We saw thee stalk in youthful prime
With high Proctorial mien:
We saw the majesty sublime
Which marked the Junior Dean;
O pundit grave! O sage M.A.!
Say in what happy part
Thou wilt before the crowd display
Thy histrionic art!
With cranium bald, which ne’er again
Will need the barber’s shear,
Wilt thou present in Charles his train
Some long-locked Cavalier?
A sober Don for all to see
Who once didst walk abroad,
Wilt now an Ancient Briton be
And painted blue with woad?
Me from such scenes afar remove,
And hide my shuddering head
Where Nature doth in field and grove
Her fairer pageant spread:
There will I meditating lie
’Mid summer’s calm delights,—
But thou wilt walk adown the High
My Tityrus,—in Tights. . . .
RULES FOR FICTION
A Novelist, whose magic art,
Had plumbed (’twas said) the human heart,
Whom for the penetrative ken
Wherewith he probed the souls of men
The Public and the Public’s wife
Declared synonymous with Life,—
Sat idle, being much perplexed
What Attitude to study next,
Because he would not wholly tell
Which Pose was likeliest to sell.
To him the Muse: “Why seek afar
For things that on the threshold are?
Why thus evolve with care and pain
From your imaginative brain?
Put Artifice upon the shelf,—
Take pen and ink, and draw—Yourself!”
The author heard: he took the hint:
He photographed himself in print.
His very inmost self he drew. . . .
The critics said, “This Will Not Do.
No more we recognize the art
Which used to plumb the human heart,—
This suffers from the patent vice
Of being not Art but Artifice.
’Tis deeply with the fault imbued
Of Inverisimilitude:
He’s written out; his skill’s forgot:
He only writes to Boil the Pot!
It is not true; it will not wash;
’Tis mere imaginative Bosh;
And if he can’t” (they told him flat)
“Get nearer to the Life than that,
He will not earn the Public’s pelf!”
This happens when you draw Yourself.
Or—I should say—it happens when
Such portraits are essayed by Men:
For presently a Lady came
And did substantially the same.
(Let everyone peruse this sequel
Who dreams that Man is Woman’s equal),—
She with a hand divinely free
Drew what she thought herself to be:
It did not much resemble Her
In moral strength or mental stature—
Yet did the critics all aver
It simply teemed with Human Nature!
ART AND LETTERS
In that dim and distant æon
Known as Ante-Mycenæan,
When the proud Pelasgian still
Bounded on his native hill,
And the shy Iberian dwelt
Undisturbed by conquering Celt,
Ere from out their Aryan home
Came the Lords of Greece and Rome,
Somewhere in those ancient spots
Lived a man who painted Pots—
Painted with an art defective,
Quite devoid of all perspective,
Very crude, and causing doubt
When you tried to make them out,
Men (at least they looked like that),
Beasts that might be dog or cat,
Pictures blue and pictures red,
All that came into his head:
Not that any tale he meant
On the Pots to represent: