A Nonsense Anthology Part 29

_John Milton_.

_NEPHELIDIA_

From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous noonshine, Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float, Are they looks of our lovers that l.u.s.trously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine, These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with sobs from the throat?

Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor's appalled agitation, Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past; Flushed with the famishing fulness of fever that reddens with radiance of rathe recreation, Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast?

Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror, Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death: Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error, Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by beat.i.tude's breath.

Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses Sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh; Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and triangular tenses-- Life is the l.u.s.t of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die.

Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory melodiously mute as it may be, While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men's rapiers resigned to the rod; Made meek as a mother whose bosom--beats bound with the bliss-- bringing bulk of a balm--breathing baby, As they grope through the grave-yards of creeds, under skies growing green'at a groan for the grimness of G.o.d.

Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old and its binding is blacker than bluer: Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dews are the wine of the bloodshed of things; Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her, Till the heart-beats of h.e.l.l shall be hushed by a hymn from the hunt that has harried the kernel of kings.

_A. C. Swinburne, in "The Heptalogia_."

_MARTIN LUTHER AT POTSDAM_

What lightning shall light it? What thunder shall tell it?

In the height of the height, in the depth of the deep?

Shall the sea--storm declare it, or paint it, or smell it?

Shall the price of a slave be its treasure to keep?

When the night has grown near with the gems on her bosom, When the white of mine eyes is the whiteness of snow, When the cabman--in liquor--drives a blue roan, a kicker, Into the land of the dear long ago.

Ah!--Ah, again!--You will come to me, fall on me-- You are _so_ heavy, and I am _so_ flat.

And I? I shall not be at home when you call on me, But stray down the wind like a gentleman's hat: I shall list to the stars when the music is purple, Be drawn through a pipe, and exhaled into rings; Turn to sparks, and then straightway get stuck in the gateway That stands between speech and unspeakable things.

As I mentioned before, by what light is it lighted?

Oh! Is it fourpence, or piebald, or gray?

Is it a mayor that a mother has knighted, Or is it a horse of the sun and the day?

Is it a pony? If so, who will change it?

O golfer, be quiet, and mark where it scuds, And think of its paces--of owners and races-- Relinquish the links for the study of studs.

Not understood? Take me hence! Take me yonder!

Take me away to the land of my rest-- There where the Ganges and other gees wander, And uncles and antelopes act for the best, And all things are mixed and run into each other In a violet twilight of virtues and sins, With the church-spires below you and no one to show you Where the curate leaves off and the pew-rent begins!

In the black night through the rank gra.s.s the snakes peer-- The cobs and the cobras are partial to gra.s.s-- And a boy wanders out with a knowledge of Shakespeare That's not often found in a boy of his cla.s.s, And a girl wanders out without any knowledge, And a bird wanders out, and a cow wanders out, Likewise one wether, and they wander together-- There's a good deal of wandering lying about.

But it's all for the best; I've been told by my friends, Sir, That in verses I'd written the meaning was slight; I've tried with no meaning--to make 'em amends, Sir-- And find that this kind's still more easy to write.

The t.i.tle has nothing to do with the verses, But think of the millions--the laborers who In busy employment find deepest enjoyment, And yet, like my t.i.tle, have nothing to do!

_Barry Pain_.

_COMPANIONS_

I know not of what we ponder'd Or made pretence to talk, As, her hand within mine, we wander'd Tow'rd the pool by the limetree walk, While the dew fell in showers from the pa.s.sion flowers And the blush-rose bent on her stalk.

I cannot recall her figure: Was it regal as Juno's own?

Or only a trifle bigger Than the elves who surround the throne Of the Faery Queen, and are seen, I ween, By mortals in dreams alone?

What her eyes were like, I know not: Perhaps they were blurred with tears; And perhaps in your skies there glow not (On the contrary) clearer spheres.

No as to her eyes I am just as wise As you or the cat, my dears.

Her teeth, I presume, were "pearly": But which was she, brunette or blonde?

Her hair, was it quaintly curly, Or as straight as a beadle's wand?

That I failed to remark;--it was rather dark And shadowy round the pond.

Then the hand that reposed so snugly In mine--was it plump or spare?

Was the countenance fair or ugly?

Nay, children, you have me there!

My eyes were p'raps blurr'd; and besides, I'd heard That it's horribly rude to stare.

And I--was I brusque and surly?

Or oppressively bland and fond?

Was I partial to rising early?

Or why did we twain abscond, All breakfastless too, from the public view To prowl by a misty pond?

What pa.s.sed, what was felt or spoken-- Whether anything pa.s.sed at all-- And whether the heart was broken That beat under that sheltering shawl-- (If shawl she had on, which I doubt)--has gone.

Yes, gone from me past recall.

Was I haply the lady's suitor?

Or her uncle? I can't make out-- Ask your governess, dears, or tutor.

For myself, I'm in hopeless doubt As to why we were there, and who on earth we were, And what this is all about.

_C. S. Calverley_.

_THE c.o.c.k AND THE BULL_

You see this pebble-stone? It's a thing I bought Of a bit of a chit of a boy i' the mid o' the day-- I like to dock the smaller parts-o-speech, As we curtail the already cur-tailed cur (You catch the paronomasia, play 'po' words?) Did, rather, i' the pre-Landseerian days.

Well, to my muttons. I purchased the concern, And clapt it i' my poke, having given for same By way o' chop, swop, barter or exchange-- "Chop" was my snickering dandiprat's own term-- One shilling and fourpence, current coin o' the realm.

O-n-e one and f-o-u-r four Pence, one and fourpence--you are with me, sir?-- What hour it skills not: ten or eleven o' the clock, One day (and what a roaring day it was Go shop or sight-see--bar a spit o' rain!) In February, eighteen sixty nine, Alexandrina Victoria, Fidei, Hm--hm--how runs the jargon? being on the throne.

Such, sir, are all the facts, succinctly put, The basis or substratum--what you will-- Of the impending eighty thousand lines.

"Not much in 'em either," quoth perhaps simple Hodge.

But there's a superstructure. Wait a bit.

Mark first the rationale of the thing: Hear logic rivel and levigate the deed.

That shilling--and for matter o' that, the pence-- I had o' course upo' me--wi' me say-- (_Mec.u.m's_ the Latin, make a note o' that) When I popp'd pen i' stand, scratched ear, wiped snout, (Let everybody wipe his own himself) Sniff'd--tch!--at snuffbox; tumbled up, he-heed, Haw-haw'd (not he-haw'd, that's another guess thing): Then fumbled at, and stumbled out of, door, I shoved the timber ope wi' my omoplat; And _in vestibulo_, i' the lobby to-wit, (Iacobi Facciolati's rendering, sir,) Donned galligaskins, antigropeloes, And so forth; and, complete with hat and gloves, One on and one a-dangle i' my hand, And ombrifuge (Lord love you!) cas o' rain, I flopped forth, 'sbuddikins! on my own ten toes, (I do a.s.sure you there be ten of them) And went clump-clumping up hill and down dale To find myself o' the sudden i' front o' the boy.

Put case I hadn't 'em on me, could I ha' bought This sort-o'-kind-o'-what-you-might-call-toy, This pebble-thing, o' the boy-thing? Q. E. D.

That's proven without aid for mumping Pope, Sleek porporate or bloated cardinal.