THE PLAYERS.
A Lawn Tennisonian Idyl.
I, who a decade past had lived recluse,
Left for awhile the dust of books and town
To share the pastimes of a country house;
And thus it chanced that I beheld a scene
That steep'd my rusted mind in wonderment.
The morn was passing fair; no vagrant cloud
Obscured the summer sun, as from the porch
I sallied forth to saunter at my will
Adown the garden path. Anon I came
To where a lawn outspread its verdant robe,
Whose decoration filled me with amaze.
Lawns many had I seen in days gone by,
But never lawn before the like of this;
For o'er its grassy plane a strange device
Of parallelograms rectangular
Was limn'd in lines of most exceeding whiteness:
Athwart the centre of this strange device
A threaden net was stretch'd a full yard high,
And clasp'd in its reticulated arms,
As ivy clasps the oak, two sturdy staves
Uprear'd on either side. At either end,
Holding opposing corners of the field,
A youth and damsel did themselves disport
In costume airy, mystic, wonderful;
The while in dexter hand each held a quaint
And spoon-shaped instrument of chequer'd strings—
Modell'd perchance, upon an ancient lute—
Wherewith they nimbly urged the bounding sphere
Across the meshy bar.
No space had I
To ponder, ere they spied me and did call
A welcome—"Hast thou come to see us play?"
"What is the game?" I ask'd; they answer'd "Love."
"A pretty game," quoth I, "for man or maid,
But one wherein a third is out of place;
Fain would I therefore go." "Nay, nay," they cried;
"Prithee remain, and thou shalt stand as umpire."
And so I stay'd, and presently besought
To know their prospects. Then the maiden said,
"I'm fifteen now;" the gallant, he replied,
"And thirty, I." Whereon methought at first
That he did somewhat overstate his case,
Though she seem'd rather underneath the mark.
But when they said that she was thirty-two,
And, next, that he was forty, I perceived
They told of other things than length of years;
Since mortals' ages, e'en at census time,
Could scarce be subject to such fluctuations.
Thus did they wage the contest, hither, thither
Running and smiting, till triumphantly
The damsel shouted, "Deuce!" Alas! mused I,
That lips so fair should utter words so base,
Yet would have held my peace, had not the youth
Turn'd unto me—"How's that; was that a fault?"
"A fault!" I answer'd; "aye, and worse than that;
Indeed, 'tis nigh a sin." "Go to," he said;
"Thou makest merry." So the sport went on;
And then she cried, "Advantage, and I win!"
And then, "'Tis deuce again!" and then, "Advantage
To thee!" and then she strove to reach the ball,
And fail'd, and in despair exclaim'd, "Oh, dear,
I'm beaten!" and fell back upon the sward.
"And this," quoth I, "is this your game of love?
Well, I have heard men say that oftentimes
True love, once smooth, is scattered to the deuce
And she that first advantage hath obtain'd,
Doth lose at last, and suffer sad reverse.
Sweet maid, when thou art wed, the deuce avoid,
And thou shalt ne'er at least deserve a beating."
She laugh'd; he frown'd; I turn'd, and went my way.
Notwithstanding the care Tennyson has usually bestowed upon his writings, he has occasionally of late years, published poems in the magazines, remarkable for their inferiority—even as compared with ordinary magazine poetry—by no means a very high standard. Perhaps he never wrote a weaker set of lines than those printed in "Good Words" for March, 1868, they were headed—