The Two Poets of Croisic

Prologue

I

Such a starved bank of moss Till that May-morn, Blue ran the flash across: Violets were born!

II

Sky—what a scowl of cloud Till, near and far, Ray on ray split the shroud: Splendid, a star!

III

World—how it walled about Life with disgrace Till God's own smile came out: That was thy face!

The Two Poets of Croisic

I

"Fame!" Yes, I said it and you read it. First, Praise the good log-fire! Winter howls without. Crowd closer, let us! Ha, the secret nursed Inside yon hollow, crusted roundabout With copper where the clamp was,—how the burst Vindicates flame the stealthy feeder! Spout Thy splendidest—a minute and no more? So soon again all sobered as before?

II

Nay, for I need to see your face! One stroke Adroitly dealt, and lo, the pomp revealed! Fire in his pandemonium, heart of oak Palatial, where he wrought the works concealed Beneath the solid seeming roof I broke, As redly up and out and off they reeled Like disconcerted imps, those thousand sparks From fire's slow tunnelling of vaults and arcs!

III

Up, out, and off, see! Were you never used,— You now, in childish days or rather nights,— As I was, to watch sparks fly? not amused By that old nurse-taught game which gave the sprites Each one his title and career,—confused Belief 'twas all long over with the flights From earth to heaven of hero, sage and bard, And bade them once more strive for Fame's award?

IV

New long bright life! and happy chance befell— That I know—when some prematurely lost Child of disaster bore away the bell From some too-pampered son of fortune, crossed Never before my chimney broke the spell! Octogenarian Keats gave up the ghost, While—never mind Who was it cumbered earth— Sank stifled, span-long brightness, in the birth.

V

Well, try a variation of the game! Our log is old ship-timber, broken bulk. There's sea-brine spirits up the brimstone flame, That crimson-curly spiral proves the hulk Was saturate with—ask the chloride's name From somebody who knows! I shall not sulk If yonder greenish tonguelet licked from brass Its life, I thought was fed on copperas.

VI

Anyhow, there they flutter! What may be The style and prowess of that purple one? Who is the hero other eyes shall see Than yours and mine? That yellow, deep to dun— Conjecture how the sage glows, whom not we But those unborn are to get warmth by! Son O' the coal,—as Job and Hebrew name a spark,— What bard, in thy red soaring, scares the dark?

VII

Oh and the lesser lights, the dearer still That they elude a vulgar eye, give ours The glimpse repaying astronomic skill Which searched sky deeper, passed those patent powers Constellate proudly,—swords, scrolls, harps, that fill The vulgar eye to surfeit,—found best flowers Hid deepest in the dark,—named unplucked grace Of soul, ungathered beauty, form or face!

VIII

Up with thee, mouldering ash men never knew, But I know! flash thou forth, and figure bold, Calm and columnar as yon flame I view! Oh and I bid thee,—to whom fortune doled Scantly all other gifts out—bicker blue, Beauty for all to see, zinc's uncontrolled Flake-brilliance! Not my fault if these were shown, Grandeur and beauty both, to me alone.

IX

No! as the first was boy's play, this proves mere Stripling's amusement: manhood's sport be grave! Choose rather sparkles quenched in mid career, Their boldness and their brightness could not save (In some old night of time on some lone drear Sea-coast, monopolized by crag or cave) —Save from ignoble exit into smoke, Silence, oblivion, all death-damps that choke!

X

Launched by our ship-wood, float we, once adrift, In fancy to that land-strip waters wash, We both know well! Where uncouth tribes made shift Long since to keep life in, billows dash Nigh over folk who shudder at each lift Of the old tyrant tempest's whirlwind-lash Though they have built the serviceable town Tempests but tease now, billows drench, not drown.

XI

Croisic, the spit of sandy rock which juts Spitefully northward, bears nor tree nor shrub To tempt the ocean, show what Guérande shuts Behind her, past wild Batz whose Saxons grub The ground for crystals grown where ocean gluts Their promontory's breadth with salt: all stub Of rock and stretch of sand, the land's last strife To rescue just a remnant for dear life.

XII

And what life! Here was, from the world to choose, The Druids' chosen chief of homes: they reared —Only their women,—mid the slush and ooze Of yon low islet,—to their sun, revered In strange stone guise,—a temple. May-dawn dews Saw the old structure levelled; when there peered May's earliest eve-star, high and wide once more Up towered the new pile perfect as before:

XIII

Seeing that priestesses—and all were such— Unbuilt and then rebuilt it every May, Each alike helping—well, if not too much! For, mid their eagerness to outstrip day And get work done, if any loosed her clutch And let a single stone drop, straight a prey Herself fell, torn to pieces, limb from limb, By sisters in full chorus glad and grim.

XIV

And still so much remains of that grey cult, That even now, of nights, do women steal To the sole Menhir standing, and insult The antagonistic church-spire by appeal To power discrowned in vain, since each adult Believes the gruesome thing she clasps may heal Whatever plague no priestly help can cure: Kiss but the cold stone, the event is sure!

XV

Nay more: on May-morns, that primeval rite Of temple-building, with its punishment For rash precipitation, lingers, spite Of all remonstrance; vainly are they shent, Those girls who form a ring and, dressed in white, Dance round it, till some sister's strength be spent: Touch but the Menhir, straight the rest turn roughs From gentles, fall on her with fisticuffs.

XVI

Oh and, for their part, boys from door to door Sing unintelligible words to tunes As obsolete: "scraps of Druidic lore," Sigh scholars, as each pale man importunes Vainly the mumbling to speak plain once more. Enough of this old worship, rounds and runes! They serve my purpose, which is but to show Croisic to-day and Croisic long ago.

XVII

What have we sailed to see, then, wafted there By fancy from the log that ends its days Of much adventure 'neath skies foul or fair, On waters rough or smooth, in this good blaze We two crouch round so closely, bidding care Keep outside with the snow-storm? Something says "Fit time for story-telling!" I begin— Why not at Croisic, port we first put in?

XVIII

Anywhere serves: for point me out the place Wherever man has made himself a home, And there I find the story of our race In little, just at Croisic as at Rome. What matters the degree? the kind I trace. Druids their temple, Christians have their dome: So with mankind; and Croisic, I'll engage, With Rome yields sort for sort, in age for age.

XIX

No doubt, men vastly differ: and we need Some strange exceptional benevolence Of nature's sunshine to develop seed So well, in the less-favoured clime, that thence We may discern how shrub means tree indeed Though dwarfed till scarcely shrub in evidence. Man in the ice-house and the hot-house ranks With beasts or gods: stove-forced, give warmth the thanks!

XX

While, is there any ice-checked? Such shall learn I am thankworthy, who propose to slake His thirst for tasting how it feels to turn Cedar from hyssop-on-the-wall. I wake No memories of what is harsh and stern In ancient Croisic-nature, much less rake The ashes of her last warmth till out leaps Live Hervé Riel, the single spark she keeps.

XXI

Take these two, see, each outbreak,—spirt and spirt Of fire from our brave billet's either edge Which—call maternal Croisic ocean-girt! These two shall thoroughly redeem my pledge. One flames fierce gules, its feebler rival—vert, Heralds would tell you: heroes, I allege, They both were: soldiers, sailors, statesmen, priests, Lawyers, physicians—guess what gods or beasts!

XXII

None of them all, but—poets, if you please! "What, even there, endowed with knack of rhyme, Did two among the aborigines Of that rough region pass the ungracious time Suiting, to rumble-tumble of the sea's, The songs forbidden a serener clime? Or had they universal audience—that's To say, the folk of Croisic, ay and Batz?"

XXIII

Open your ears! Each poet in his day Had such a mighty moment of success As pinnacled him straight, in full display, For the whole world to worship—nothing less! Was not the whole polite world Paris, pray? And did not Paris, for one moment—yes, Worship these poet-flames, our red and green, One at a time, a century between?

XXIV

And yet you never heard their names! Assist, Clio, Historic Muse, while I record Great deeds! Let fact, not fancy, break the mist And bid each sun emerge, in turn play lord Of day, one moment! Hear the annalist Tell a strange story, true to the least word! At Croisic, sixteen hundred years and ten Since Christ, forth flamed yon liquid ruby, then.

XXV

Know him henceforth as René Gentilhomme —Appropriate appellation! noble birth And knightly blazon, the device wherefrom Was "Better do than say"! In Croisic's dearth Why prison his career while Christendom Lay open to reward acknowledged worth? He therefore left it at the proper age And got to be the Prince of Condé's page.

XXVI

Which Prince of Conde, whom men called "The Duke," —Failing the king, his cousin, of an heir, (As one might hold would hap, without rebuke, Since Anne of Austria, all the world was 'ware, Twenty-three years long sterile, scarce could look For issue)—failing Louis of so rare A godsend, it was natural the Prince Should hear men call him "Next King" too, nor wince.

XXVII

Now, as this reasonable hope, by growth Of years, nay, tens of years, looked plump almost To bursting,—would the brothers, childless both, Louis and Gaston, give but up the ghost— Condé, called "Duke" and "Next King," nothing loth Awaited his appointment to the post, And wiled away the time, as best he might, Till providence should settle things aright.

XXVIII

So, at a certain pleasure-house, withdrawn From cities where a whisper breeds offence, He sat him down to watch the streak of dawn Testify to first stir of Providence; And, since dull country life makes courtiers yawn, There wanted not a poet to dispense Song's remedy for spleen-fits all and some, Which poet was Page René Gentilhomme.

XXIX

A poet born and bred, his very sire A poet also, author of a piece Printed and published, "Ladies—their attire": Therefore the son, just born at his decease, Was bound to keep alive the sacred fire, And kept it, yielding moderate increase Of songs and sonnets, madrigals, and much Rhyming thought poetry and praised as such.

XXX

Rubbish unutterable (bear in mind!) Rubbish not wholly without value, though, Being to compliment the Duke designed And bring the complimenter credit so,— Pleasure with profit happily combined. Thus René Gentilhomme rhymed, rhymed till—lo, This happened, as he sat in an alcove Elaborating rhyme for "love"—not "dove."

XXXI

He was alone: silence and solitude Befit the votary of the Muse. Around, Nature—not our new picturesque and rude, But trim tree-cinctured stately garden-ground— Breathed polish and politeness. All-imbued With these, he sat absorbed in one profound Excogitation "Were it best to hint Or boldly boast 'She loves me,—Araminte'?"

XXXII

When suddenly flashed lightning, searing sight Almost, so close his eyes; then, quick on flash, Followed the thunder, splitting earth downright Where René sat a-rhyming: with huge crash Of marble into atoms infinite— Marble which, stately, dared the world to dash The stone-thing proud, high-pillared, from its place: One flash, and dust was all that lay at base.

XXXIII

So, when the horrible confusion loosed Its wrappage round his senses, and, with breath, Seeing and hearing by degrees induced Conviction what he felt was life, not death— His fluttered faculties came back to roost One after one, as fowls do: ay, beneath, About his very feet there, lay in dust Earthly presumption paid by heaven's disgust.

XXXIV

For, what might be the thunder-smitten thing But, pillared high and proud, in marble guise, A ducal crown—which meant "Now Duke: Next, King"? Since such the Prince was, not in his own eyes Alone, but all the world's. Pebble from sling Prostrates a giant; so can pulverize Marble pretension—how much more, make moult A peacock-prince his plume—God's thunderbolt.

XXXV

That was enough for René, that first fact Thus flashed into him. Up he looked: all blue And bright the sky above; earth firm, compact Beneath his footing, lay apparent too; Opposite stood the pillar: nothing lacked There, but the Duke's crown: see, its fragments strew The earth,—about his feet lie atoms fine Where he sat nursing late his fourteenth line!

XXXVI

So, for the moment, all the universe Being abolished, all 'twixt God and him,— Earth's praise or blame, its blessing or its curse, Of one and the same value,—to the brim Flooded with truth for better or for worse,— He pounces on the writing-paper, prim Keeping its place on table: not a dint Nor speck had damaged "Ode to Araminte."

XXXVII

And over the neat crowquill calligraph His pen goes blotting, blurring, as an ox Tramples a flower-bed in a garden,—laugh You may!—so does not he, whose quick heart knocks Audibly at his breast: an epitaph On earth's break-up, amid the falling rocks, He might be penning in a wild dismay, Caught with his work half-done on Judgment Day.

XXXVIII

And what is it so terribly he pens, Ruining "Cupid, Venus, wile and smile, Hearts, darts," and all his day's divinior mens Judged necessary to a perfect style? Little recks René, with a breast to cleanse, Of Rhadamanthine law that reigned erewhile: Brimful of truth, truth's outburst will convince (Style or no style) who bears truth's brunt—the Prince.

XXXIX

"Condé, called 'Duke,' be called just 'Duke,' not more, To life's end! 'Next King' thou forsooth wilt be? Ay, when this bauble, as it decked before Thy pillar, shall again, for France to see, Take its proud station there! Let France adore No longer an illusive mock-sun—thee— But keep her homage for Sol's self, about To rise and put pretenders to the rout!

XL

"What? France so God-abandoned that her root Regal, though many a Spring it gave no sign, Lacks power to make the bole, now branchless, shoot Greenly as ever? Nature, though benign, Confuses the ambitious and astute. In store for such is punishment condign: Sure as thy Duke's crown to the earth was hurled, So sure, next year, a Dauphin glads the world!"

XLI

Which penned—some forty lines to this effect— Our René folds his paper, marches brave Back to the mansion, luminous, erect, Triumphant, an emancipated slave. There stands the Prince. "How now? My Duke's crown wrecked? What may this mean?" The answer René gave Was handing him the verses, with the due Incline of body: "Sir, God's word to you!"

XLII

The Prince read, paled, was silent; all around, The courtier-company, to whom he passed The paper, read, in equal silence bound. René grew also by degrees aghast At his own fit of courage—palely found Way of retreat from that pale presence: classed Once more among the cony-kind. "Oh, son, It is a feeble folk!" saith Solomon.

XLIII

Vainly he apprehended evil: since, When, at the year's end, even as foretold, Forth came the Dauphin who discrowned the Prince Of that long-craved mere visionary gold, 'Twas no fit time for envy to evince Malice, be sure! The timidest grew bold: Of all that courtier-company not one But left the semblance for the actual sun.

XLIV

And all sorts and conditions that stood by At René's burning moment, bright escape Of soul, bore witness to the prophecy. Which witness took the customary shape Of verse; a score of poets in full cry Hailed the inspired one. Nantes and Tours agape, Soon Paris caught the infection; gaining strength, How could it fail to reach the Court at length?

XLV

"O poet!" smiled King Louis, "and besides, O prophet! Sure, by miracle announced, My babe will prove a prodigy. Who chides Henceforth the unchilded monarch shall be trounced For irreligion: since the fool derides Plain miracle by which this prophet pounced Exactly on the moment I should lift Like Simeon, in my arms, a babe, 'God's gift!'

XLVI

"So call the boy! and call this bard and seer By a new title! him I raise to rank Of 'Royal Poet': poet without peer! Whose fellows only have themselves to thank If humbly they must follow in the rear My René. He's the master: they must clank Their chains of song, confessed his slaves; for why? They poetize, while he can prophesy!"

XLVII

So said, so done; our René rose august, "The Royal Poet"; straightway put in type His poem-prophecy, and (fair and just Procedure) added,—now that time was ripe For proving friends did well his word to trust,— Those attestations, tuned to lyre or pipe, Which friends broke out with when he dared foretell The Dauphin's birth: friends trusted, and did well.

XLVIII

Moreover he got painted by Du Pré, Engraved by Daret also; and prefixed The portrait to his book: a crown of bay Circled his brows, with rose and myrtle mixed; And Latin verses, lovely in their way, Described him as "the biforked hill betwixt: Since he hath scaled Parnassus at one jump, Joining the Delphic quill and Getic trump."

XLIX

Whereof came ... What, it lasts, our spirt, thus long —The red fire? That's the reason must excuse My letting flicker René's prophet-song No longer; for its pertinacious hues Must fade before its fellow joins the throng Of sparks departed up the chimney, dues To dark oblivion. At the word, it winks, Rallies, relapses, dwindles, deathward sinks!

L

So does our poet. All this burst of fame, Fury of favour, Royal Poetship, Prophetship, book, verse, picture—thereof came —Nothing! That's why I would not let outstrip Red his green rival flamelet: just the same Ending in smoke waits both! In vain we rip The past, no further faintest trace remains Of René to reward our pious pains.

LI

Somebody saw a portrait framed and glazed At Croisic. "Who may be this glorified Mortal unheard-of hitherto?" amazed That person asked the owner by his side, Who proved as ignorant. The question raised Provoked inquiry; key by key was tried On Croisic's portrait-puzzle, till back flew The wards at one key's touch, which key was—Who

LII

The other famous poet! Wait thy turn, Thou green, our red's competitor! Enough Just now to note 'twas he that itched to learn (A hundred years ago) how fate could puff Heaven-high (a hundred years before) then spurn To suds so big a bubble in some huff: Since green too found red's portrait,—having heard Hitherto of red's rare self not one word.

LIII

And he with zeal addressed him to the task Of hunting out, by all and any means, —Who might the brilliant bard be, born to bask Butterfly-like in shine which kings and queens And baby-dauphins shed? Much need to ask! Is fame so fickle that what perks and preens The eyed wing, one imperial minute, dips Next sudden moment into blind eclipse?

LIV

After a vast expenditure of pains, Our second poet found the prize he sought: Urged in his search by something that restrains From undue triumph famed ones who have fought, Or simply, poetizing, taxed their brains: Something that tells such—dear is triumph bought If it means only basking in the midst Of fame's brief sunshine, as thou, René, didst!

LV

For, what did searching find at last but this? Quoth somebody "I somehow somewhere seem To think I heard one old De Chevaye is Or was possessed of René's works!" which gleam Of light from out the dark proved not amiss To track, by correspondence on the theme; And soon the twilight broadened into day, For thus to question answered De Chevaye.

LVI

"True it is, I did once possess the works You want account of—works—to call them so,— Comprised in one small book: the volume lurks (Some fifty leaves in duodecimo) 'Neath certain ashes which my soul it irks Still to remember, because long ago That and my other rare shelf-occupants Perished by burning of my house at Nantes.

LVII

"Yet of that book one strange particular Still stays in mind with me"—and thereupon Followed the story. "Few the poems are; The book was two-thirds filled up with this one, And sundry witnesses from near and far That here at least was prophesying done By prophet, so as to preclude all doubt, Before the thing he prophesied about."

LVIII

That's all he knew, and all the poet learned, And all that you and I are like to hear Of René; since not only book is burned But memory extinguished,—nay, I fear, Portrait is gone too: nowhere I discerned A trace of it at Croisic. "Must a tear Needs fall for that?" you smile. "How fortune fares With such a mediocrity, who cares?"

LIX

Well, I care—intimately care to have Experience how a human creature felt In after-life, who bore the burden grave Of certainly believing God had dealt For once directly with him: did not rave —A maniac, did not find his reason melt —An idiot, but went on, in peace or strife, The world's way, lived an ordinary life.

LX

How many problems that one fact would solve! An ordinary soul, no more, no less, About whose life earth's common sights revolve, On whom is brought to bear, by thunder-stress, This fact—God tasks him, and will not absolve Task's negligent performer! Can you guess How such a soul,—the task performed to point,— Goes back to life nor finds things out of joint?

LXI

Does he stand stock-like henceforth? or proceed Dizzily, yet with course straight-forward still, Down-trampling vulgar hindrance?—as the reed Is crushed beneath its tramp when that blind will Hatched in some old-world beast's brain bids it speed Where the sun wants brute-presence to fulfil Life's purpose in a new far zone, ere ice Enwomb the pasture-tract its fortalice.

LXII

I think no such direct plain truth consists With actual sense and thought and what they take To be the solid walls of life: mere mists— How such would, at that truth's first piercing, break Into the nullity they are!—slight lists Wherein the puppet-champions wage, for sake Of some mock-mistress, mimic war: laid low At trumpet-blast, there's shown the world, one foe!

LXIII

No, we must play the pageant out, observe The tourney-regulations, and regard Success—to meet the blunted spear nor swerve, Failure—to break no bones yet fall on sward; Must prove we have—not courage? well then,—nerve! And, at the day's end, boast the crown's award— Be warranted as promising to wield Weapons, no sham, in a true battle-field.

LXIV

Meantime, our simulated thunderclaps Which tell us counterfeited truths—these same Are—sound, when music storms the soul, perhaps? —Sight, beauty, every dart of every aim That touches just, then seems, by strange relapse, To fall effectless from the soul it came As if to fix its own, but simply smote And startled to vague beauty more remote?

LXV

So do we gain enough—yet not too much— Acquaintance with that outer element Wherein there's operation (call it such!) Quite of another kind than we the pent On earth are proper to receive. Our hutch Lights up at the least chink: let roof be rent— How inmates huddle, blinded at first spasm, Cognizant of the sun's self through the chasm!

LXVI

Therefore, who knows if this our René's quick Subsidence from as sudden noise and glare Into oblivion was impolitic? No doubt his soul became at once aware That, after prophecy, the rhyming-trick Is poor employment: human praises scare Rather than soothe ears all a-tingle yet With tones few hear and live, but none forget.

LXVII

There's our first famous poet! Step thou forth, Second consummate songster! See, the tongue Of fire that typifies thee, owns thy worth In yellow, purple mixed its green among, No pure and simple resin from the North, But composite with virtues that belong To Southern culture! Love not more than hate Helped to a blaze ... But I anticipate.

LXVIII

Prepare to witness a combustion rich And riotously splendid, far beyond Poor René's lambent little streamer which Only played candle to a Court grown fond By baby-birth: this soared to such a pitch, Alternately such colours doffed and donned, That when I say it dazzled Paris—please Know that it brought Voltaire upon his knees!

LXIX

Who did it, was a dapper gentleman, Paul Desforges Maillard, Croisickese by birth, Whose birth that century ended which began By similar bestowment on our earth Of the aforesaid René. Cease to scan The ways of Providence! See Croisic's dearth— Not Paris in its plenitude—suffice To furnish France with her best poet twice!

LXX

Till he was thirty years of age, the vein Poetic yielded rhyme by drops and spirts: In verses of society had lain His talent chiefly; but the Muse asserts Privilege most by treating with disdain Epics the bard mouths out, or odes he blurts Spasmodically forth. Have people time And patience nowadays for thought in rhyme?

LXXI

So, his achievements were the quatrain's inch Of homage, or at most the sonnet's ell Of admiration: welded lines with clinch Of ending word and word, to every belle In Croisic's bounds; these, brisk as any finch, He twittered till his fame had reached as well Guérande as Batz; but there fame stopped, for—curse On fortune—outside lay the universe!

LXXII

That's Paris. Well,—why not break bounds, and send Song onward till it echo at the gates Of Paris whither all ambitions tend, And end too, seeing that success there sates The soul which hungers most for fame? Why spend A minute in deciding, while, by Fate's Decree, there happens to be just the prize Proposed there, suiting souls that poetize?

LXXIII

A prize indeed, the Academy's own self Proposes to what bard shall best indite A piece describing how, through shoal and shelf, The Art of Navigation, steered aright, Has, in our last king's reign,—the lucky elf,— Reached, one may say, Perfection's haven quite, And there cast anchor. At a glance one sees The subject's crowd of capabilities!

LXXIV

Neptune and Amphitrite! Thetis, who Is either Tethys or as good—both tag! Triton can shove along a vessel too: It's Virgil! Then the winds that blow or lag,— De Maille, Vendôme, Vermandois! Toulouse blew Longest, we reckon: he must puff the flag To fullest outflare; while our lacking nymph Be Anne of Austria, Regent o'er the lymph!

LXXV

Promised, performed! Since irritabilis gens Holds of the feverish impotence that strives To stay an itch by prompt resource to pen's Scratching itself on paper; placid lives, Leisurely works mark the divinior mens: Bees brood above the honey in their hives; Gnats are the busy bustlers. Splash and scrawl,— Completed lay thy piece, swift penman Paul!

LXXVI

To Paris with the product! This despatched, One had to wait the Forty's slow and sure Verdict, as best one might. Our penman scratched Away perforce the itch that knows no cure But daily paper-friction: mere than matched His first feat by a second—tribute pure And heartfelt to the Forty when their voice Should peal with one accord "Be Paul our choice!"

LXXVII

Scratch, scratch went much laudation of that sane And sound Tribunal, delegates august Of Phœbus and the Muses' sacred train— Whom every poetaster tries to thrust From where, high-throned, they dominate the Seine: Fruitless endeavour,—fail it shall and must! Whereof in witness have not one and all The Forty voices pealed "Our choice be Paul?"

LXXVIII

Thus Paul discounted his applause. Alack For human expectation! Scarcely ink Was dry when, lo, the perfect piece came back Rejected, shamed! Some other poet's clink "Thetis and Tethys" had seduced the pack Of pedants to declare perfection's pink A singularly poor production. "Whew! The Forty are stark fools, I always knew."

LXXIX

First fury over (for Paul's race—to-wit, Brain-vibrous—wriggle clear of protoplasm Into minute life that's one fury-fit), "These fools shall find a bard's enthusiasm Comports with what should counterbalance it— Some knowledge of the world! No doubt, orgasm Effects the birth of verse which, born, demands Prosaic ministration, swaddling-bands!

LXXX

"Verse must be cared for at this early stage, Handled, nay dandled even. I should play Their game indeed if, till it grew of age, I meekly let these dotards frown away My bantling from the rightful heritage Of smiles and kisses! Let the public say If it be worthy praises or rebukes, My poem, from these Forty old perukes!"

LXXXI

So, by a friend, who boasts himself in grace With no less than the Chevalier La Roque,— Eminent in those days for pride of place, Seeing he had it in his power to block The way or smooth the road to all the race Of literators trudging up to knock At Fame's exalted temple-door—for why? He edited the Paris "Mercury":—

LXXXII

By this friend's help the Chevalier receives Paul's poem, prefaced by the due appeal To Cæsar from the Jews. As duly heaves A sigh the Chevalier, about to deal With case so customary—turns the leaves, Finds nothing there to borrow, beg or steal— Then brightens up the critic's brow deep-lined. "The thing may be so cleverly declined!"

LXXXIII

Down to desk, out with paper, up with quill, Dip and indite! "Sir, gratitude immense For this true draught from the Pierian rill! Our Academic clodpoles must be dense Indeed to stand unirrigated still. No less, we critics dare not give offence To grandees like the Forty: while we mock, We grin and bear. So, here's your piece! La Roque."

LXXXIV

"There now!" cries Paul: "the fellow can't avoid Confessing that my piece deserves the palm; And yet he dares not grant me space enjoyed By every scribbler he permits embalm His crambo in the Journal's corner! Cloyed With stuff like theirs, no wonder if a qualm Be caused by verse like mine: though that's no cause For his defrauding me of just applause.