BREAD AND CIRCUSES

BY
HELEN PARRY EDEN

LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD

NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY

TORONTO: BELL & COCKBURN MCMXIV

WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD., PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH

ERRATA
Page  4,line 11,for “about”read “[above].”
” 15,”  5,for “who”read “[Who].”
” 55,” 11,for “saw I”read “saw [that] I.”
” 87,” 15,for “Close”read “[close].”

TO
THE MEMORY OF MY SISTER
JOAN ABBOTT PARRY

THESE, AND MUCH MORE

NOTE

Of the verses contained in this book, the greater part have already appeared, notably in the Westminster Gazette, The Englishwoman, The Daily Chronicle, The Catholic Messenger, The Pall Mall Magazine, T.P.’s Magazine, and Punch. To the proprietors of Punch I am especially indebted for leave to reprint thirteen numbers of which they own the copyright.

H. P. E.

CONTENTS

PAGE
The Brook along the Romsey Road[ 3]
The Poet and the Wood-louse[ 5]
“Jam Hiems Transiit”[ 7]
“Vox Clamantis”[ 8]
Sorrow[ 9]
The Mulberry[10]
The Window-sill[11]
The Angelus-bell[12]
The Apple-man from Awbridge[13]
Of Dulcibel[15]
The Lady Pheasant[16]
Time’s Tyranness[17]
The Ginger Cat[19]
Μονοχρόνος Ἡδόνη[21]
A Song in a Lane[22]
Cries of London[23]
The Third Birthday[25]
One-eyed Jocko[26]
A Suburban Night’s Entertainment[27]
“A Purpose of Amendment”[30]
Helena to Hermia[31]
“Effany”[32]
The Ark[34]
An Upland Station[36]
The Worshippers[38]
Lines to a Journalist, on his Praising a Noble Lord
 Recently Created[39]
The Belgian Pinafore[41]
The Wind[43]
To Betsey-Jane, on her Desiring to go
 incontinently to Heaven[45]
In Bethlehem Town[46]
The Moon[48]
A Lady of Fashion on the Death of her Dog[49]
To a Little Girl[51]
Lines written for D. E. in a copy of
 “The Child’s Garden of Verses”[52]
Epistle to Thomas Black, Cat to the Soane Museum[53]
For My Mother, with a New Button-box[56]
A Child before the Crib[57]
To Mass at Dawn[59]
The Nuns’ Chapel[60]
The Snare[61]
A House in a Wood[63]
The Confessional[65]
Epitaph on a Child, run over and Killed by
 a Motor-car in the street[67]
The Water-meads of Mottisfont[70]
The Senior Mistress of Blyth[72]
The First Party[75]
Souvenir of Michael Drayton[77]
“Four-paws”[79]
“Four-paws” in London[81]
To my Sister Dorothy, with a Paste Brooch[83]
Sestina, to D. E.[84]
Lullaby for a Little Girl[86]
Rondeau of Sarum Close[87]
The Knobby-green[88]
The Carcanet[89]
To a Town Crier[90]
The Tale of Jocko, a Story for a Child[91]
The Wag-tail[98]
High Tide at Battersea[100]
To my Daughter, who tells me she can Dress Herself[101]
The Baby Goat[103]
Bournemouth to Poole:
 (1) Bournemouth[105]
 (2) Poole Harbour[105]
The Japanese Duckling[107]
The Privet Hedge[108]
The Vegetarian’s Daughter[109]
Honey Meadow[110]
An Elegy, for Father Anselm, of the Order of Reformed
 Cistercians, Guest-master and Parish Priest[112]
The Regret[117]
First Snow[118]
To a Child Returning Home upon a Windy Day[119]
The Death of Sir Matho[120]
The Petals[124]
Post-Communion[126]
Index to First Lines[127]

THE BROOK ALONG THE
ROMSEY ROAD

The brook along the Romsey road With cresses fringed about, Holds waving fins and streaming weeds And bubbles bright as crystal beads And root-bound reaches whither speeds Startled the shadowy trout.

As southward runs the Romsey road The sunny wind blows harsh With yellow shale and whirling sands That sting the faces and the hands Of us who leave the wooded lands Of pleasant Michelmarsh.

Where southward runs the Romsey road Southward lagged Betsey-Jane Clutching my hand, and still the grit Lay rough between our fingers, it Smarted on Betsey’s face and knit Her little brows with pain.

A bend was in the Romsey road, Shut off by elms the wind Was stilled, below a bridge the brook Came dimpling forth, and Betsey shook Her fingers free and ran to look,— I held her frock behind.

On the far shore a wag-tail dipped His beak,—we gazed below, And Betsey was content to stand And see the trout and hold my hand, And watch them wave above the sand Until we turned to go.

The brook along the Romsey road With cresses fringed about Ran all day long in Betsey’s head, She played at wag-tails while she fed, And even as she went to bed She babbled of the trout.

THE POET AND THE
WOOD-LOUSE

A portly Wood-louse, full of cares, Transacted eminent affairs Along a parapet where pears Unripened fell And vines embellished the sweet airs With muscatel.

Day after day beheld him run His scales a-twinkle in the sun About his business never done; Night’s slender span he Spent in the home his wealth had won— A red-brick cranny.

Thus, as his Sense of Right directed, He lived both honoured and respected, Cherished his children and protected His duteous wife, And nought of diffidence deflected His useful life.

One mid-day, hastening to his Club, He spied beside a water-tub The owner of each plant and shrub A humble Bard Who turned upon the conscious grub A mild regard.

“Eh?” quoth the Wood-louse, “Can it be A Higher Power looks down to see My praiseworthy activity And notes me plying My Daily Task?—Not strange, dear me, But gratifying!”

To whom the Bard: “I still divest My orchard of the Insect Pest, That you are such is manifest, Prepare to die.— And yet, how sweetly does your crest Reflect the sky!

“Go then forgiven, (for what ails Your naughty life this fact avails To pardon) mirror in your scales Celestial blue, Till the sun sets and the light fails The skies and you.”

May all we proud and bustling parties Whose lot in forum, street and mart is Stand in conspectu Deitatis And save our face, Reflecting where our scaly heart is Some skyey grace.