Till the fire-light laughs and passes Then I come and write beneath, TO A PASTORAL POET TO A PASTORAL POET (H. E. B.) AMONG my best I put your Book O Poet of the breeze and brook! (That breeze and brook which blows and falls More soft to those in city walls) Among my best: and keep it still Till down the fair grass-girdled hill, Then I shall take your Book, and dream TO ONE WHO BIDS ME SING "The straw is too old to make pipes of." -DON QUIXOTE You ask a "many-winter'd" Bard Where hides his old vocation? "Immortal" though he be, he still, Could that too-sprightly Nymph but leave Her ageless grace and beauty, They might, betwixt them both, achieve A hymn de Senectute; But She She can't grow gray; and so, Her slave, whose hairs are falling, Must e'en his Doric flute forego, And seek some graver calling, Not ill-content to stand aside, "SAT EST SCRIPSISSE" "SAT EST SCRIPSISSE" (TO E. G., WITH A COLLECTION OF ESSAYS) WHEN WHEN You and I have wandered beyond the reach of call, And all our Works immortal lie scattered on the Stall, It may be some new Reader, in that remoter age, Will find the present Volume and listless turn the page. For him I speak these verses. And, Sir (I say to him), This Book you see before you,-this masterpiece of Whim, Of Wisdom, Learning, Fancy (if you will, please, attend), Was written by its Author, who gave it to his Friend. For they had worked together,-been Comrades of the Pen; They had their points at issue, they differed now and then; But both loved Song and Letters, and each had close at heart The hopes, the aspirations, the "dear delays" of Art. And much they talked of Measures, and more they talked of Style, Of Form and "lucid Order," of "labour of the File:" And he who wrote the writing, as sheet by sheet was penned (This all was long ago, Sir !), would read it to his Friend. They knew not, nor cared greatly, if they were spark or star; They knew to move is somewhat, although the goal be far; And larger light or lesser, this thing at least is clear, They served the Muses truly,-their service was sincere. This tattered page you see, Sir, this page alone remains (Yes,-fourpence is the lowest !) of all those pleasant pains; And as for him that read it, and as for him that wrote, No Golden Book enrolls them among its "Names of Note." |