PROLOGUE TO ABBEY'S "QUIET Life"
PROLOGUE TO
ABBEY'S "QUIET LIFE"
EVEN as one in city pent,
Dazed with the stir and din of town,
Drums on the pane in discontent,
And sees the dreary rain come down, Yet, through the dimmed and dripping glass,
Beholds, in fancy, visions pass
Of Spring that breaks with all her leaves,
Of birds that build in thatch and eaves,
Of woodlands where the throstle calls,
Of girls that gather cowslip balls,
Of kine that low, and lambs that cry,
Of wains that jolt and rumble by,
Of brooks that sing by brambly ways,
Of sunburned folk that stand at gaze,
Of all the dreams with which men cheat
The stony sermons of the street,
So, in its hour, the artist brain
Weary of human ills and woes,
Weary of passion and of pain,
And vaguely craving for repose,
Deserts awhile the stage of strife
To draw the even, ordered life,
The easeful days, the dreamless nights,
The homely round of plain delights,
The calm, the unambitioned mind,
Which all men seek, and few men find.
LET the dream pass, the fancy fade!
We clutch a shape, and hold a shade.
Is Peace so peaceful? Nay,-who knows!
There are volcanoes under snows.
WHAT would our modern maids to-day?
I watch, and can't conjecture:
A dubious tale?—an Ibsen play ?—
A pessimistic lecture?
But this, Child, I know
You like things sweet and seemly,
Old-fashioned flowers, old shapes in Bow,
"Auld Robin Gray" (extremely);
You with my "Dorothy "1-delight
In fragrant cedar-presses;
In window corners warm and bright,
In lawn, and lilac dresses;
You still can read, at any rate,
Charles Lamb and "Evelina; "
To you, My Dear, I dedicate
This "STORY OF ROSINA."
"EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY VIGNETTES"
Quid valeant humeri.”—HOR, Ars Poetica.
OW shall a Writer change his ways?
Read his Reviewers' blame, not praise.
In blame, as Boileau said of old,
The truth is shadowed, if not told.
Let that row of stars extend
To hide the faults I mean to mend.
Why should the Public need to know
The standard that I fall below?
Or learn to search for that defect
My Critic bids me to correct?
No in this case the Worldly-Wise
Keep their own counsel and revise.
Yet something of my Point of View
I may confide, my Friend, to You.
I don't pretend to paint the vast
And complex picture of the Past:
Not mine the wars of humankind,
"The furious troops in battle joined ;
"EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY VIGNETTES "
Not mine the march, the counter-march,
The trumpets, the triumphal arch.
For detail, detail, most I care
(Ce superflu, si nécessaire !);
I cultivate a private bent
For episode, for incident;
I take a page of Some One's life,
His quarrel with his friend, his wife,
His good or evil hap at Court,
"His habit as he lived," his sport,
The books he read, the trees he planted,
The dinners that he ate-or wanted:
As much, in short, as one may hope
To cover with a microscope.
I don't taboo a touch of scandal,
If Gray or Walpole hold the candle;
Nor do I use a lofty tone
Where faults are weaknesses alone.
In studies of Life's seamy side
I own I feel no special pride;
The Fleet, the round-house, and the gibbets
Are not among my prize exhibits;
Nor could I, if I would, outdo
What Fielding wrote, or Hogarth drew.
Yet much I love to arabesque
What Gautier christened a "Grotesque;"
To take his oddities and "lunes,"
And drape them neatly with festoons,
Until, at length, I chance to get
The thing I designate "Vignette."
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