  "TrÈs volontiers," repartit le dÉmon. "Vous aimez les tableaux changeans: je veux vous contenter." Le Diable Boiteux. XV. Down through the night we drifted slow, the rays From London's countless gas-jets starred the haze O'er which we darkly hovered. Broad loomed the bulk of Wren's colossal dome Through the grey mist, which, like a sea of foam, The sleeping city covered. "The year," the Shadow murmured, "nears its close. Lo! how they swarm in slumber, friends and foes, Kindred and utter strangers, The millions of this Babylon, stretched beneath The shroud of night, and drawing peaceful breath, Unstirred by dreads and dangers." "But not by dreams," I answered, "Canst reveal, O Shade, the vagrant thoughts that throng and steal About these countless pillows? Or are these sleeping souls as shut to thee As is the unsounded silence of the sea To those who brave its billows?" "Dreams?" smiled the Shadow. "What I see right well Your eyes may not behold. Yet can I tell Their import as unravelled By subtler sense, whilst through these souls they pass! What said the demon to Don ClÉophas As o'er Madrid they travelled? "Such dreams as haunt us near the glimmering morn Shadow forth truth; these through the Gates of Horn Find passage to the sleeper. Prophetic? Nay! But sense therein may read The heart's desire, in pangs of love or greed; What divination deeper? "Yon Statesman, struggling in the nightmare's grip, Fears he has let Time's scanty forelock slip, And lost a great occasion Of self-advancement. How that mouth's a-writhe With hate, on platforms oft so blandly blithe In golden-tongued persuasion! "He, blindly blundering, as through baffling mist, Is a professional philanthropist, Rosy-gilled, genial, hearty. A mouthing Friend of Man. He dreams he's deep In jungles of self-interest, where creep Sleuth-hounds of creed and party. "That sleek-browed sleeper? 'Tis the Great Pooh-pooh, The 'Mugwump' of the Weekly Whillaloo, A most superior creature; Too high for pity and too cold for wrath; The pride of dawdlers on the Higher Path Suffuses every feature. "Contemptuous, he, of clamorous party strife, And all the hot activities of life; But most the Politician He mocks—for 'meanness.' How the prig would gasp If shown the slime-trail of that wriggling asp In his own haunts Elysian! "He dreams Creation, cleared of vulgar noise, Is dedicate to calm Æsthetic joys, That he is limply lolling Amidst the lilies that toil not nor spin, Given quite to dandy scorn, and dainty sin, And languor, and 'log-rolling.' "The head which on that lace-trimmed pillow lies Is fair as Psyche's. Yes, those snow-veiled eyes Look Dian-pure and saintly. Sure no Aholibah could own those lips, Through whose soft lusciousness the bland breath slips So fragrantly and faintly. "That up-curved arm which bears the silken knot Of dusky hair, is it more free from blot Than is her soul who slumbers? Her visions? Of 'desirable young men,' Who crowd round her like swine round Circe's pen In ever-swelling numbers. "Of Love? Nay, but of lovers. Love's a lean And impecunious urchin; lovers mean Gifts, worship, triumph—Money! The Golden Apple is the fruit to witch Our modern Atalantas. To be rich, Live on life's milk and honey; "Stir crowds, charm royalties,—these are the things Psyche most cares for, not her radiant wings Or Cupid's shy caresses. She dreams of conquests that a world applauds, Or a Stage-wardrobe with a thousand gauds, And half-a-hundred dresses. "Not so, that other sleeper, stretched at length, A spectre stripped of charm and shorn of strength, In yon dismantled chamber. Dreams she of girlhood's couch, the lavender Of country sheets, a roof where pigeons whirr And creamy roses clamber? "Of him the red-faced swain whose rounded eyes Dwelt on her charms in moony ecstacies? Of pride, of shame, of sorrow? Nay, of what now seems Nature's crowning good; Hunger-wrought dreams are hers of food—food—food. She'll wake from them to-morrow; "Wake fiercely famishing, savagely sick, The animal in man is quick, so quick To stir and claim full forage. Let famine parch the hero's pallid lips, Pinch Beauty's breast, then watch the swift eclipse Of virtue, sweetness, courage! "Cynical? Sense leaves that to callow youth And callous age; plain picturing of the truth Seems cynical,—to folly. Friend, the true cynic is the shallow mime Who paints humanity devoid of crime, And life supremely 'jolly,' "See such an one, in scented sheets a-loll! Rich fare and rosy wine have lapped his soul In a bon-vivant's slumbers. His pen lies there, the ink is scarcely dry With which he sketched the smug philosophy Of Cant and Christmas Numbers. "He dreams of—holly, home, exuberant hearts, Picturesque poverty, the toys and tarts Of childhood's hope?—No, verily! 'Tis a dream-world of pleasure, power, and pelf, Visions of the apocalypse of Self, O'er which his soul laughs merrily." "Enough!" I cried. "The morning's earliest gleams Will soon dissolve this pageantry of dreams. The New Year's at our portals. Unselfishness, and purity, and hope, Dawn with it through the dream-world's cloudy cope, Even on slumbering mortals." "Granted," the Shadow answered. "Poppy-Land Is not all Appetite and Humbug bland. Myriads of night-capped noddles We must leave unexplored. Their owners oft Are saints austere, or sympathisers soft, Truth's types and Virtue's models!" (To be continued.) |
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