Volume II Part 80 (1/2)

II

What will you say when the world is dying?

What, when the last wild midnight falls Dark, too dark for the bat to be flying Round the ruins of old St. Paul's?

What will be last of the lights to perish?

What but the little red ring we knew, Lighting the hands and the hearts that cherish A fire, a fire, and a friend or two!

_Chorus:_ Up now, answer me, tell me true!

What will be last of the stars to perish?

--The fire that lighteth a friend or two!

III

Up now, answer me, on your mettle Wisest man of the Mermaid Inn, Soberest man on the old black settle, Out with the truth! It was never a sin.-- Well, if G.o.d saved me alone of the seven, Telling me _you_ must be d.a.m.ned, or _you_, ”This,” I would say, ”This is h.e.l.l, not heaven!

Give me the fire and a friend or two!”

_Chorus:_ Steel was never so ringing true: ”G.o.d,” we would say, ”this is h.e.l.l, not heaven!

Give us the fire, and a friend or two!”

III

BLACK BILL'S HONEY-MOON

The garlands of a Whitsun ale were strewn About our rushes, the night that Raleigh brought Bacon to sup with us. There, on that night, I saw the singer of the _Faerie Queen_ Quietly spreading out his latest cantos For Shakespeare's eye, like white sheets in the sun.

Marlowe, our morning-star, and Michael Drayton Talked in that ingle-nook. And Ben was there, Humming a song upon that old black settle: ”Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not ask for wine.”

But, meanwhile, he drank malmsey.

Francis Bacon Straddled before the fire; and, all at once, He said to Shakespeare, in a voice that gripped The Mermaid Tavern like an arctic frost:

”_There are no poets in this age of ours, Not to compare with Plautus. They are all Dead, the men that were famous in old days._”

”Why--so they are,” said Will. The humming stopped.

I saw poor Spenser, a shy gentle soul, With haunted eyes like starlit forest pools, Smuggling his cantos under his cloak again.

”There's verse enough, no doubt,” Bacon went on, ”But English is no language for the Muse.

Whom would you call our best? There's Gabriel Harvey, And Edward, Earl of Oxford. Then there's Dyer, And Doctor Golding; while, for tragedy, Thomas, Lord Buckhurst, hath a lofty vein.

And, in a lighter prettier vein, why, Will, There is _thyself!_ But--where's Euripides?”

”Dead,” echoed Ben, in a deep ghost-like voice.

And drip--drip--drip--outside we heard the rain Miserably dropping round the Mermaid Inn.

”Thy Summer's Night--eh, Will? Midsummer's Night?-- That's a quaint fancy,” Bacon droned anew, ”But--Athens was an error, Will! Not Athens!

t.i.tania knew not Athens! Those wild elves Of thy Midsummer's Dream--eh? Midnight's Dream?-- Are English all. Thy woods, too, smack of England; They never grew round Athens. Bottom, too, He is not Greek!”

”Greek?” Will said, with a chuckle, ”Bottom a Greek? Why, no, he was the son Of Marian Hacket, the fat wife that kept An ale-house, Wincot-way. I lodged with her Walking from Stratford. You have never tramped Along that countryside? By Burton Heath?

Ah, well, you would not know my fairylands.

It warms my blood to let my home-spuns play Around your cold white Athens. There's a joy In jumping time and s.p.a.ce.”

But, as he took The cup of sack I proffered, solemnly The lawyer shook his head. ”Will, couldst thou use Thy talents with discretion, and obey Cla.s.sic examples, those mightst match old Plautus, In all except priority of the tongue.

This English tongue is only for an age, But Latin for all time. So I propose To embalm in Latin my philosophies.