A BALLAD OF EVIL SPEED.
A Cool Collation of Several Bards.
I would I had not met you, Sweet, I wish you had been far away From where, in Upper Wimpole Street, We two foregather'd yesterday. Somewhere in that unlovely street Summer's lost beauty, hid away, Woke at the music of your feet, And sought the little girl in grey. Around your head the sunbeams play— Home to the depths of your deep eyes Soft shadows of the woodland stray, Then sparkle with a quick surprise, As when the branch-entangled skies Shake from the depths of woodland stream, Awhile in laughing circles gleam, Then spread to heaven's peace again. Amber and gold, and feathery grey, You suited well the Autumn day, The muffled sun, the misty air, The weather like a sleepy pear. And yet I wish that you had been Afar, beside the sounding main, Or swaying daintily the rein Of mettled courser on the green, So I had passed, and passed unseen.
For I arose, from dreams of thee, So late that morn, my matin tea Was cold as mutton two days cooked; As in the looking-glass I looked, Methought the razor need not wreak Its wonted vengeance on my cheek, Nor clear the shadow from my chin Till to the City I had been. Thus, horrid with a nascent beard, By chance through Wimpole Street I steered, Trusting therein to shun contempt Of who abhor a man unkempt. For like a mother-bird, who's caught The cant of modern woman's thought, My restless tie refused to sit, And restless fingers vainly sought To soothe the silkworm's stubborn toil. But only did its candour soil, And suffered none the less from it. For all my neck, and head no less, Owned to a vague unquietness, As when the vagrant spiderlet Has spread at large her filmy net To catch the moonbeams, wavering white, At the front gate on Autumn night.
Then suddenly the sombre way Rock'd like the darkness struck by day, The endless houses reel'd from sight, And all romance and all delight Came thronging in a glorious crowd. So, when the drums are beating loud, The mob comes sweeping down the Mall, Far heralding the bear-skins tall. Glorious in golden clothing comes The great drum-major with his drums And sun-smit brass of trumpets; then The scarlet wall of marching men, Midmost of which great Mavors sets The colours girt with bayonets. Yes, there were you—and there was I, Unshaved, and with erratic tie, And for that once I yearn'd to shun My social system's central sun. How could a sloven slave express The frank, the manly tenderness That wraps you round from common thought, And does not ask that you should know The love that consecrates you so. No; furtive, awkward, restless, cold, I basely seemed to set at naught That sudden bliss, undreamt, unsought. What must she think, my girl of gold? I dare not ask; and baffled wit Droops—till sweet hopes begin to flit— Like butterflies that brave the cold— Perhaps she didn't notice it.