky and Other Nonsense Page 24