Poems of To-Day: an Anthology Part 16

Easy to think that grieving's folly, When the hand's firm as driven stakes!

Ay, when we're strong, and braced, and manful, Life's a sweet fiddle: but we're a batch Born to become the Great Juggler's han'ful; b.a.l.l.s he shies up, and is safe to catch.

Here's where the lads of the village cricket: I was a lad not wide from here: Couldn't I whip off the bail from the wicket?

Like an old world those days appear!

Donkey, sheep, geese, and thatched ale-house--I know them!

They are old friends of my halts, and seem, Somehow, as if kind thanks I owe them: Juggling don't hinder the heart's esteem.

Juggling's no sin, for we must have victual: Nature allows us to bait for the fool.

Holding one's own makes us juggle no little; But, to increase it, hard juggling's the rule.

You that are sneering at my profession, Haven't you juggled a vast amount?

There's the Prime Minister, in one Session, Juggles more games than my sins'll count.

I've murdered insects with mock thunder: Conscience, for that, in men don't quail.

I've made bread from the b.u.mp of wonder: That's my business, and there's my tale.

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Fashion and rank all praised the professor: Ay! and I've had my smile from the Queen Bravo, Jerry! she meant: G.o.d bless her!

Ain't this a sermon on that scene?

I've studied men from my topsy-turvy Close, and, I reckon, rather true.

Some are fine fellows: some, right scurvy; Most, a dash between the two.

But it's a woman, old girl, that makes me Think more kindly of the race, And it's a woman, old girl, that shakes me When the Great Juggler I must face.

We two were married, due and legal: Honest we've lived since we've been one.

Lord! I could then jump like an eagle: You danced bright as a bit o' the sun.

Birds in a May-bush we were! right merry!

All night we kiss'd, we juggled all day.

Joy was the heart of Juggling Jerry!

Now from his old girl he's juggled away.

It's past parsons to console us: No, nor no doctor fetch for me: I can die without my bolus; Two of a trade, la.s.s, never agree!

Parson and Doctor!--don't they love rarely, Fighting the devil in other men's fields!

Stand up yourself and match him fairly, Then see how the rascal yields!

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I, la.s.s, have lived no gipsy, flaunting Finery while his poor helpmate grubs: Coin I've stored, and you won't be wanting: You shan't beg from the troughs and tubs.

n.o.bly you've stuck to me, though in his kitchen Many a Marquis would hail you Cook!

Palaces you could have ruled and grown rich in, But your old Jerry you never forsook.

Hand up the chirper! ripe ale winks in it; Let's have comfort and be at peace.

Once a stout draught made me light as a linnet.

Cheer up! the Lord must have his lease.

Maybe--for none see in that black hollow-- It's just a place where we're held in p.a.w.n, And, when the Great Juggler makes as to swallow, It's just the sword-trick--I ain't quite gone!

Yonder came smells of the gorse, so nutty, Gold-like and warm: it's the prime of May Better than mortar, brick and putty, Is G.o.d's house on a blowing day.

Lean me more up the mound; now I feel it: All the old heath-smells! Ain't it strange?

There's the world laughing, as if to conceal it, But He's by us, juggling the change.

I mind it well, by the sea-beach lying, Once--it's long gone--when two gulls we beheld, Which, as the moon got up, were flying Down a big wave that sparked and swelled.

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Crack went a gun: one fell: the second Wheeled round him, twice, and was off for new luck; There in the dark her white wing beckon'd:-- Drop me a kiss--I'm the bird dead-struck!

_George Meredith._

73. REQUIEM

Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie.

Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me: _Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill._

_Robert Louis Stevenson._

74. A DEAD HARVEST

_In Kensington Gardens_

Along the graceless gra.s.s of town They rake the rows of red and brown-- Dead leaves, unlike the rows of hay Delicate, touched with gold and grey, Raked long ago and far away.

A narrow silence in the park, Between the lights a narrow dark.

One street rolls on the north; and one, m.u.f.fled, upon the south doth run; Amid the mist the work is done.

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A futile crop!--for it the fire Smoulders, and, for a stack, a pyre.

So go the town's lives on the breeze, Even as the sheddings of the trees; Bosom nor barn is filled with these.

_Alice Meynell._

75. THE LITTLE DANCERS

Lonely, save for a few faint stars, the sky Dreams; and lonely, below, the little street Into its gloom retires, secluded and shy.

Scarcely the dumb roar enters this soft retreat; And all is dark, save where come flooding rays From a tavern window: there, to the brisk measure Of an organ that down in an alley merrily plays, Two children, all alone and no one by, Holding their tattered frocks, through an airy maze Of motion, lightly threaded with nimble feet, Dance sedately: face to face they gaze, Their eyes shining, grave with a perfect pleasure.

_Laurence Binyon._