Part 19 (1/2)

Eversley, 1870.

THE DELECTABLE DAY

The boy on the famous gray pony, Just bidding good-bye at the door, Plucking up maiden heart for the fences Where his brother won honour of yore.

The walk to 'the Meet' with fair children, And women as gentle as gay,-- Ah! how do we male hogs in armour Deserve such companions as they?

The afternoon's wander to windward, To meet the dear boy coming back; And to catch, down the turns of the valley, The last weary chime of the pack.

The climb homeward by park and by moorland, And through the fir forests again, While the south-west wind roars in the gloaming, Like an ocean of seething champagne.

And at night the septette of Beethoven, And the grandmother by in her chair, And the foot of all feet on the sofa Beating delicate time to the air.

Ah, G.o.d! a poor soul can but thank Thee For such a delectable day!

Though the fury, the fool, and the swindler, To-morrow again have their way!

Eversley, 6th November 1872.

JUVENTUS MUNDI

List a tale a fairy sent us Fresh from dear Mundi Juventus.

When Love and all the world was young, And birds conversed as well as sung; And men still faced this fair creation With humour, heart, imagination.

Who come hither from Morocco Every spring on the sirocco?

In russet she, and he in yellow, Singing ever clear and mellow, 'Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet you, sweet you, Did he beat you? Did he beat you?'

Phyllopneustes wise folk call them, But don't know what did befall them, Why they ever thought of coming All that way to hear gnats humming, Why they built not nests but houses, Like the b.u.mble-bees and mousies.

Nor how little birds got wings, Nor what 'tis the small c.o.c.k sings-- How should they know--stupid fogies?

They daren't even believe in bogies.

Once they were a girl and boy, Each the other's life and joy.

He a Daphnis, she a Chloe, Only they were brown, not snowy, Till an Arab found them playing Far beyond the Atlas straying, Tied the helpless things together, Drove them in the burning weather, In his slave-gang many a league, Till they dropped from wild fatigue.

Up he caught his whip of hide, Lashed each soft brown back and side Till their little brains were burst With sharp pain, and heat, and thirst, Over her the poor boy lay, Tried to keep the blows away, Till they stiffened into clay, And the ruffian rode away: Swooping o'er the tainted ground, Carrion vultures gathered round, And the gaunt hyenas ran Tracking up the caravan.

But--ah, wonder! that was gone Which they meant to feast upon.

And, for each, a yellow wren, One a c.o.c.k, and one a hen, Sweetly warbling, flitted forth O'er the desert toward the north.

But a shade of bygone sorrow, Like a dream upon the morrow, Round his tiny brainlet clinging, Sets the wee c.o.c.k ever singing, 'Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet you, sweet you, Did he beat you? Did he beat you?'

Vultures croaked, and hopped, and flopped, But their evening meal was stopped.

And the gaunt hyenas foul Sat down on their tails to howl.

Northward towards the cool spring weather, Those two wrens fled on together, On to England o'er the sea, Where all folks alike are free.