THE TWO POETS OF CROISIC

Written immediately after La Saisiaz, being dated January 15, 1878.

Such a starved bank of moss

Till, that May-morn,

Blue ran the flash across:

Violets were born!

Sky—what a scowl of cloud

Till, near and far,

Ray on ray split the shroud:

Splendid, a star!

World—how it walled about

Life with disgrace

Till God's own smile came out:

That was thy face!

"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?

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 't was 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?

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.

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.

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.

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!

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 just 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.

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 a poor 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 gray 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!

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-favored clime, that thence

We may discern how shrub means tree indeed

Though dwarfed till scarcely shrub in evidence.

Man in the ice-house or the hot-house ranks

With beasts or gods: stove-forced, give warmth the thanks!

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 Condé, whom men called "The Duke,"

—Failing the king, his cousin, of an heir,

(As one might hold hap, would, 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 to 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 'twist 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!

"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,

Thwarts ever 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,

'T was 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.

So does our poet. All this burst of fame,

Fury of favor, 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.

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 't was 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.

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.

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 straightforward 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 battlefield.

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 colors 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 Amphitrité! 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 dispatched,

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: more 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 endeavor,—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-vibrios—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 naught 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.

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 gay 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 folks 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."

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—O 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!"

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

'T was 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 honor 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!"

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' pastorals, 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 folk 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 armor-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

"O 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!

"Charles was my task-work 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!

There 's no replacing love with these, alas!

Yet all I can I do to prove no ass.

CXI

"I labor 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,

O Paul! There 's no pause at per-fec-ti-on.

Thus knolls thy knell the Doctor's bronzèd 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! 't is 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 end in 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 inbroke,

"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, 't is 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 favorable word, it seems, for Paul

Whose poetry you count not worth a pin

Though well enough esteemed by these Voltaires,

Rousseaus and such-like: 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 ardor! 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,

A while 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 spitfire. 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; 't was 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 color, 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 shoulder-blade, the thrusts transpierce

That armor 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 I 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

O Paul, oh, piteously deluded! Pace

Thy sad sterility of Croisic flats,

Watch, from their southern edge, the foamy race

Of high-tide as it heaves 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 forever! 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!"

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 sonneteering.—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 gray 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 or 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 rogues 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 gray 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!

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.

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.

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.

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!

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!"

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.

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.

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?

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.

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!"

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.

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!"

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.

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!

If he gains one, will some ticket,

When his statue 's built,

Tell the gazer "'T was a cricket

Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt

Sweet and low, when strength usurped

Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped?

"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,—

"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."

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!)