Nay, nothing daunted, pause to catch
Perhaps their song, perhaps the jars;
Through sting and throb, at strain to match
Their measures to some boundless Star’s.
But yet at Wrong she cannot bide
Must have her jog at slug-slow Time:
How far it rouse his hard-bound hide—
Ah! there’s the test of quickening rhyme!
THE GIBBET-SONG.[1]
[1] The onus of the South African War seems, in the main, to have rested on three pairs of shoulders—those of Rhodes (who has now excused himself), Chamberlain and Milner.
The Gallows is a composite something—a sort of trio-also—known to assume burdens, likewise, to-wit: the Beam, the Trap, and the Rope.
I dozed—had dipped in gray of dreams—
While at gate of mind no sentry sat,
But such blithe watch and ward whereat
The Fancy laughs, more tricksy sports her airy gleams—
Had dipped—unrobed, immersed, for all she fought,
In the bath, each leaden limb of weary Thought.
Such truce!—while shoal of dreams slid restful by;
When, hark! Came phantomed not upon the misty air,
At hum and buzz, some quaint palavering there—
Some spell—which, ere the tranced ear could sort and try,
Took vision, too, put up, made free,
Where Reverie’s haunts and workings be.
The eeriest shapes—tho’ of yon fierce breed
That cows sweet Song, harsh-tunes her chime,
Thick-mists the heights she fain would climb,
Yet, e’en so, their sad defence and privilege plead:
Rude differences, of mark and poise,
That, ’gainst all manners, prompt her voice:
The weirdest set,—tho’ jovial, too, if looks describe,
And hardy Mirth—yon gamy stuff that seeks no bush,
Which Muse will start when, at a push,
She sports the string of hoot and jibe;
Tho’ God help! as many a licensed rascal knows,
A proper chord, for all its ring of lashing prose.