Written by
Rudyard Kipling |
Now Jones had left his new-wed bride to keep his house in order,
And hied away to the Hurrum Hills above the Afghan border,
To sit on a rock with a heliograph; but ere he left he taught
His wife the working of the Code that sets the miles at naught.
And Love had made him very sage, as Nature made her fair;
So Cupid and Apollo linked , per heliograph, the pair.
At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise --
At e'en, the dying sunset bore her busband's homilies.
He warned her 'gainst seductive youths in scarlet clad and gold,
As much as 'gainst the blandishments paternal of the old;
But kept his gravest warnings for (hereby the ditty hangs)
That snowy-haired Lothario, Lieutenant-General Bangs.
'Twas General Bangs, with Aide and Staff, who tittupped on the way,
When they beheld a heliograph tempestuously at play.
They thought of Border risings, and of stations sacked and burnt --
So stopped to take the message down -- and this is whay they learnt --
"Dash dot dot, dot, dot dash, dot dash dot" twice. The General swore.
"Was ever General Officer addressed as 'dear' before?
"'My Love,' i' faith! 'My Duck,' Gadzooks! 'My darling popsy-wop!'
"Spirit of great Lord Wolseley, who is on that mountaintop?"
The artless Aide-de-camp was mute; the gilded Staff were still,
As, dumb with pent-up mirth, they booked that message from the hill;
For clear as summer lightning-flare, the husband's warning ran: --
"Don't dance or ride with General Bangs -- a most immoral man."
[At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise --
But, howsoever Love be blind, the world at large hath eyes.]
With damnatory dot and dash he heliographed his wife
Some interesting details of the General's private life.
The artless Aide-de-camp was mute, the shining Staff were still,
And red and ever redder grew the General's shaven gill.
And this is what he said at last (his feelings matter not): --
"I think we've tapped a private line. Hi! Threes about there! Trot!"
All honour unto Bangs, for ne'er did Jones thereafter know
By word or act official who read off that helio.
But the tale is on the Frontier, and from Michni to Mooltan
They know the worthy General as "that most immoral man."
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Written by
Ben Jonson |
XIII. — EPISTLE TO KATHARINE LADY AUBIGNY. As what they have lost t' expect, they dare deride. So both the prais'd and praisers suffer ; yet, For others ill ought none their good forget. I therefore, who profess myself in love With every virtue, wheresoe'er it move, And howsoever ; as I am at feudBy arts, and practice of the vicious, Such as suspect themselves, and think it fit, For their own capital crimes, to indict my wit ; I that have suffer'd this ; and though forsook Of fortune, have not alter'd yet my look, Or so myself abandon'd, as because Men are not just, or keep no holy laws Of nature and society, I should faint ;If it may stand with your soft blush, to hear Yourself but told unto yourself, and see In my character what your features be, You will not from the paper slightly pass : No lady, but at some time loves her glass. And this shall be no false one, but as much Remov'd, as you from need to have it such. Look then, and see your self — I will not sayIt perfect, proper, pure, and natural, Not taken up o' the doctors, but as well As I, can say and see it doth excel ; That asks but to be censured by the eyes : And in those outward forms, all fools are wise. Nor that your beauty wanted not a dower, Do I reflect. Some alderman has power, Or cozening farmer of the customs, soAnd raise not virtue ; they may vice enhance. My mirror is more subtle, clear, refined, And.takes and gives the beauties of the mind ; Though it reject not those of fortune : such As blood, and match. Wherein, how more than much Are you engaged to your happy fate, For such a lot ! that mixt you with a state Of so great title, birth, but virtue most,For he that once is good, is ever great. Wherewith then, madam, can you better pay This blessing of your stars, than by that way Of virtue, which you tread ? What if alone, Without companions ? 'tis safe to have none. In single paths dangers with ease are watch'd ; Contagion in the press is soonest catch'd. This makes, that wisely you decline your lifeNot looking by, or back, like those that wait Times and occasions, to start forth, and seem. Which though the turning world may disesteem, Because that studies spectacles and shows, And after varied, as fresh objects, goes, Giddy with change, and therefore cannot see Right, the right way ; yet must your comfort be Your conscience, and not wonder if none asksMaintain their liegers forth for foreign wires, Melt down their husbands land, to pour away On the close groom and page, on new-year's day, And almost all days after, while they live ; They find it both so witty, and safe to give. Let them on powders, oils, and paintings spend, Till that no usurer, nor his bawds dare lend Them or their officers ; and no man know,When their own parasites laugh at their fall, May they have nothing left, whereof they can Boast, but how oft they have gone wrong to man, And call it their brave sin : for such there be That do sin only for the infamy ; And never think, how vice doth every hour Eat on her clients, and some one devour. You, madam, young have learn'd to shun these shelves,Into your harbor, and all passage shut 'Gainst storms or pirates, that might charge your peace ; For which you worthy are the glad increase Of your blest womb, made fruitful from above, To pay your lord the pledges of chaste love ; And raise a noble stem, to give the fame To Clifton's blood, that is denied their name. Grow, grow, fair tree ! and as thy branches shoot,Before the moons have fill'd their triple trine, To crown the burden which you go withal, It shall a ripe and timely issue fall, T' expect the honors of great AUBIGNY ; And greater rites, yet writ in mystery, But which the fates forbid me to reveal. Only thus much out of a ravish'd zeal Unto your name, and goodness of your life,What your tried manners are, what theirs should be ; How you love one, and him you should, how still You are depending on his word and will ; Not fashion'd for the court, or strangers' eyes ; But to please him, who is the dearer prize Unto himself, by being so dear to you. This makes, that your affections still be new, And that your souls conspire, as they were goneMadam, be bold to use this truest glass ; Wherein your form you still the same shall find ; Because nor it can change, nor such a mind.
Of any good mind, now ; there are so few. The bad, by number, are so fortified, As what they have lost t' expect, they dare deride. So both the prais'd and praisers suffer ; yet, For others ill ought none their good forget. I therefore, who profess myself in love With every virtue, wheresoe'er it move, And howsoever ; as I am at feud
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Written by
Edwin Arlington Robinson |
“We are false and evanescent, and aware of our deceit,
From the straw that is our vitals to the clay that is our feet.
You may serve us if you must, and you shall have your wage of ashes,—
Though arrears due thereafter may be hard for you to meet.
“You may swear that we are solid, you may say that we are strong,
But we know that we are neither and we say that you are wrong;
You may find an easy worship in acclaiming our indulgence,
But your large admiration of us now is not for long.
“If your doom is to adore us with a doubt that’s never still,
And you pray to see our faces—pray in earnest, and you will.
You may gaze at us and live, and live assured of our confusion:
For the False Gods are mortal, and are made for you to kill.
“And you may as well observe, while apprehensively at ease
With an Art that’s inorganic and is anything you please,
That anon your newest ruin may lie crumbling unregarded,
Like an old shrine forgotten in a forest of new trees.
“Howsoever like no other be the mode you may employ,
There’s an order in the ages for the ages to enjoy;
Though the temples you are shaping and the passions you are singing
Are a long way from Athens and a longer way from Troy.
“When we promise more than ever of what never shall arrive,
And you seem a little more than ordinarily alive,
Make a note that you are sure you understand our obligations—
For there’s grief always auditing where two and two are five.
“There was this for us to say and there was this for you to know,
Though it humbles and it hurts us when we have to tell you so.
If you doubt the only truth in all our perjured composition,
May the True Gods attend you and forget us when we go.”
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Written by
Ben Jonson |
III. — TO SIR ROBERT WROTH. Art ta'en with neither's vice nor sport : That at great times, art no ambitious guest Of sheriff 's dinner, or mayor's feast. Nor com'st to view the better cloth of state, The richer hangings, or crown-plate ; Nor throng'st (when masquing is) to have a sight There wasted, some not paid for yet ! But canst at home, in thy securer rest, Live, with unbought provision blest ; Free from proud porches, or their gilded roofs, 'Mongst lowing herds, and solid hoofs : Along the curled woods, and painted meads, Through which a serpent river leads To some cool courteous shade, which he calls his, A-bed canst hear the loud stag speak, In spring, oft roused for thy master's sport, Who for it makes thy house his court ; Or with thy friends, the heart of all the year Divid'st, upon the lesser deer : In Autumn, at the partridge mak'st a flight, And giv'st thy gladder guests the sight ; And in the winter, hunt'st the flying hare, To the full greatness of the cry : Or hawking at the river, or the bush, Or shooting at the greedy thrush, Thou dost with some delight the day out-wear, Although the coldest of the year ! The whilst the several seasons thou hast seen Of flowery fields, of cop'ces green, The mowed meadows, with the fleeced sheep, And furrows laden with their weight ; The apple-harvest, that doth longer last ; The hogs return'd home fat from mast ; The trees cut out in log, and those boughs made A fire now, that lent a shade ! Thus Pan and Sylvan having had their rites, Comus puts in for new delights ; And fills thy open hall with mirth and cheer, Nor are the Muses strangers found. The rout of rural folk come thronging in, (Their rudeness then is thought no sin) Thy noblest spouse affords them welcome grace ; And the great heroes of her race Sit mixt with loss of state, or reverence. Freedom doth with degree dispense. The jolly wassal walks the often round, Nor how to get the lawyer fees. Such and no other was that age of old, Which boasts t' have had the head of gold. And such, since thou canst make thine own content, Strive, Wroth, to live long innocent. Let others watch in guilty arms, and stand The fury of a rash command, Go enter breaches, meet the cannon's rage, And brag that they were therefore born. Let this man sweat, and wrangle at the bar, For every price, in every jar, And change possessions, oftner with his breath, Than either money, war, or death : Let him, than hardest sires, more disinherit, And each where boast it as his merit, To blow up orphans, widows, and their states ; Purchased by rapine, worse than stealth, And brooding o'er it sit, with broadest eyes, Not doing good, scarce when.he dies. Let thousands more go flatter vice, and win, By being organs to great sin ; Get place and honor, and be glad to keep The secrets that shall break their sleep And so they ride in purple, eat in plate, Shalt neither that, nor this envy : Thy peace is made ; and when man's state is well, 'Tis better, if he there can dwell. God wisheth none should wrack on a strange shelf : To him man's dearer, than t' himself. And howsoever we may think things sweet, He always gives what he knows meet ; Which who can use is happy : Such be thou. A body sound, with sounder mind ; To do thy country service, thy self right ; That neither want do thee affright, Nor death ; but when thy latest sand is spent, Thou may'st think life a thing but lent.
Whether by choice, or fate, or both ! And though so near the city, and the court, Art ta'en with neither's vice nor sport : That at great times, art no ambitious guest Of sheriff 's dinner, or mayor's feast. Nor com'st to view the better cloth of state, The richer hangings, or crown-plate ; Nor throng'st (when masquing is) to have a sight
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Written by
Edwin Arlington Robinson |
Could he have made Priscilla share
The paradise that he had planned,
Llewellyn would have loved his wife
As well as any in the land.
Could he have made Priscilla cease
To goad him for what God left out,
Llewellyn would have been as mild
As any we have read about.
Could all have been as all was not,
Llewellyn would have had no story;
He would have stayed a quiet man
And gone his quiet way to glory.
But howsoever mild he was
Priscilla was implacable;
And whatsoever timid hopes
He built—she found them, and they fell.
And this went on, with intervals
Of labored harmony between
Resounding discords, till at last
Llewellyn turned—as will be seen.
Priscilla, warmer than her name,
And shriller than the sound of saws,
Pursued Llewellyn once too far,
Not knowing quite the man he was.
The more she said, the fiercer clung
The stinging garment of his wrath;
And this was all before the day
When Time tossed roses in his path.
Before the roses ever came
Llewellyn had already risen.
The roses may have ruined him,
They may have kept him out of prison.
And she who brought them, being Fate,
Made roses do the work of spears,—
Though many made no more of her
Than civet, coral, rouge, and years.
You ask us what Llewellyn saw,
But why ask what may not be given?
To some will come a time when change
Itself is beauty, if not heaven.
One afternoon Priscilla spoke,
And her shrill history was done;
At any rate, she never spoke
Like that again to anyone.
One gold October afternoon
Great fury smote the silent air;
And then Llewellyn leapt and fled
Like one with hornets in his hair.
Llewellyn left us, and he said
Forever, leaving few to doubt him;
And so, through frost and clicking leaves,
The Tilbury way went on without him.
And slowly, through the Tilbury mist,
The stillness of October gold
Went out like beauty from a face.
Priscilla watched it, and grew old.
He fled, still clutching in his flight
The roses that had been his fall;
The Scarlet One, as you surmise,
Fled with him, coral, rouge, and all.
Priscilla, waiting, saw the change
Of twenty slow October moons;
And then she vanished, in her turn
To be forgotten, like old tunes.
So they were gone—all three of them,
I should have said, and said no more,
Had not a face once on Broadway
Been one that I had seen before.
The face and hands and hair were old,
But neither time nor penury
Could quench within Llewellyn’s eyes
The shine of his one victory.
The roses, faded and gone by,
Left ruin where they once had reigned;
But on the wreck, as on old shells,
The color of the rose remained.
His fictive merchandise I bought
For him to keep and show again,
Then led him slowly from the crush
Of his cold-shouldered fellow men.
“And so, Llewellyn,” I began—
“Not so,” he said; “not so at all:
I’ve tried the world, and found it good,
For more than twenty years this fall.
“And what the world has left of me
Will go now in a little while.”
And what the world had left of him
Was partly an unholy guile.
“That I have paid for being calm
Is what you see, if you have eyes;
For let a man be calm too long,
He pays for much before he dies.
“Be calm when you are growing old
And you have nothing else to do;
Pour not the wine of life too thin
If water means the death of you.
“You say I might have learned at home
The truth in season to be strong?
Not so; I took the wine of life
Too thin, and I was calm too long.
“Like others who are strong too late,
For me there was no going back;
For I had found another speed,
And I was on the other track.
“God knows how far I might have gone
Or what there might have been to see;
But my speed had a sudden end,
And here you have the end of me.”
The end or not, it may be now
But little farther from the truth
To say those worn satiric eyes
Had something of immortal youth.
He may among the millions here
Be one; or he may, quite as well,
Be gone to find again the Tree
Of Knowledge, out of which he fell.
He may be near us, dreaming yet
Of unrepented rouge and coral;
Or in a grave without a name
May be as far off as a moral.
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