The Two Poets of Croisic

Prologue
I

Such a starved bank of moss Till that May-morn, Blue ran the flash across: Violets were born!

II

Sky—what a scowl of cloud Till, near and far, Ray on ray split the shroud: Splendid, a star!

III World—how it walled about Life with disgrace Till God's own smile came out: That was thy face!

The Two Poets of Croisic
I

"Fame!" Yes, I said it and you read it. First, Praise the good log-fire! Winter howls without. Crowd closer, let us! Ha, the secret nursed Inside yon hollow, crusted roundabout With copper where the clamp was,—how the burst Vindicates flame the stealthy feeder! Spout Thy splendidest—a minute and no more? So soon again all sobered as before?

II

Nay, for I need to see your face! One stroke Adroitly dealt, and lo, the pomp revealed! Fire in his pandemonium, heart of oak Palatial, where he wrought the works concealed Beneath the solid seeming roof I broke, As redly up and out and off they reeled Like disconcerted imps, those thousand sparks From fire's slow tunnelling of vaults and arcs!

III

Up, out, and off, see! Were you never used,— You now, in childish days or rather nights,— As I was, to watch sparks fly? not amused By that old nurse-taught game which gave the sprites Each one his title and career,—confused Belief 'twas all long over with the flights From earth to heaven of hero, sage and bard, And bade them once more strive for Fame's award?

IV

New long bright life! and happy chance befell— That I know—when some prematurely lost Child of disaster bore away the bell From some too-pampered son of fortune, crossed Never before my chimney broke the spell! Octogenarian Keats gave up the ghost, While—never mind Who was it cumbered earth— Sank stifled, span-long brightness, in the birth.

V

Well, try a variation of the game! Our log is old ship-timber, broken bulk. There's sea-brine spirits up the brimstone flame, That crimson-curly spiral proves the hulk Was saturate with—ask the chloride's name From somebody who knows! I shall not sulk If yonder greenish tonguelet licked from brass Its life, I thought was fed on copperas.

VI

Anyhow, there they flutter! What may be    The style and prowess of that purple one? Who is the hero other eyes shall see Than yours and mine? That yellow, deep to dun— Conjecture how the sage glows, whom not we    But those unborn are to get warmth by! Son O' the coal,—as Job and Hebrew name a spark,— What bard, in thy red soaring, scares the dark?

VII

Oh and the lesser lights, the dearer still That they elude a vulgar eye, give ours The glimpse repaying astronomic skill Which searched sky deeper, passed those patent powers Constellate proudly,—swords, scrolls, harps, that fill The vulgar eye to surfeit,—found best flowers Hid deepest in the dark,—named unplucked grace Of soul, ungathered beauty, form or face!

VIII

Up with thee, mouldering ash men never knew, But I know! flash thou forth, and figure bold, Calm and columnar as yon flame I view! Oh and I bid thee,—to whom fortune doled Scantly all other gifts out—bicker blue, Beauty for all to see, zinc's uncontrolled Flake-brilliance! Not my fault if these were shown, Grandeur and beauty both, to me alone.

IX

No! as the first was boy's play, this proves mere Stripling's amusement: manhood's sport be grave! Choose rather sparkles quenched in mid career, Their boldness and their brightness could not save (In some old night of time on some lone drear    Sea-coast, monopolized by crag or cave) —Save from ignoble exit into smoke, Silence, oblivion, all death-damps that choke!

X

Launched by our ship-wood, float we, once adrift, In fancy to that land-strip waters wash, We both know well! Where uncouth tribes made shift Long since to keep life in, billows dash Nigh over folk who shudder at each lift Of the old tyrant tempest's whirlwind-lash Though they have built the serviceable town Tempests but tease now, billows drench, not drown.

XI

Croisic, the spit of sandy rock which juts Spitefully northward, bears nor tree nor shrub To tempt the ocean, show what Guérande shuts Behind her, past wild Batz whose Saxons grub The ground for crystals grown where ocean gluts Their promontory's breadth with salt: all stub Of rock and stretch of sand, the land's last strife To rescue just a remnant for dear life.

XII

And what life! Here was, from the world to choose, The Druids' chosen chief of homes: they reared —Only their women,—mid the slush and ooze Of yon low islet,—to their sun, revered In strange stone guise,—a temple. May-dawn dews Saw the old structure levelled; when there peered May's earliest eve-star, high and wide once more Up towered the new pile perfect as before:

XIII

Seeing that priestesses—and all were such— Unbuilt and then rebuilt it every May, Each alike helping—well, if not too much! For, mid their eagerness to outstrip day And get work done, if any loosed her clutch And let a single stone drop, straight a prey Herself fell, torn to pieces, limb from limb, By sisters in full chorus glad and grim.

XIV

And still so much remains of that grey cult, That even now, of nights, do women steal To the sole Menhir standing, and insult The antagonistic church-spire by appeal To power discrowned in vain, since each adult Believes the gruesome thing she clasps may heal Whatever plague no priestly help can cure: Kiss but the cold stone, the event is sure!

XV

Nay more: on May-morns, that primeval rite Of temple-building, with its punishment For rash precipitation, lingers, spite Of all remonstrance; vainly are they shent, Those girls who form a ring and, dressed in white, Dance round it, till some sister's strength be spent: Touch but the Menhir, straight the rest turn roughs From gentles, fall on her with fisticuffs.

XVI

Oh and, for their part, boys from door to door Sing unintelligible words to tunes As obsolete: "scraps of Druidic lore," Sigh scholars, as each pale man importunes Vainly the mumbling to speak plain once more. Enough of this old worship, rounds and runes! They serve my purpose, which is but to show Croisic to-day and Croisic long ago.

XVII What have we sailed to see, then, wafted there By fancy from the log that ends its days Of much adventure 'neath skies foul or fair, On waters rough or smooth, in this good blaze We two crouch round so closely, bidding care Keep outside with the snow-storm? Something says "Fit time for story-telling!" I begin— Why not at Croisic, port we first put in?

XVIII

Anywhere serves: for point me out the place Wherever man has made himself a home, And there I find the story of our race In little, just at Croisic as at Rome. What matters the degree? the kind I trace. Druids their temple, Christians have their dome: So with mankind; and Croisic, I'll engage, With Rome yields sort for sort, in age for age.

XIX

No doubt, men vastly differ: and we need Some strange exceptional benevolence Of nature's sunshine to develop seed So well, in the less-favoured clime, that thence We may discern how shrub means tree indeed Though dwarfed till scarcely shrub in evidence. Man in the ice-house and the hot-house ranks With beasts or gods: stove-forced, give warmth the thanks!

XX

While, is there any ice-checked? Such shall learn I am thankworthy, who propose to slake His thirst for tasting how it feels to turn Cedar from hyssop-on-the-wall. I wake No memories of what is harsh and stern In ancient Croisic-nature, much less rake The ashes of her last warmth till out leaps Live Hervé Riel, the single spark she keeps.

XXI

Take these two, see, each outbreak,—spirt and spirt Of fire from our brave billet's either edge Which—call maternal Croisic ocean-girt! These two shall thoroughly redeem my pledge. One flames fierce gules, its feebler rival—vert, Heralds would tell you: heroes, I allege, They both were: soldiers, sailors, statesmen, priests, Lawyers, physicians—guess what gods or beasts!

XXII

None of them all, but—poets, if you please! "What, even there, endowed with knack of rhyme, Did two among the aborigines    Of that rough region pass the ungracious time Suiting, to rumble-tumble of the sea's,     The songs forbidden a serener clime? Or had they universal audience—that's To say, the folk of Croisic, ay and Batz?"

XXIII Open your ears! Each poet in his day Had such a mighty moment of success As pinnacled him straight, in full display, For the whole world to worship—nothing less! Was not the whole polite world Paris, pray? And did not Paris, for one moment—yes, Worship these poet-flames, our red and green, One at a time, a century between?

XXIV

And yet you never heard their names! Assist, Clio, Historic Muse, while I record Great deeds! Let fact, not fancy, break the mist And bid each sun emerge, in turn play lord Of day, one moment! Hear the annalist Tell a strange story, true to the least word! At Croisic, sixteen hundred years and ten Since Christ, forth flamed yon liquid ruby, then.

XXV

Know him henceforth as René Gentilhomme —Appropriate appellation! noble birth And knightly blazon, the device wherefrom Was "Better do than say"! In Croisic's dearth Why prison his career while Christendom Lay open to reward acknowledged worth? He therefore left it at the proper age And got to be the Prince of Condé's page.

XXVI

Which Prince of Conde, whom men called "The Duke," —Failing the king, his cousin, of an heir, (As one might hold would hap, without rebuke,    Since Anne of Austria, all the world was 'ware, Twenty-three years long sterile, scarce could look     For issue)—failing Louis of so rare A godsend, it was natural the Prince Should hear men call him "Next King" too, nor wince.

XXVII

Now, as this reasonable hope, by growth Of years, nay, tens of years, looked plump almost To bursting,—would the brothers, childless both, Louis and Gaston, give but up the ghost— Condé, called "Duke" and "Next King," nothing loth Awaited his appointment to the post, And wiled away the time, as best he might, Till providence should settle things aright.

XXVIII

So, at a certain pleasure-house, withdrawn From cities where a whisper breeds offence, He sat him down to watch the streak of dawn Testify to first stir of Providence; And, since dull country life makes courtiers yawn, There wanted not a poet to dispense Song's remedy for spleen-fits all and some, Which poet was Page René Gentilhomme.

XXIX

A poet born and bred, his very sire A poet also, author of a piece Printed and published, "Ladies—their attire": Therefore the son, just born at his decease, Was bound to keep alive the sacred fire, And kept it, yielding moderate increase Of songs and sonnets, madrigals, and much Rhyming thought poetry and praised as such.

XXX

Rubbish unutterable (bear in mind!) Rubbish not wholly without value, though, Being to compliment the Duke designed And bring the complimenter credit so,— Pleasure with profit happily combined. Thus René Gentilhomme rhymed, rhymed till—lo, This happened, as he sat in an alcove Elaborating rhyme for "love"—not "dove."

XXXI

He was alone: silence and solitude Befit the votary of the Muse. Around, Nature—not our new picturesque and rude, But trim tree-cinctured stately garden-ground— Breathed polish and politeness. All-imbued With these, he sat absorbed in one profound Excogitation "Were it best to hint Or boldly boast 'She loves me,—Araminte'?"

XXXII

When suddenly flashed lightning, searing sight Almost, so close his eyes; then, quick on flash, Followed the thunder, splitting earth downright Where René sat a-rhyming: with huge crash Of marble into atoms infinite— Marble which, stately, dared the world to dash The stone-thing proud, high-pillared, from its place: One flash, and dust was all that lay at base.

XXXIII

So, when the horrible confusion loosed Its wrappage round his senses, and, with breath, Seeing and hearing by degrees induced Conviction what he felt was life, not death— His fluttered faculties came back to roost One after one, as fowls do: ay, beneath, About his very feet there, lay in dust Earthly presumption paid by heaven's disgust.

XXXIV

For, what might be the thunder-smitten thing But, pillared high and proud, in marble guise, A ducal crown—which meant "Now Duke: Next, King"? Since such the Prince was, not in his own eyes Alone, but all the world's. Pebble from sling Prostrates a giant; so can pulverize Marble pretension—how much more, make moult A peacock-prince his plume—God's thunderbolt.

XXXV

That was enough for René, that first fact Thus flashed into him. Up he looked: all blue And bright the sky above; earth firm, compact Beneath his footing, lay apparent too; Opposite stood the pillar: nothing lacked There, but the Duke's crown: see, its fragments strew The earth,—about his feet lie atoms fine Where he sat nursing late his fourteenth line!

XXXVI

So, for the moment, all the universe Being abolished, all 'twixt God and him,— Earth's praise or blame, its blessing or its curse, Of one and the same value,—to the brim Flooded with truth for better or for worse,— He pounces on the writing-paper, prim Keeping its place on table: not a dint Nor speck had damaged "Ode to Araminte."

XXXVII

And over the neat crowquill calligraph His pen goes blotting, blurring, as an ox Tramples a flower-bed in a garden,—laugh You may!—so does not he, whose quick heart knocks Audibly at his breast: an epitaph On earth's break-up, amid the falling rocks, He might be penning in a wild dismay, Caught with his work half-done on Judgment Day.

XXXVIII

And what is it so terribly he pens, Ruining "Cupid, Venus, wile and smile, Hearts, darts," and all his day's divinior mens Judged necessary to a perfect style? Little recks René, with a breast to cleanse, Of Rhadamanthine law that reigned erewhile: Brimful of truth, truth's outburst will convince (Style or no style) who bears truth's brunt—the Prince.

XXXIX

"Condé, called 'Duke,' be called just 'Duke,' not more,    To life's end! 'Next King' thou forsooth wilt be? Ay, when this bauble, as it decked before     Thy pillar, shall again, for France to see, Take its proud station there! Let France adore     No longer an illusive mock-sun—thee— But keep her homage for Sol's self, about To rise and put pretenders to the rout!

XL

"What? France so God-abandoned that her root    Regal, though many a Spring it gave no sign, Lacks power to make the bole, now branchless, shoot     Greenly as ever? Nature, though benign, Confuses the ambitious and astute.     In store for such is punishment condign: Sure as thy Duke's crown to the earth was hurled, So sure, next year, a Dauphin glads the world!"

XLI

Which penned—some forty lines to this effect— Our René folds his paper, marches brave Back to the mansion, luminous, erect, Triumphant, an emancipated slave. There stands the Prince. "How now? My Duke's crown wrecked?    What may this mean?" The answer René gave Was handing him the verses, with the due Incline of body: "Sir, God's word to you!"

XLII

The Prince read, paled, was silent; all around, The courtier-company, to whom he passed The paper, read, in equal silence bound. René grew also by degrees aghast At his own fit of courage—palely found Way of retreat from that pale presence: classed Once more among the cony-kind. "Oh, son, It is a feeble folk!" saith Solomon.

XLIII

Vainly he apprehended evil: since, When, at the year's end, even as foretold, Forth came the Dauphin who discrowned the Prince Of that long-craved mere visionary gold, 'Twas no fit time for envy to evince Malice, be sure! The timidest grew bold: Of all that courtier-company not one But left the semblance for the actual sun.

XLIV

And all sorts and conditions that stood by    At René's burning moment, bright escape Of soul, bore witness to the prophecy. Which witness took the customary shape Of verse; a score of poets in full cry Hailed the inspired one. Nantes and Tours agape, Soon Paris caught the infection; gaining strength, How could it fail to reach the Court at length?

XLV

"O poet!" smiled King Louis, "and besides,    O prophet! Sure, by miracle announced, My babe will prove a prodigy. Who chides     Henceforth the unchilded monarch shall be trounced For irreligion: since the fool derides     Plain miracle by which this prophet pounced Exactly on the moment I should lift Like Simeon, in my arms, a babe, 'God's gift!'

XLVI

"So call the boy! and call this bard and seer    By a new title! him I raise to rank Of 'Royal Poet': poet without peer!    Whose fellows only have themselves to thank If humbly they must follow in the rear     My René. He's the master: they must clank Their chains of song, confessed his slaves; for why? They poetize, while he can prophesy!"

XLVII

So said, so done; our René rose august, "The Royal Poet"; straightway put in type His poem-prophecy, and (fair and just    Procedure) added,—now that time was ripe For proving friends did well his word to trust,— Those attestations, tuned to lyre or pipe, Which friends broke out with when he dared foretell The Dauphin's birth: friends trusted, and did well.

XLVIII

Moreover he got painted by Du Pré, Engraved by Daret also; and prefixed The portrait to his book: a crown of bay Circled his brows, with rose and myrtle mixed; And Latin verses, lovely in their way, Described him as "the biforked hill betwixt: Since he hath scaled Parnassus at one jump, Joining the Delphic quill and Getic trump."

XLIX

Whereof came ... What, it lasts, our spirt, thus long —The red fire? That's the reason must excuse My letting flicker René's prophet-song No longer; for its pertinacious hues Must fade before its fellow joins the throng Of sparks departed up the chimney, dues To dark oblivion. At the word, it winks, Rallies, relapses, dwindles, deathward sinks!

L

So does our poet. All this burst of fame, Fury of favour, Royal Poetship, Prophetship, book, verse, picture—thereof came —Nothing! That's why I would not let outstrip Red his green rival flamelet: just the same Ending in smoke waits both! In vain we rip The past, no further faintest trace remains Of René to reward our pious pains.

LI

Somebody saw a portrait framed and glazed At Croisic. "Who may be this glorified Mortal unheard-of hitherto?" amazed That person asked the owner by his side, Who proved as ignorant. The question raised Provoked inquiry; key by key was tried On Croisic's portrait-puzzle, till back flew The wards at one key's touch, which key was—Who

LII

The other famous poet! Wait thy turn, Thou green, our red's competitor! Enough Just now to note 'twas he that itched to learn (A hundred years ago) how fate could puff Heaven-high (a hundred years before) then spurn To suds so big a bubble in some huff: Since green too found red's portrait,—having heard Hitherto of red's rare self not one word.

LIII

And he with zeal addressed him to the task Of hunting out, by all and any means, —Who might the brilliant bard be, born to bask Butterfly-like in shine which kings and queens And baby-dauphins shed? Much need to ask! Is fame so fickle that what perks and preens The eyed wing, one imperial minute, dips Next sudden moment into blind eclipse?

LIV

After a vast expenditure of pains, Our second poet found the prize he sought: Urged in his search by something that restrains From undue triumph famed ones who have fought, Or simply, poetizing, taxed their brains: Something that tells such—dear is triumph bought If it means only basking in the midst Of fame's brief sunshine, as thou, René, didst!

LV

For, what did searching find at last but this? Quoth somebody "I somehow somewhere seem To think I heard one old De Chevaye is    Or was possessed of René's works!" which gleam Of light from out the dark proved not amiss To track, by correspondence on the theme; And soon the twilight broadened into day, For thus to question answered De Chevaye.

LVI

"True it is, I did once possess the works    You want account of—works—to call them so,— Comprised in one small book: the volume lurks     (Some fifty leaves in duodecimo) 'Neath certain ashes which my soul it irks     Still to remember, because long ago That and my other rare shelf-occupants Perished by burning of my house at Nantes.

LVII

"Yet of that book one strange particular    Still stays in mind with me"—and thereupon Followed the story. "Few the poems are;    The book was two-thirds filled up with this one, And sundry witnesses from near and far     That here at least was prophesying done By prophet, so as to preclude all doubt, Before the thing he prophesied about."

LVIII

That's all he knew, and all the poet learned, And all that you and I are like to hear Of René; since not only book is burned But memory extinguished,—nay, I fear, Portrait is gone too: nowhere I discerned A trace of it at Croisic. "Must a tear Needs fall for that?" you smile. "How fortune fares With such a mediocrity, who cares?"

LIX

Well, I care—intimately care to have Experience how a human creature felt In after-life, who bore the burden grave Of certainly believing God had dealt For once directly with him: did not rave —A maniac, did not find his reason melt —An idiot, but went on, in peace or strife, The world's way, lived an ordinary life.

LX

How many problems that one fact would solve! An ordinary soul, no more, no less, About whose life earth's common sights revolve, On whom is brought to bear, by thunder-stress, This fact—God tasks him, and will not absolve Task's negligent performer! Can you guess How such a soul,—the task performed to point,— Goes back to life nor finds things out of joint?

LXI

Does he stand stock-like henceforth? or proceed Dizzily, yet with course straight-forward still, Down-trampling vulgar hindrance?—as the reed Is crushed beneath its tramp when that blind will Hatched in some old-world beast's brain bids it speed Where the sun wants brute-presence to fulfil Life's purpose in a new far zone, ere ice Enwomb the pasture-tract its fortalice.

LXII

I think no such direct plain truth consists With actual sense and thought and what they take To be the solid walls of life: mere mists— How such would, at that truth's first piercing, break Into the nullity they are!—slight lists Wherein the puppet-champions wage, for sake Of some mock-mistress, mimic war: laid low At trumpet-blast, there's shown the world, one foe!

LXIII

No, we must play the pageant out, observe The tourney-regulations, and regard Success—to meet the blunted spear nor swerve, Failure—to break no bones yet fall on sward; Must prove we have—not courage? well then,—nerve! And, at the day's end, boast the crown's award— Be warranted as promising to wield Weapons, no sham, in a true battle-field.

LXIV

Meantime, our simulated thunderclaps Which tell us counterfeited truths—these same Are—sound, when music storms the soul, perhaps? —Sight, beauty, every dart of every aim That touches just, then seems, by strange relapse, To fall effectless from the soul it came As if to fix its own, but simply smote And startled to vague beauty more remote?

LXV

So do we gain enough—yet not too much— Acquaintance with that outer element Wherein there's operation (call it such!) Quite of another kind than we the pent On earth are proper to receive. Our hutch Lights up at the least chink: let roof be rent— How inmates huddle, blinded at first spasm, Cognizant of the sun's self through the chasm!

LXVI

Therefore, who knows if this our René's quick Subsidence from as sudden noise and glare Into oblivion was impolitic? No doubt his soul became at once aware That, after prophecy, the rhyming-trick Is poor employment: human praises scare Rather than soothe ears all a-tingle yet With tones few hear and live, but none forget.

LXVII

There's our first famous poet! Step thou forth, Second consummate songster! See, the tongue Of fire that typifies thee, owns thy worth In yellow, purple mixed its green among, No pure and simple resin from the North, But composite with virtues that belong To Southern culture! Love not more than hate Helped to a blaze ... But I anticipate.

LXVIII

Prepare to witness a combustion rich And riotously splendid, far beyond Poor René's lambent little streamer which Only played candle to a Court grown fond By baby-birth: this soared to such a pitch, Alternately such colours doffed and donned, That when I say it dazzled Paris—please Know that it brought Voltaire upon his knees!

LXIX

Who did it, was a dapper gentleman, Paul Desforges Maillard, Croisickese by birth, Whose birth that century ended which began By similar bestowment on our earth Of the aforesaid René. Cease to scan The ways of Providence! See Croisic's dearth— Not Paris in its plenitude—suffice To furnish France with her best poet twice!

LXX

Till he was thirty years of age, the vein Poetic yielded rhyme by drops and spirts: In verses of society had lain His talent chiefly; but the Muse asserts Privilege most by treating with disdain Epics the bard mouths out, or odes he blurts Spasmodically forth. Have people time And patience nowadays for thought in rhyme?

LXXI

So, his achievements were the quatrain's inch Of homage, or at most the sonnet's ell Of admiration: welded lines with clinch Of ending word and word, to every belle In Croisic's bounds; these, brisk as any finch, He twittered till his fame had reached as well Guérande as Batz; but there fame stopped, for—curse On fortune—outside lay the universe!

LXXII

That's Paris. Well,—why not break bounds, and send Song onward till it echo at the gates Of Paris whither all ambitions tend, And end too, seeing that success there sates The soul which hungers most for fame? Why spend A minute in deciding, while, by Fate's Decree, there happens to be just the prize Proposed there, suiting souls that poetize?

LXXIII

A prize indeed, the Academy's own self Proposes to what bard shall best indite A piece describing how, through shoal and shelf, The Art of Navigation, steered aright, Has, in our last king's reign,—the lucky elf,— Reached, one may say, Perfection's haven quite, And there cast anchor. At a glance one sees The subject's crowd of capabilities!

LXXIV

Neptune and Amphitrite! Thetis, who Is either Tethys or as good—both tag! Triton can shove along a vessel too: It's Virgil! Then the winds that blow or lag,— De Maille, Vendôme, Vermandois! Toulouse blew Longest, we reckon: he must puff the flag To fullest outflare; while our lacking nymph Be Anne of Austria, Regent o'er the lymph!

LXXV

Promised, performed! Since irritabilis gens Holds of the feverish impotence that strives To stay an itch by prompt resource to pen's    Scratching itself on paper; placid lives, Leisurely works mark the divinior mens: Bees brood above the honey in their hives; Gnats are the busy bustlers. Splash and scrawl,— Completed lay thy piece, swift penman Paul!

LXXVI

To Paris with the product! This despatched, One had to wait the Forty's slow and sure Verdict, as best one might. Our penman scratched Away perforce the itch that knows no cure But daily paper-friction: mere than matched His first feat by a second—tribute pure And heartfelt to the Forty when their voice Should peal with one accord "Be Paul our choice!"

LXXVII

Scratch, scratch went much laudation of that sane And sound Tribunal, delegates august Of Phœbus and the Muses' sacred train— Whom every poetaster tries to thrust From where, high-throned, they dominate the Seine: Fruitless endeavour,—fail it shall and must! Whereof in witness have not one and all The Forty voices pealed "Our choice be Paul?"

LXXVIII

Thus Paul discounted his applause. Alack For human expectation! Scarcely ink Was dry when, lo, the perfect piece came back Rejected, shamed! Some other poet's clink "Thetis and Tethys" had seduced the pack Of pedants to declare perfection's pink A singularly poor production. "Whew! The Forty are stark fools, I always knew."

LXXIX

First fury over (for Paul's race—to-wit,    Brain-vibrous—wriggle clear of protoplasm Into minute life that's one fury-fit), "These fools shall find a bard's enthusiasm Comports with what should counterbalance it—   Some knowledge of the world! No doubt, orgasm Effects the birth of verse which, born, demands Prosaic ministration, swaddling-bands!

LXXX

"Verse must be cared for at this early stage,    Handled, nay dandled even. I should play Their game indeed if, till it grew of age,     I meekly let these dotards frown away My bantling from the rightful heritage     Of smiles and kisses! Let the public say If it be worthy praises or rebukes, My poem, from these Forty old perukes!"

LXXXI

So, by a friend, who boasts himself in grace With no less than the Chevalier La Roque,— Eminent in those days for pride of place, Seeing he had it in his power to block The way or smooth the road to all the race Of literators trudging up to knock At Fame's exalted temple-door—for why? He edited the Paris "Mercury":—

LXXXII

By this friend's help the Chevalier receives Paul's poem, prefaced by the due appeal To Cæsar from the Jews. As duly heaves A sigh the Chevalier, about to deal With case so customary—turns the leaves, Finds nothing there to borrow, beg or steal— Then brightens up the critic's brow deep-lined. "The thing may be so cleverly declined!"

LXXXIII

Down to desk, out with paper, up with quill, Dip and indite! "Sir, gratitude immense For this true draught from the Pierian rill!    Our Academic clodpoles must be dense Indeed to stand unirrigated still.     No less, we critics dare not give offence To grandees like the Forty: while we mock, We grin and bear. So, here's your piece! La Roque."

LXXXIV

"There now!" cries Paul: "the fellow can't avoid    Confessing that my piece deserves the palm; And yet he dares not grant me space enjoyed     By every scribbler he permits embalm His crambo in the Journal's corner! Cloyed     With stuff like theirs, no wonder if a qualm Be caused by verse like mine: though that's no cause For his defrauding me of just applause.

LXXXV

"Aha, he fears the Forty, this poltroon?    First let him fear me! Change smooth speech to rough! I'll speak my mind out, show the fellow soon     Who is the foe to dread: insist enough On my own merits till, as clear as noon,     He sees I am no man to take rebuff As patiently as scribblers may and must! Quick to the onslaught, out sword, cut and thrust!"

LXXXVI

And thereupon a fierce epistle flings Its challenge in the critic's face. Alack! Our bard mistakes his man! The gauntlet rings On brazen visor proof against attack. Prompt from his editorial throne up springs The insulted magnate, and his mace falls, thwack, On Paul's devoted brainpan,—quite away From common courtesies of fencing-play!

LXXXVII

"Sir, will you have the truth? This piece of yours    Is simply execrable past belief. I shrank from saying so; but, since nought cures     Conceit but truth, truth's at your service! Brief, Just so long as 'The Mercury' endures,     So long are you excluded by its Chief From corner, nay, from cranny! Play the cock O' the roost, henceforth, at Croisic!" wrote La Roque.

LXXXVIII

Paul yellowed, whitened, as his wrath from red Waxed incandescent. Now, this man of rhyme Was merely foolish, faulty in the head Not heart of him: conceit's a venial crime. "Oh by no means malicious!" cousins said: Fussily feeble,—harmless all the time, Piddling at so-called satire—well-advised He held in most awe whom he satirized.

LXXXIX

Accordingly his kith and kin—removed From emulation of the poet's gift By power and will—these rather liked, nay, loved The man who gave his family a lift Out of the Croisic level; "disapproved    Satire so trenchant." Thus our poet sniffed Home-incense, though too churlish to unlock "The Mercury's" box of ointment was La Roque.

XC

But when Paul's visage grew from red to white, And from his lips a sort of mumbling fell Of who was to be kicked,—"And serve him right"— A soft voice interposed—"did kicking well Answer the purpose! Only—if I might    Suggest as much—a far more potent spell Lies in another kind of treatment. Oh, Women are ready at resource, you know!

XCI

"Talent should minister to genius! good:    The proper and superior smile returns. Hear me with patience! Have you understood     The only method whereby genius earns Fit guerdon nowadays? In knightly mood     You entered lists with visor up; one learns Too late that, had you mounted Roland's crest, 'Room!' they had roared—La Roque with all the rest!

XCII

"Why did you first of all transmit your piece    To those same priggish Forty unprepared Whether to rank you with the swans or geese     By friendly intervention? If they dared Count you a cackler,—wonders never cease!     I think it still more wondrous that you bared Your brow (my earlier image) as if praise Were gained by simple fighting nowadays!

XCIII

"Your next step showed a touch of the true means    Whereby desert is crowned: not force but wile Came to the rescue. 'Get behind the scenes!'    Your friend advised: he writes, sets forth your style And title, to such purpose intervenes     That you get velvet-compliment three-pile; And, though 'The Mercury' said 'nay,' nor stock Nor stone did his refusal prove La Roque.

XCIV

"Why must you needs revert to the high hand,    Imperative procedure—what you call 'Taking on merit your exclusive stand'?    Stand,with a vengeance! Soon you went to wall, You and your merit! Only fools command     When folk are free to disobey them, Paul! You Ve learnt your lesson, found out what's o'clock, By this uncivil answer of La Roque.

XCV

"Now let me counsel! Lay this piece on shelf   —Masterpiece though it be! From out your desk Hand me some lighter sample, verse the elf     Cupid inspired you with, no god grotesque Presiding o'er the Navy! I myself     Hand-write what's legible yet picturesque; I'll copy fair and femininely frock Your poem masculine that courts La Roque!

XCVI

"Deidamia he—Achilles thou!    Ha, ha, these ancient stories come so apt! My sex, my youth, my rank I next avow     In a neat prayer for kind perusal. Sapped I see the walls which stand so stoutly now!     I see the toils about the game entrapped By honest cunning! Chains of lady's-smock, Not thorn and thistle, tether fast La Roque!"

XCVII

Now, who might be the speaker sweet and arch That laughed above Paul's shoulder as it heaved With the indignant heart?—bade steal a march And not continue charging? Who conceived This plan which set our Paul, like pea you parch On fire-shovel, skipping, of a load relieved, From arm-chair moodiness to escritoire Sacred to Phœbus and the tuneful choir?

XCVIII

Who but Paul's sister! named of course like him "Desforges"; but, mark you, in those days a queer Custom obtained,—who knows whence grew the whim?— That people could not read their title clear To reverence till their own true names, made dim By daily mouthing, pleased to disappear, Replaced by brand-new bright ones: Arouet, For instance, grew Voltaire; Desforges—Malcrais.

XCIX

"Demoiselle Malcrais de la Vigne"—because The family possessed at Brederac A vineyard,—few grapes, many hips-and-haws,— Still a nice Breton name. As breast and back Of this vivacious beauty gleamed through gauze, So did her sprightly nature nowise lack Lustre when draped, the fashionable way, In "Malcrais de la Vigne"—more short, "Malcrais."

C

Out from Paul's escritoire behold escape The hoarded treasure! verse falls thick and fast, Sonnets and songs of every size and shape. The lady ponders on her prize; at last Selects one which—Oh angel and yet ape!— Her malice thinks is probably surpassed In badness by no fellow of the flock, Copies it fair, and "Now for my La Roque!"

CI

So, to him goes, with the neat manuscript, The soft petitionary letter. "Grant A fledgeling novice that with wing unclipt    She soar her little circuit, habitant Of an old manor; buried in which crypt,     How can the youthful châtelaine but pant For disemprisonment by one ad hoc Appointed 'Mercury's' Editor, La Roque?"

CII

'Twas an epistle that might move the Turk! More certainly it moved our middle-aged Pen-driver drudging at his weary work, Raked the old ashes up and disengaged The sparks of gallantry which always lurk Somehow in literary breasts, assuaged In no degree by compliments on style; Are Forty wagging beards worth one girl's smile?

CIII

In trips the lady's poem, takes its place Of honour in the gratified Gazette, With due acknowledgment of power and grace; Prognostication, too, that higher yet The Breton Muse will soar: fresh youth, high race, Beauty and wealth have amicably met That Demoiselle Malcrais may fill the chair Left vacant by the loss of Deshoulières.

CIV

"There!" cried the lively lady. "Who was right—   You in the dumps, or I the merry maid Who know a trick or two can baffle spite     Tenfold the force of this old fool's? Afraid Of Editor La Roque? But come! next flight     Shall outsoar—Deshoulières alone? My blade, Sappho herself shall you confess outstript! Quick, Paul, another dose of manuscript!"

CV

And so, once well a-foot, advanced the game: More and more verses, corresponding gush On gush of praise, till everywhere acclaim Rose to the pitch of uproar. "Sappho? Tush! Sure 'Malcrais on her Parrot' puts to shame    Deshoulières' pastoral, clay not worth a rush Beside this find of treasure, gold in crock, Unearthed in Brittany,—nay, ask La Roque!"

CVI

Such was the Paris tribute. "Yes," you sneer, "Ninnies stock Noodledom, but folks more sage Resist contagious folly, never fear!" Do they? Permit me to detach one page From the huge Album which from far and near Poetic praises blackened in a rage Of rapture! and that page shall be—who stares Confounded now, I ask you?—just Voltaire's!

CVII

Ay, sharpest shrewdest steel that ever stabbed To death Imposture through the armour-joints! How did it happen that gross Humbug grabbed Thy weapons, gouged thine eyes out? Fate appoints That pride shall have a fall, or I had blabbed Hardly that Humbug, whom thy soul aroints, Could thus cross-buttock thee caught unawares, And dismalest of tumbles proved—Voltaire's!

CVIII

See his epistle extant yet, wherewith "Henri" in verse and "Charles" in prose he sent To do her suit and service! Here's the pith Of half a dozen stanzas—stones which went To build that simulated monolith— Sham love in due degree with homage blent As sham—which in the vast of volumes scares The traveller still: "That stucco-heap—Voltaire's?"

CIX

"Oh thou, whose clarion-voice has overflown    The wilds to startle Paris that's one ear! Thou who such strange capacity hast shown     For joining all that's grand with all that's dear, Knowledge with power to please—Deshoulières grown     Learned as Dacier in thy person! mere Weak fruit of idle hours, these crabs of mine I dare lay at thy feet, O Muse divine!

CX

"Charles was my taskwork only; Henri trod    My hero erst; and now, my heroine—she Shall be thyself! True—is it true, great God?     Certainly love henceforward must not be! Yet all the crowd of Fine Arts fail—how odd!—    Tried turn by turn, to fill a void in me! The e 's no replacing love with these, alas! Yet all I can I do to prove no ass.

CXI

"I labour to amuse my freedom; but    Should any sweet young creature slavery preach, And—borrowing thy vivacious charm, the slut!—    Make me, in thy engaging words, a speech, Soon should I see myself in prison shut     With all imaginable pleasure." Reach The washhand-basin for admirers! There's A stomach-moving tribute—and Voltaire's!

CXII

Suppose it a fantastic billet-doux, Adulatory flourish, not worth frown! What say you to the Fathers of Trévoux? These in their Dictionary have her down Under the heading "Author": "Malcrais, too,    Is 'Author' of much verse that claims renown." While Jean-Baptiste Rousseau ... but why proceed? Enough of this—something too much, indeed!

CXIII

At last La Roque, unwilling to be left Behindhand in the rivalry, broke bounds Of figurative passion; hilt and heft, Plunged his huge downright love through what surrounds The literary female bosom; reft Away its veil of coy reserve with "Zounds! I love thee, Breton Beauty! All's no use! Body and soul I love,—the big word's loose!"

CXIV

He's greatest now and to de-struc-ti-on Nearest. Attend the solemn word I quote, Oh Paul! There's no pause at per-fec-ti-on. Thus knolls thy knell the Doctor's bronzed throat! Greatness a period hath, no sta-ti-on! Better and truer verse none ever wrote (Despite the antique outstretched a-i-on) Than thou, revered and magisterial Donne!

CXV

Flat on his face, La Roque, and,—pressed to heart His dexter hand,—Voltaire with bended knee! Paul sat and sucked-in triumph; just apart Leaned over him his sister. "Well?" smirks he, And "Well?" she answers, smiling—woman's art To let a man's own mouth, not hers, decree What shall be next move which decides the game: Success? She said so. Failure? His the blame.

CXVI

"Well!" this time forth affirmatively comes With smack of lip, and long-drawn sigh through teeth Close clenched o'er satisfaction, as the gums Were tickled by a sweetmeat teased beneath Palate by lubricating tongue: "Well! crumbs   Of comfort these, undoubtedly! no death Likely from famine at Fame's feast! 'tis clear I may put claim in for my pittance, Dear!

CXVII

"La Roque, Voltaire, my lovers! Then disguise    Has served its turn, grows idle; let it drop! I shall to Paris, flaunt there in men's eyes     My proper manly garb and mount a-top The pedestal that waits me, take the prize     Awarded Hercules! He threw a sop To Cerberus who let him pass, you know, Then, following, licked his heels: exactly so!

CXVIII

"I like the prospect—their astonishment,    Confusion: wounded vanity, no doubt, Mixed motives; how I see the brows quick bent!     'What, sir, yourself, none other, brought about This change of estimation? Phœbus sent     His shafts as from Diana?' Critic pout Turns courtier smile: 'Lo, him we took for her! Pleasant mistake! You bear no malice, sir?'

CXIX

"Eh, my Diana?" But Diana kept Smilingly silent with fixed needle-sharp Much-meaning eyes that seemed to intercept Paul's very thoughts ere they had time to warp From earnest into sport the words they leapt To life with—changed as when maltreated harp Renders in tinkle what some player-prig Means for a grave tune though it proves a jig.

CXX

"What, Paul, and are my pains thus thrown away,    My lessons perfect loss?" at length fall slow The pitying syllables, her lips allay The satire of by keeping in full flow, Above their coral reef, bright smiles at play: "Can it be, Paul thus fails to rightly know And altogether estimate applause As just so many asinine hee-haws?

CXXI

"I thought to show you" ... "Show me," Paul in-broke "My poetry is rubbish, and the world That rings with my renown a sorry joke!    What fairer test of worth than that, form furled, I entered the arena? Yet you croak     Just as if Phœbé and not Phœbus hurled The dart and struck the Python! What, he crawls Humbly in dust before your feet, not Paul's?

CXXII

"Nay, 'tis no laughing matter though absurd    If there's an end of honesty on earth! La Roque sends letters, lying every word!     Voltaire makes verse, and of himself makes mirth To the remotest age! Rousseau's the third     Who, driven to despair amid such dearth Of people that want praising, finds no one More fit to praise than Paul the simpleton!

CXXIII

"Somebody says—if a man writes at all    It is to show the writer's kith and kin He was unjustly thought a natural;     And truly, sister, I have yet to win Your favourable word, it seems, for Paul     Whose poetry you count not worth a pin Though well enough esteemed by these Voltaires, Rousseaus and suchlike: let them quack, who cares?"

CXXIV

"—To Paris with you, Paul! Not one word's waste    Further: my scrupulosity was vain! Go triumph! Be my foolish fears effaced     From memory's record! Go, to come again With glory crowned,—by sister re-embraced,     Cured of that strange delusion of her brain Which led her to suspect that Paris gloats On male limbs mostly when in petticoats!"

CXXV

So laughed her last word, with the little touch Of malice proper to the outraged pride Of any artist in a work too much Shorn of its merits. "By all means be tried The opposite procedure! Cast your crutch   Away, no longer crippled, nor divide The credit of your march to the World's Fair With sister Cherry-cheeks who helped you there!"

CXXVI

Crippled, forsooth! what courser sprightlier pranced Paris-ward than did Paul? Nay, dreams lent wings: He flew, or seemed to fly, by dreams entranced. Dreams? wide-awake realities: no things Dreamed merely were the missives that advanced The claim of Malcrais to consort with kings Crowned by Apollo—not to say with queens Cinctured by Venus for Idalian scenes.

CXXVII

Soon he arrives, forthwith is found before The outer gate of glory. Bold tic-toc Announces there's a giant at the door. "Ay, sir, here dwells the Chevalier La Roque." "Lackey! Malcrais,—mind, no word less nor more!—   Desires his presence. I've unearthed the brock: Now, to transfix him!" There stands Paul erect, Inched out his uttermost, for more effect.

CXXVIII

A bustling entrance: "Idol of my flame!    Can it be that my heart attains at last Its longing? that you stand, the very same     As in my visions? ... Ha! hey, how?" aghast Stops short the rapture. "Oh, my boy's to blame!    You merely are the messenger! Too fast My fancy rushed to a conclusion. Pooh! Well, sir, the lady's substitute is—who?"

CXXIX

Then Paul's smirk grows inordinate. "Shake hands!    Friendship not love awaits you, master mine, Though nor Malcrais nor any mistress stands     To meet your ardour! So, you don't divine Who wrote the verses wherewith ring the land's     Whole length and breadth? Just he whereof no line Had ever leave to blot your Journal—eh? Paul Desforges Maillard—otherwise Malcrais!"

CXXX

And there the two stood, stare confronting smirk, Awhile uncertain which should yield the pas. In vain the Chevalier beat brain for quirk To help in this conjuncture; at length "Bah! Boh! Since I've made myself a fool, why shirk    The punishment of folly? Ha, ha, ha, Let me return your handshake!" Comic sock For tragic buskin prompt thus changed La Roque.

CXXXI

"I'm nobody—a wren-like journalist;   You've flown at higher game and winged your bird, The golden eagle! That's the grand acquist!     Voltaire's sly Muse, the tiger-cat, has purred Prettily round your feet; but if she missed     Priority of stroking, soon were stirred The dormant spit-fire. To Voltaire! away, Paul Desforges Maillard, otherwise Malcrais!"

CXXXII

Whereupon, arm in arm, and head in air, The two begin their journey. Need I say, La Roque had felt the talon of Voltaire, Had a long-standing little debt to pay, And pounced, you may depend, on such a rare Occasion for its due discharge? So, gay And grenadier-like, marching to assault, They reach the enemy's abode, there halt.

CXXXIII

"I'll be announcer!" quoth La Roque: "I know,    Better than you, perhaps, my Breton bard, How to procure an audience! He's not slow     To smell a rat, this scamp Voltaire! Discard The petticoats too soon,—you'll never show     Your haut-de-chausses and all they've made or marred In your true person. Here's his servant. Pray, Will the great man see Demoiselle Malcrais?"

CXXXIV

Now, the great man was also, no whit less, The man of self-respect,—more great man he! And bowed to social usage, dressed the dress, And decorated to the fit degree His person; 'twas enough to bear the stress Of battle in the field, without, when free From outside foes, inviting friends' attack By—sword in hand? No,—ill-made coat on back!

CXXXV

And, since the announcement of his visitor Surprised him at his toilet,—never glass Had such solicitation! "Black, now—or    Brown be the killing wig to wear? Alas, Where's the rouge gone, this cheek were better for     A tender touch of? Melted to a mass, All my pomatum! There's at all events A devil—for he's got among my scents!"

CXXXVI

So, "barbered ten times o'er," as Antony Paced to his Cleopatra, did at last Voltaire proceed to the fair presence: high In colour, proud in port, as if a blast Of trumpet bade the world "Take note! draws nigh    To Beauty, Power! Behold the Iconoclast, The Poet, the Philosopher, the Rod Of iron for imposture! Ah my God!"

CXXXVII

For there stands smirking Paul, and—what lights fierce The situation as with sulphur flash— There grinning stands La Roque! No carte-and-tierce Observes the grinning fencer, but, full dash From breast to shoulderblade, the thrusts transpierce That armour against which so idly clash The swords of priests and pedants! Victors there, Two smirk and grin who have befooled—Voltaire!

CXXXVIII

A moment's horror; then quick turn-about On high-heeled shoe,—flurry of ruffles, flounce Of wig-ties and of coat-tails,—and so out Of door banged wrathfully behind, goes—bounce— Voltaire in tragic exit! vows, no doubt, Vengeance upon the couple. Did he trounce Either, in point of fact? His anger's flash Subsided if a culprit craved his cash.

CXXXIX

As for La Roque, he having laughed his laugh To heart's content,—the joke defunct at once, Dead in the birth, you see,—its epitaph Was sober earnest. "Well, sir, for the nonce, You've gained the laurel; never hope to graff    A second sprig of triumph there! Ensconce Yourself again at Croisic: let it be Enough you mastered both Voltaire and—me!

CXL

"Don't linger here in Paris to parade    Your victory, and have the very boys Point at you! 'There's the little mouse which made     Believe those two big lions that its noise, Nibbling away behind the hedge, conveyed     Intelligence that—portent which destroys All courage in the lion's heart, with horn That's fable—there lay couched the unicorn!'

CXLI

"Beware us, now we've found who fooled us! Quick    To cover! 'In proportion to men's fright, Expect their fright's revenge!' quoth politic     Old Macchiavelli. As for me,—all's right: I'm but a journalist. But no pin's prick     The tooth leaves when Voltaire is roused to bite! So, keep your counsel, I advise! Adieu! Good journey! Ha, ha, ha, Malcrais was—you!"

CXLII

"—Yes, I'm Malcrais, and somebody beside,    You snickering monkey!" thus winds up the tale Our hero, safe at home, to that black-eyed Cherry-cheeked sister, as she soothes the pale Mortified poet. "Let their worst be tried,    I'm their match henceforth—very man and male! Don't talk to me of knocking-under! man And male must end what petticoats began!

CXLIII

"How woman-like it is to apprehend    The world will eat its words! why, words transfixed To stone, they stare at you in print,—at end,     Each writer's style and title! Choose betwixt Fool and knave for his name, who should intend     To perpetrate a baseness so unmixed With prospect of advantage! What is writ Is writ: they've praised me, there's an end of it!

CXLIV

"No, Dear, allow me! I shall print these same    Pieces, with no omitted line, as Paul's. Malcrais no longer, let me see folk blame     What they—praised simply?—placed on pedestals, Each piece a statue in the House of Fame!     Fast will they stand there, though their presence galls The envious crew: such show their teeth, perhaps, And snarl, but never bite! I know the chaps!"

CXLV

Oh Paul, oh piteously deluded! Pace Thy sad sterility of Croisic flats, Watch, from their southern edge, the foamy race Of high-tide as it leaves the drowning mats Of yellow-berried web-growth from their place, The rock-ridge, when, rolling as far as Batz, One broadside crashes on it, and the crags, That needle under, stream with weedy rags!

CXLVI

Or, if thou wilt, at inland Bergerac, Rude heritage but recognized domain, Do as two here are doing: make hearth crack With logs until thy chimney roar again Jolly with fire-glow! Let its angle lack No grace of Cherry-cheeks thy sister, fain To do a sister's office and laugh smooth Thy corrugated brow—that scowls forsooth!

CXLVII

Wherefore? Who does not know how these La Roques, Voltaires, can say and unsay, praise and blame, Prove black white, white black, play at paradox And, when they seem to lose it, win the game? Care not thou what this badger, and that fox, His fellow in rascality, call "fame!" Fiddlepin's end! Thou hadst it,—quack, quack, quack! Have quietude from geese at Bergerac!

CXLVIII

Quietude! For, be very sure of this! A twelvemonth hence, and men shall know or care As much for what to-day they clap or hiss As for the fashion of the wigs they wear, Then wonder at. There's fame which, bale or bliss,— Got by no gracious word of great Voltaire Or not-so-great La Roque,—is taken back By neither, any more than Bergerac!

CXLIX

Too true! or rather, true as ought to be! No more of Paul the man, Malcrais the maid, Thenceforth for ever! One or two, I see, Stuck by their poet: who the longest stayed Was Jean-Baptiste Rousseau, and even he    Seemingly saddened as perforce he paid A rhyming tribute "After death, survive— He hoped he should; and died while yet alive!"

CL

No, he hoped nothing of the kind, or held His peace and died in silent good old age. Him it was, curiosity impelled To seek if there were extant still some page Of his great predecessor, rat who belled The cat once, and would never deign engage In after-combat with mere mice,—saved from More sonnetteering,—René Gentilhomme.

CLI

Paul's story furnished forth that famous play Of Piron's "Métromanie": there you'll find He's Francaleu, while Demoiselle Malcrais Is Demoiselle No-end-of-names-behind! As for Voltaire, he's Damis. Good and gay The plot and dialogue, and all's designed To spite Voltaire: at "Something" such the laugh Of simply "Nothing!" (see his epitaph).

CLII

But truth, truth, that's the gold! and all the good I find in fancy is, it serves to set Gold's inmost glint free, gold which comes up rude And rayless from the mine. All fume and fret Of artistry beyond this point pursued Brings out another sort of burnish: yet Always the ingot has its very own Value, a sparkle struck from truth alone.

CLIII

Now, take this sparkle and the other spirt Of fitful flame,—twin births of our grey brand That's sinking fast to ashes! I assert, As sparkles want but fuel to expand Into a conflagration no mere squirt Will quench too quickly, so might Croisic strand, Had Fortune pleased posterity to chowse, Boast of her brace of beacons luminous.

CLIV

Did earlier Agamemnons lack their bard? But later bards lacked Agamemnon too! How often frustrate they of fame's award Just because Fortune, as she listed, blew Some slight bark's sails to bellying, mauled and marred And forced to put about the First-rate! True, Such tacks but for a time: still—small-craft ride At anchor, rot while Beddoes breasts the tide!

CLV

Dear, shall I tell you? There's a simple test Would serve, when people take on them to weigh The worth of poets, "Who was better, best,    This, that, the other bard?" (bards none gainsay As good, observe! no matter for the rest) "What quality preponderating may Turn the scale as it trembles?" End the strife By asking "Which one led a happy life?"

CLVI

If one did, over his antagonist That yelled or shrieked or sobbed or wept or wailed Or simply had the dumps,—dispute who list,— I count him victor. Where his fellow failed, Mastered by his own means of might,—acquist Of necessary sorrows,—he prevailed, A strong since joyful man who stood distinct Above slave-sorrows to his chariot linked.

CLVII

Was not his lot to feel more? What meant "feel" Unless to suffer! Not, to see more? Sight— What helped it but to watch the drunken reel Of vice and folly round him, left and right, One dance of imps and idiots! Not, to deal More with things lovely? What provoked the spite Of filth incarnate, like the poet's need Of other nutriment than strife and greed!

CLVIII

Who knows most, doubts most; entertaining hope, Means recognizing fear; the keener sense Of all comprised within our actual scope Recoils from aught beyond earth's dim and dense. Who, grown familiar with the sky, will grope Henceforward among groundlings? That's offence Just as indubitably: stars abound O'erhead, but then—what flowers make glad the ground!

CLIX

So, force is sorrow, and each sorrow, force: What then? since Swiftness gives the charioteer The palm, his hope be in the vivid horse Whose neck God clothed with thunder, not the steer Sluggish and safe! Yoke Hatred, Crime, Remorse, Despair: but ever mid the whirling fear, Let, through the tumult, break the poet's face Radiant, assured his wild slaves win the race!

CLX

Therefore I say ... no, shall not say, but think, And save my breath for better purpose. White From grey our log has burned to: just one blink That quivers, loth to leave it, as a sprite The outworn body. Ere your eyelids' wink Punish who sealed so deep into the night Your mouth up, for two poets dead so long,— Here pleads a live pretender: right your wrong!

Epilogue
I

What a pretty tale you told me    Once upon a time —Said you found it somewhere (scold me!) Was it prose or was it rhyme, Greek or Latin? Greek, you said, While your shoulder propped my head.

II

Anyhow there's no forgetting This much if no more, That a poet (pray, no petting!) Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, Went where suchlike used to go, Singing for a prize, you know,

III

Well, he had to sing, nor merely Sing but play the lyre; Playing was important clearly Quite as singing: I desire, Sir, you keep the fact in mind For a purpose that's behind.

IV

There stood he, while deep attention Held the judges round, —Judges able, I should mention, To detect the slightest sound Sung or played amiss: such ears Had old judges, it appears!

V

None the less he sang out boldly, Played in time and tune, Till the judges, weighing coldly Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon, Sure to smile "In vain one tries Picking faults out: take the prize!"

VI

When, a mischief! Were they seven Strings the lyre possessed? Oh, and afterwards eleven, Thank you! Well, sir,—who had guessed Such ill luck in store?—it happed One of those same seven strings snapped.

VII

All was lost, then! No! a cricket (What "cicada"? Pooh!) —Some mad thing that left its thicket For mere love of music—flew With its little heart on fire, Lighted on the crippled lyre.

VIII

So that when (ah joy!) our singer For his truant string Feels with disconcerted finger, What does cricket else but fling Fiery heart forth, sound the note Wanted by the throbbing throat?

IX

Ay and, ever to the ending, Cricket chirps at need, Executes the hand's intending, Promptly, perfectly,—indeed Saves the singer from defeat With her chirrup low and sweet.

X

Till, at ending, all the judges Cry with one assent "Take the prize—a prize who grudges    Such a voice and instrument? Why, we took your lyre for harp, So it shrilled us forth F sharp!"

XI

Did the conqueror spurn the creature, Once its service done? That 's no such uncommon feature In the case when Music's son Finds his Lotte's power too spent For aiding soul-development.

XII

No! This other, on returning Homeward, prize in hand, Satisfied his bosom's yearning: (Sir, I hope you understand!) —Said "Some record there must be Of this cricket's help to me!"

XIII

So, he made himself a statue: Marble stood, life-size; On the lyre, he pointed at you, Perched his partner in the prize; Never more apart you found Her, he throned, from him, she crowned.

XIV

That 's the tale: its application? Somebody I know Hopes one day for reputation Through his poetry that's—Oh, All so learned and so wise And deserving of a prize!

XV

If he gains one, will some ticket, When his statue's built, Tell the gazer "'Twas a cricket   Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt Sweet and low, when strength usurped Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped?

XVI

"For as victory was nighest,    While I sang and played,— With my lyre at lowest, highest,     Right alike,—one string that made 'Love' sound soft was snapt in twain, Never to be heard again,— XVII

"Had not a kind cricket fluttered,    Perched upon the place Vacant left, and duly uttered     'Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the bass Asked the treble to atone For its somewhat sombre drone."

XVIII

But you don't know music! Wherefore Keep on casting pearls To a—poet? All I care for Is—to tell him that a girl's "Love" comes aptly in when gruff Grows his singing. (There, enough!)