"WITH PIPE AND FLUTE." (TO E. W. G.) WITH pipe and flute the rustic Pan Of old made music sweet for man; And wonder hushed the warbling bird, And closer drew the calm-eyed herd,—— The rolling river slowlier ran. Ah! would,-ah! would, a little span, Some air of Arcady could fan This age of ours, too seldom stirred With pipe and flute ! But now for gold we plot and plan ; And from Beersheba unto Dan, Apollo's self might pass unheard, Or find the night-jar's note preferred ;— Not so it fared, when time began, With pipe and flute ! THE IDYLL OF THE CARP. (The Scene is in a garden,-where you please, THE PRINCESS. These, DENISE, are my Suitors! DENISE. Where? THE PRINCESS. These fish. I feed them daily here at morn and night With crumbs of favour,-scraps of graciousness, Not meant, indeed, to mean the thing they wish, But serving just to edge an appetite. (Throwing bread.) Make haste, Messieurs! Make haste, then! Hurry. See, See how they swim! Would you not say, confess, Some crowd of Courtiers in the audience hall, When the King comes? DENISE. You're jesting! THE PRINCESS. Not at all. Watch but the great one yonder! There's the Duke ;— Those gill-marks mean his Order of St. Luke; Those old skin-stains his boasted quarterings. Look what a swirl and roll of tide he brings; Have you not marked him thus, with crest in air, Breathing disdain, descend the palace-stair? You surely have, DENISE. DENISE. I think I have. But there's another, older and more grave, The one that wears the round patch on the throat And swims with such slow fins. Is he of note ? THE PRINCESS. Why that's my good chambellan-with his seal. A kind old man!-he carves me orange-peel In quaint devices at refection-hours, Equips my sweet-pouch, brings me morning flowers Or chirrups madrigals with old, sweet words, Such as men loved when people wooed like birds And spoke the true note first. No suitor he, Yet loves me too,-though in a graybeard's key. DENISE. Look, Madam, look !—a fish without a stain ! O speckless, fleckless fish! Who is it pray, That bears him so discreetly? THE PRINCESS. FONTENAY. You know him not? My prince of shining locks ! My pearl !—my Phoenix !-my pomander-box! He loves not Me, alas! The man's too vain! He loves his doublet better than my suit, His graces than my favours. Still his sash Not wholly out of tune DENISE. Ai! what a splash! Who is it comes with such a sudden dash Plump i' the midst, and leaps the others clear? THE PRINCESS. Ho! for a trumpet! Let the bells be rung! |