A Jongleur Strayed Part 1

A Jongleur Strayed.

by Richard Le Gallienne.

INTRODUCTION

One Spring day in London, long before the invention of freak verse and Freudism, I was standing in front of the Cafe Royal in Regent Street when there emerged from its portals the most famous young writer of the day, the Poet about whose latest work "The Book Bills of Narcissus" all literary London was then talking.

Richard Le Gallienne was the first real poet I had ever laid eyes upon in the flesh and it seemed to my rapt senses that this frock-coated young G.o.d, with the cla.s.sic profile and the dark curls curving from the impeccable silk "tile" that surmounted them as curve the acanthus leaves of a Corinthian capital, could be none other than Anacreon's self in modern shape.

I can see Le Gallienne now, as he steps across the sunlit sidewalk and with gesture Mercurian hails the pa.s.sing Jehu. I can even hear the quick clud of the cab doors as the smartly turning hansome s.n.a.t.c.hes from my view the gla.s.s-dimmed face I was not to behold again until years later at the house of a mutual friend in New York.

In another moment the swiftly moving vehicle was dissolved in the glitter of Regent Street and I fell to musing upon the curious interlacement of parts in this picture puzzle of life.

Here was a common Cabby, for the time being combining in himself the several functions of guide-book, chattel-mortgage and writ of habeas corpus on the person of the most popular literary idol of the hour and all for the matter of maybe no more than half a crown, including the _pourboire_!

Who would not have rejoiced to change places with that cabman! And how might not Pegasus have envied that cab-horse!

Now after all these years it has come to pa.s.s that I am to change places with the cabman.

Perched aloft in the driver's seat of the First Person Singular, it is my proud privilege to crack the prefatory whip and start this newest and best Le Gallienne Vehicle upon its course through the garlanded Via Laurea to the Sign of the Golden Sheaf.

Look at it well, Dear People, before it starts, this golden vehicle of Richard Le Gallienne.

Consider how it is built on the authentic lines of the best workmanship, made to last for generations, maybe for ever.

Take note of its springs so perfectly hung that the Muse may ride in luxurious ease, unjarred by metrical joltings as befits the Queen.

Mark the mirror smooth surface of the lacquer that only time and tireless labour can apply.

Before this Master Coach of Poesy the rattle-jointed Tin Lizzie of Free Verse and the painted jazz wagon of Futurism and the cheap imitation of the Chinese palanquin must turn aside, they have no right of way, these literary road-lice on the garlanded Via Laurea.

With angry thumb, the traffic cop Time will jerk them back to the side streets and byways where they belong, to make way for the Golden Coach of Richard Le Gallienne.

OLIVER HERFORD

I

AN ECHO FROM HORACE

_Lusisti est, et edisti, atque bibisti; Tempus abire, tibi est._

Take away the dancing girls, quench the lights, remove Golden cups and garlands sere, all the feast; away Lutes and lyres and Lalage; close the gates, above Write upon the lintel this; _Time is done for play!

Thou hast had thy fill of love, eaten, drunk; the show Ends at last, 'twas long enough--time it is to go._

Thou hast played--ah! heart, how long!--past all count were they, Girls of gold and ivory, bosomed deep, all snow, Leopard swift, and velvet loined, bronze for hair, wild clay Turning at a touch to flame, tense as a strung bow.

Cruel as the circling hawk, tame at last as dove,-- Thou hast had thy fill and more than enough of love.

Thou hast eaten; peac.o.c.k's tongues,--fed thy carp with slaves,-- Nests of Asiatic birds, brought from far Cathay, Umbrian boars, and mullet roes s.n.a.t.c.hed from stormy waves; Half thy father's lands have gone one strange meal to pay; For a morsel on thy plate ravished sea and sh.o.r.e; Thou hast eaten--'tis enough, thou shalt eat no more.

Thou hast drunk--how hast thou drunk! mighty vats, whole seas; Vineyards purpling half a world turned to gold thy throat, Falernian, true Ma.s.sic, the G.o.ds' own vintages, Lakes thou hast swallowed deep enough galleys tall to float; Wildness, wonder, wisdom, all, drunkenness divine, All that dreams within the grape, madness too, were thine.

Time it is to go and sleep--draw the curtains close-- Tender strings shall lull thee still, mellow flutes be blown, Still the spring shall shower down on thy couch the rose, Still the laurels crown thine head, where thou dreamest alone.

Thou didst play, and thou didst eat, thou hast drunken deep, Time at last it is to go, time it is to sleep.

BALLADE OF THE OLDEST DUEL IN THE WORLD

A battered swordsman, slashed and scarred, I scarce had thought to fight again, But love of the old game dies hard, So to't, my lady, if you're fain!

I'm scarce the mettle to refrain, I'll ask no quarter from your art-- But what if we should both be slain!

I fight you, darling, for your heart.

I warn you, though, be on your guard, Nor an old swordsman's craft disdain, He jests at scars--what saith the Bard?

Love's wounds are real, and fierce the pain; If we should die of love, we twain!

You laugh--_en garde_ then--so we start; Cyrano-like, here's my refrain: I fight you, darling, for your heart.

If compliments I interlard Twixt feint and lunge, you'll not complain Lacking your eyes, the night's un-starred, The rose is beautiful in vain, In vain smells sweet--Rose-in-the-Brain, Dizzying the world--a touch! sweet smart!-- Only the envoi doth remain: I fight you, darling, for your heart.

ENVOI

Princess, I'm yours; the rose-red rain Pours from my side--but see! I dart Within your guard--poor pretty stain!

I fight you, darling, for your heart.

SORCERY

Face with the forest eyes, And the wayward wild-wood hair, How shall a man be wise, When a girl's so fair; How, with her face once seen, Shall life be as it has been, This many a year?

Beautiful fearful thing!

You undulant sorcery!

I dare not hear you sing, Dance not for me; The whiteness of your breast, Divinely manifest I must not see.

Too late, thou luring child, Moon matches little moon; I must not be beguiled, With the honied tune: Yet O to lay my head Twixt moon and moon!

'Twas so my sad heart said, Only last June.