Phantasmagoria and Other Poems

III

The air is bright with hues of light
And rich with laughter and with singing:
Young hearts beat high in ecstasy,
And banners wave, and bells are ringing:
But silence falls with fading day,
And there’s an end to mirth and play.
Ah, well-a-day

Rest your old bones, ye wrinkled crones!
The kettle sings, the firelight dances.
Deep be it quaffed, the magic draught
That fills the soul with golden fancies!
For Youth and Pleasance will not stay,
And ye are withered, worn, and gray.
Ah, well-a-day!

O fair cold face!  O form of grace,
For human passion madly yearning!
O weary air of dumb despair,
From marble won, to marble turning!
“Leave us not thus!” we fondly pray.
“We cannot let thee pass away!”
Ah, well-a-day!

IV.

My First is singular at best:
More plural is my Second:
My Third is far the pluralest —
So plural-plural, I protest
It scarcely can be reckoned!

My First is followed by a bird:
My Second by believers
In magic art: my simple Third
Follows, too often, hopes absurd
And plausible deceivers.

My First to get at wisdom tries —
A failure melancholy!
My Second men revered as wise:
My Third from heights of wisdom flies
To depths of frantic folly.

My First is ageing day by day:
My Second’s age is ended:
My Third enjoys an age, they say,
That never seems to fade away,
Through centuries extended.

My Whole?  I need a poet’s pen
To paint her myriad phases:
The monarch, and the slave, of men —
A mountain-summit, and a den
Of dark and deadly mazes —

A flashing light – a fleeting shade —
Beginning, end, and middle
Of all that human art hath made
Or wit devised!  Go, seek her aid,
If you would read my riddle!

FAME’S PENNY-TRUMPET

[Affectionately dedicated to all “original researchers” who pant for “endowment.”]

Blow, blow your trumpets till they crack,
Ye little men of little souls!
And bid them huddle at your back —
Gold-sucking leeches, shoals on shoals!

Fill all the air with hungry wails —
“Reward us, ere we think or write!
Without your Gold mere Knowledge fails
To sate the swinish appetite!”

And, where great Plato paced serene,
Or Newton paused with wistful eye,
Rush to the chace with hoofs unclean
And Babel-clamour of the sty

Be yours the pay: be theirs the praise:
We will not rob them of their due,
Nor vex the ghosts of other days
By naming them along with you.

They sought and found undying fame:
They toiled not for reward nor thanks:
Their cheeks are hot with honest shame
For you, the modern mountebanks!

Who preach of Justice – plead with tears
That Love and Mercy should abound —
While marking with complacent ears
The moaning of some tortured hound:

Who prate of Wisdom – nay, forbear,