SECOND PRIZE.
THE sky was clear; no ripple marked
The course of silver Tyne;
And all was still, save for the bells
On the necks of the grazing kine.
On his fair demesne Sir Edward looked,
Last of an ancient line.
His face was fair, but it did not wear
The sign of a soul at rest;
Anon a shudder shook his frame,
A sigh broke from his breast;
He seemed as seems a man by some
O'ermastering woe oppressed.
"And yet among thy peers is known
Than thine no prouder name,
And wealth is thine and friendship's joy,
A scutcheon void of blame;
All this is thine, Sir Edward; why
Thus bow thy head in shame?
"Men call thee good, they know thee kind—
Yet more, if aught beside
There lacks thy happiness to crown,
Thou hast a peerless bride;
Why, then, Sir Edward, bow thy head?"
A mocking demon cried.
"Hell-hound! and art thou here to taunt
My last—Yet 'tis thy meed:
'Twas thou that in this fevered breast
Wrath and revenge didst feed,
Till—woe unutterable!—I
Wrought the accursèd deed.
"'Twas at thy feet, a pupil apt,
I learnt this lying art;—
O God, that I—that I could stoop
To play this loathly part!
O God, that with a face so calm
I cloak so black a heart!
Yet the end is gained and the secret sure:
They shall lay the tortured clod
Of this vile clay in the open day
With honour beneath the sod."
That night 'twas known that a felon's soul
Had gone to meet its God.
PORTIONISTA.
The following was also published:—
'Twas in the dim Lyceum pit
(And, O, that pit was hot)
That several hundred folks did sit,
And I amongst the lot;
And some drank ale and some drank stout,
From mug or pewter-pot.
We watched the jovial robber-crew,
The merry poaching clan,
Chasing the sportive deer about
As only robbers can;
While the keeper kept himself at home,
A conscience-stricken man.
His hair was long and his dress was dark,
And he strode with Irving's stride;
A crime unconfessed he hid in the chest
Kept ever by his side;
Much painting had made him very pale
And wan and hollow-eyed.
And he saw his secretarial clerk,
One Wilford (Norman Forbes),
Go prying about in the ancient room
Hung round with family daubs;
And he "went" forthwith for that timid clerk,
Whose name was Norman Forbes.
"By hell!" he shrieked, and held him fast;
"Untrusty youth, unstable—"
He raved in his face and clenched his fists,
And chased him round the table.
"Wouldst read the secret? wouldst hear thy doom?"
"I would, an I were able!"
"If thou wert Abel, then I were Cain!
But, 'fore I tell thee, swear—"
And he swore and he swore and he swore again,
Till on end arose our hair;
And I couldn't help thinking what fines he'd have paid
If there'd been a magistrate there.
And that very night, when a somnolent snooze
Was exciting the murderer's nose,
Poor Wilford rose up, and he hied him away
In a scanty assortment of clothes;
And the baronet rummaged and routed his trunk,
As we do when our "general" goes.
And there he hid a fork and spoon
In a most ingenious way,
And a ring or so and a deed or two,
And Wilford was tried next day;
But the KNIFE had slipped in, and—ha, ha!—'twas found!
* * * * *
And that's the plot of the play!
C. S.
The peculiar rhythm, and quaint conceits of fancy, in Hood's Miss Kilmansegg and her Precious Leg have been admirably imitated by Mr. H. Cholmondeley Pennell in The Thread of Life. This poem (the last in Puck on Pegasus) resembles its original also in the exquisite blending of the pathetic and the humorous, of which, unfortunately, disjointed extracts can give but a faint idea:—
LIFE! What depths of mystery wide
In the oceans of Hate and the rivers of Pride,
That mingle in Tribulations tide,
To quench the spark—VITALITY!
What chords of Love and "bands" of Hope
Were "made strong" (without the use of rope)
In the thread—INDIVIDUALITY.
LIFE! What marvellous throbs and throes
The Alchemy of EXISTENCE knows;
What "weals within wheels" (and woes without woahs!)
Give sophistry a handle;
Though Hare himself could be dipped in the well
Where Truth's proverbial waters dwell,
It would throw no more light on the vital spell
Than a dip in the Polytechnic bell,
Or the dip—a ha'penny candle.
* * * *
Into being we come, in ones and twos,
To be kissed, to be cuff'd, to obey, to abuse,
Each destined to stand in another's shoes
To whose heels we may come the nighest;
This turns at once into Luxury's bed,
Whilst that in a gutter lays his head,
And this—in a house with a wooden lid
And a roof that's none of the highest.
We fall like the drops of April show'rs,
Cradled in mud, or cradled in flow'rs,
Now idly to wile the rosy hours,
And now for bread to importune;
Petted, and fêted, and fed upon pap,
One prattler comes in for a fortune, slap—
And one, a "more kicks than ha'pence" chap,
For a slap—without the fortune!
* * * *
Yet, laugh if we will at those baby days,
There was more of bliss in its careless plays,
Than in after time from the careful ways
Or the hollow world, with its empty praise,
Its honeyed speeches, and hackney phrase,
And its pleasures, for ever fleeting.
Puck on Pegasus (Chatto and Windus), London.