Auld Lang Syne

And for that dread crime, so atrocious and black,
Was sentenced thenceforth to bear one on his back,
A heavier fate (as was justly his due),
Than befell his Papa when poor Abel he slew:
For Cain, killing one man, was let off quite cheap —
Tubal murdered us all– at least “murder’d our sleep.”

THE ORGAN-BOY

Great brown eyes,
Thick plumes of hair,
Old corduroys
The worse for wear.
A button’d jacket,
And peeping out
An ape’s grave poll,
Or a guinea-pig’s snout.
A sun-kiss’d face
And a dimpled mouth,
With the white flashing teeth,
And soft smile of the south.
A young back bent,
Not with age or care,
But the load of poor music
’Tis fated to bear.
But a common-place picture
To common-place eyes,
Yet full of a charm
Which the thinker will prize.
They were stern, cold rulers,
Those Romans of old,
Scorning art and letters
For conquest and gold;
Yet leavening mankind,
In mind and tongue,
With the laws that they made
And the songs that they sung.
Sitting, rose-crown’d,
With pleasure-choked breath,
As the nude young limbs crimson’d,
Then stiffen’d in death.
Piling up monuments
Greater than praise,
Thoughts and deeds that shall live
To the latest of days.
Adding province to province,
And sea to sea,
Till the idol fell down
And the world rose up free.

And this is the outcome,
This vagabond child
With that statue-like face
And eyes soft and mild;
This creature so humble,
So gay, yet so meek,
Whose sole strength is only
The strength of the weak.
Of those long cruel ages
Of lust and of guile,
Nought left us to-day
But an innocent smile.
For the labour’d appeal
Of the orator’s art,
A few foolish accents
That reach to the heart.
For those stern legions speeding
O’er sea and o’er land,
But a pitiful glance
And a suppliant hand.
I could moralize still
But the organ begins,
And the tired ape swings downward,
And capers and grins,
And away flies romance.
And yet, time after time,
As I dwell on days spent
In a sunnier clime,
Of blue lakes deep set
In the olive-clad mountains,
Of gleaming white palaces
Girt with cool fountains,
Of minsters where every
Carved stone is a treasure,
Of sweet music hovering
’Twixt pain and ’twixt pleasure;
Of chambers enrich’d
On all sides, overhead,
With the deathless creations
Of hands that are dead;
Of still cloisters holy,
And twilight arcade,
Where the lovers still saunter
Thro’ chequers of shade;
Of tomb and of temple,
Arena and column,
’Mid to-day’s garish splendours,
Sombre and solemn;
Of the marvellous town
With the salt-flowing street,