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Satires of Circumstance, Lyrics and Reveries, with Miscellaneous Pieces
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Was patterned to no other style,
And till, long having played its part,
The curtain fell on Gothic art.
– Well: when in Wessex on your rounds,
Take a brief step beyond its bounds,
And enter Gloucester: seek the quoin
Where choir and transept interjoin,
And, gazing at the forms there flung
Against the sky by one unsung —
The ogee arches transom-topped,
The tracery-stalks by spandrels stopped,
Petrified lacework – lightly lined
On ancient massiveness behind —
Muse that some minds so modest be
As to renounce fame’s fairest fee,
(Like him who crystallized on this spot
His visionings, but lies forgot,
And many a mediaeval one
Whose symmetries salute the sun)
While others boom a baseless claim,
And upon nothing rear a name.
THE JUBILEE OF A MAGAZINE
(To the Editor)
Yes; your up-dated modern page —
All flower-fresh, as it appears —
Can claim a time-tried lineage,
That reaches backward fifty years
(Which, if but short for sleepy squires,
Is much in magazines’ careers).
– Here, on your cover, never tires
The sower, reaper, thresher, while
As through the seasons of our sires
Each wills to work in ancient style
With seedlip, sickle, share and flail,
Though modes have since moved many a mile!
The steel-roped plough now rips the vale,
With cog and tooth the sheaves are won,
Wired wheels drum out the wheat like hail;
But if we ask, what has been done
To unify the mortal lot
Since your bright leaves first saw the sun,
Beyond mechanic furtherance – what
Advance can rightness, candour, claim?
Truth bends abashed, and answers not.
Despite your volumes’ gentle aim
To straighten visions wry and wrong,
Events jar onward much the same!
– Had custom tended to prolong,
As on your golden page engrained,
Old processes of blade and prong,
And best invention been retained
For high crusades to lessen tears
Throughout the race, the world had gained!.
But too much, this, for fifty years.
THE SATIN SHOES
“If ever I walk to church to wed,
As other maidens use,
And face the gathered eyes,” she said,
“I’ll go in satin shoes!”
She was as fair as early day
Shining on meads unmown,
And her sweet syllables seemed to play
Like flute-notes softly blown.
The time arrived when it was meet
That she should be a bride;
The satin shoes were on her feet,
Her father was at her side.
They stood within the dairy door,
And gazed across the green;
The church loomed on the distant moor,
But rain was thick between.
“The grass-path hardly can be stepped,
And till, long having played its part,
The curtain fell on Gothic art.
– Well: when in Wessex on your rounds,
Take a brief step beyond its bounds,
And enter Gloucester: seek the quoin
Where choir and transept interjoin,
And, gazing at the forms there flung
Against the sky by one unsung —
The ogee arches transom-topped,
The tracery-stalks by spandrels stopped,
Petrified lacework – lightly lined
On ancient massiveness behind —
Muse that some minds so modest be
As to renounce fame’s fairest fee,
(Like him who crystallized on this spot
His visionings, but lies forgot,
And many a mediaeval one
Whose symmetries salute the sun)
While others boom a baseless claim,
And upon nothing rear a name.
THE JUBILEE OF A MAGAZINE
(To the Editor)
Yes; your up-dated modern page —
All flower-fresh, as it appears —
Can claim a time-tried lineage,
That reaches backward fifty years
(Which, if but short for sleepy squires,
Is much in magazines’ careers).
– Here, on your cover, never tires
The sower, reaper, thresher, while
As through the seasons of our sires
Each wills to work in ancient style
With seedlip, sickle, share and flail,
Though modes have since moved many a mile!
The steel-roped plough now rips the vale,
With cog and tooth the sheaves are won,
Wired wheels drum out the wheat like hail;
But if we ask, what has been done
To unify the mortal lot
Since your bright leaves first saw the sun,
Beyond mechanic furtherance – what
Advance can rightness, candour, claim?
Truth bends abashed, and answers not.
Despite your volumes’ gentle aim
To straighten visions wry and wrong,
Events jar onward much the same!
– Had custom tended to prolong,
As on your golden page engrained,
Old processes of blade and prong,
And best invention been retained
For high crusades to lessen tears
Throughout the race, the world had gained!.
But too much, this, for fifty years.
THE SATIN SHOES
“If ever I walk to church to wed,
As other maidens use,
And face the gathered eyes,” she said,
“I’ll go in satin shoes!”
She was as fair as early day
Shining on meads unmown,
And her sweet syllables seemed to play
Like flute-notes softly blown.
The time arrived when it was meet
That she should be a bride;
The satin shoes were on her feet,
Her father was at her side.
They stood within the dairy door,
And gazed across the green;
The church loomed on the distant moor,
But rain was thick between.
“The grass-path hardly can be stepped,
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