“Sweet Thames! ran softly, till I end my song.”
Spenser, Prothalamion.
LAURENCE. FRANK. JACK.
LAURENCE.
Here, where the beech-nuts drop among the grasses,
Push the boat in, and throw the rope ashore.
Jack, hand me out the claret and the glasses;—
Here let us sit. We landed here before.
FRANK.
Jack’s undecided. Say, formose puer,
Bent in a dream above the “water wan;”
Shall we row higher, for the reeds are fewer,
There by the pollards, where you see the swan?
JACK.
Hist! That’s a pike. Look,—note against the river,
Gaunt as a wolf,—the sly old privateer,
Enter a gudgeon. Snap,—a gulp, a shiver;—
Exit the gudgeon. Let us anchor here.
FRANK. (In the grass.)
Jove, what a day! Black Care upon the crupper
Nods at his post, and slumbers in the sun,
Half of Theocritus, with a touch of Tupper
Churns in my head. The frenzy has begun.
LAURENCE.
Sing to us then. Damoetas in a choker
Much out of tune, will edify the rooks.
FRANK.
Sing you again. So musical a croaker
Surely will draw the fish upon the hooks.
JACK.
Sing while you may. The beard of manhood still is
Faint on your cheeks, but I, alas! am old.
Doubtless you yet believe in Amaryllis;—
Sing me of Her, whose name may not be told.
FRANK.
Listen, O Thames. His budding beard is riper
Say, by a week. Well, Laurence, shall we sing?
LAURENCE.
Yes, if you will. But, ere I play the piper,
Let him declare the prize he has to bring.
JACK.
Hear then, my Shepherds. Lo to him accounted
First in the song—a Pipe I will impart;
This, my BelovÈd, marvellously mounted,
Amber and foam—a miracle of art.
LAURENCE.
Lordly the gift. O Muse of many numbers,
Grant me a soft alliterative song.
FRANK.
Me, too, O Muse. And when the umpire slumbers,
Sting him with gnats a summer evening long.
LAURENCE.
Not in a cot, begarlanded of spiders,
Not where the brook traditionally purls,
No; in the Row, supreme among the riders,
Seek I the gem, the paragon of girls.
FRANK.
Not in the waste of column and of coping,
Not in the sham and stucco of a square;
No; on a June-lawn to the water sloping
Stands she I honour, beautifully fair.
LAURENCE.
Dark-haired is mine, with splendid tresses plaited
Back from the brows, imperially curled;
Calm as a grand, far-looking Caryatid
Holding the roof that covers in a world.
FRANK.
Dark-haired is mine, with breezy ripples swinging
Loose as a vine-branch blowing in the morn;
Eyes like the morning, mouth for ever singing,—
Blythe as a bird, new risen from the corn.
LAURENCE.
Best is the song with music interwoven;
Mine’s a musician, musical at heart,
Throbs to the gathered grieving of Beethoven—
Sways to the right coquetting of Mozart.
FRANK.
Best? You should hear mine trilling out a ballad,
Queen at a picnic, leader of the glees;
Not too divine to toss you up a salad,
Great in “Sir Roger” danced among the trees.
LAURENCE.
Ah, when the thick night flares with dropping torches,
Ah, when the crush-room empties of the swarm,
Pleasant the hand that, in the gusty porches,
Light as a snowflake, settles on your arm.
FRANK.
Better the twilight and the cheery chatting,—
Better the dim, forgotten garden-seat,
Where one may lie, and watch the fingers tatting,
Lounging with Bran or Bevis at her feet.
LAURENCE.
All worship mine. Her purity doth hedge her
Round with so delicate divinity, that men
Stained to the soul with money-bag and ledger
Bend to the Goddess, manifest again.
FRANK.
None worship mine. But some, I fancy, love her,
Cynics to boot, I know the children run
Seeing her come, for naught that I discover
Save that she brings the summer and the sun.
LAURENCE.
Mine is a Lady, beautiful and queenly,
Crown’d with a sweet, continual control,
Grandly forbearing, lifting life serenely
E’en to her own nobility of soul.
FRANK.
Mine is a Woman, kindly beyond measure,
Fearless in praising; faltering in blame,
Simply devoted to other people’s pleasure.
Jack’s sister Florence. Now you know her name.
LAURENCE.
“Jack’s sister Florence!” Never, Francis, never!
Jack, do you hear? Why, it was She I meant.
She like the country! Ah! she’s far too clever.
FRANK.
There you are wrong. I know her down in Kent.
LAURENCE.
You’ll get a sunstroke, standing with your head bare.
Sorry to differ. Jack, the word’s with you.
FRANK.
How is it, umpire? Though the motto’s threadbare,
“Coelum non animum,” is, I take it, true.
JACK.
“Souvent femme varie,” as a rule, is truer.
Flatter’d, I’m sure—but both of you romance.
Happy to further suit of either wooer,
Merely observing—you haven’t got a chance.
LAURENCE.
Yes. But the Pipe—
FRANK.
The Pipe is what we care for.
JACK.
Well, in this case, I scarcely need explain.
Judgment of mine were indiscreet, and therefore—
Peace to you both.—The pipe I shall retain.
