No More Verses In Praise Of Wine!

No more verses in praise of Wine! No more gauds for the gods of Woe! Better by far to sit supine Watching the current of strong life flow, Crouched by a hearth where the false fires glow; Conning the comedy, line by line— No more gauds for the gods of Woe! No more verses in praise of Wine!

Shirking the fight that a man should fight, Dodging the joys that a man should know, Scorning the breath of a plumed thought’s flight, Down with the swine and the husks below— ’Tis thus we reap from the seed we sow! Hearts grow withered and locks grow white, Dodging the joys that a man should know, Shirking the fight that a man should fight.

No more verses in praise of Wine! Where are the glorious days we knew Touched with the rays of a light divine, Decked with a garland of thyme and rue? Where is their glamour for yours and you? Where is their laughter for me and mine? Where are the glorious days we knew Ere knees were bent to the gods of Wine?

See our boat, with a broken mast, Cleaving a sea that is rough and grey! Cargoes come to the port at last: Ashes and Dead Sea fruit are they. The climax this of a soul-less play— We were the stars of a soul-less cast— Over a sea that is rough and grey Drifts our boat, with a broken mast.

No more verses in praise of Wine! Yet, through a tangle of years and strife, Constant still do her true eyes shine— Mother, or sweetheart, or child, or wife. Is there a haven where Hope is rife, Holding a remnant of life’s design? Is there a light on the shores of life, Pointing a course from the sea of Wine?

OUR LIMITATIONS.

We singers standing on the outer rim, Who touch the fringe of poesy at times With half-formed thoughts, rough-set in halting rhymes, Through which no airy flights of fancy skim— We write just so, an hour to while away, And turn the well-thumbed stock still o’er and o’er, As men have done a thousand times before, And will again, just as we do to-day.

We have no fire to set men’s brains aglow; We have no tune to set the world a-swing; There is no throb within the songs we sing To flush the heart where passions ebb and flow. We have no master’s hand to strike the keys; We lay no claim at all to bardic bays, But write (for coin) our topic-tinctured lays And come, and go, like any evening breeze.

But I, for one, would never weep the lack Of monumental works, and noble themes, But rest content by slopes where Demos dreams And leave Parnassus’ heights upon my back, If I could write (as any man should write) About the world within my garden wall, And never dream inspired dreams at all To live still on when I had sought the night.

If I could take that rosebud from its stem And weave its petals in a simple rhyme, So you could hear the bells of springtime chime, And you could see the flower-soul in them— Or else, we’ll say, a magpie on a limb, Greeting the sunrise with its matin song— To catch the music as it floats along, And link its spirit to a bush-child’s hymn.

Or if—but, then, the limitations rise Like barriers across the mental plain, And mists and things obscure the rhymer’s brain And dull his ears, and cloud his blinking eyes. And so we write as Nature sets her gauge— No worse than most, and better, p’raps, than some, But should a man remain for ever dumb When only rhythm fills his aimless page?

YOUR LEVEL BEST.

When you stand within Life’s limelight to declaim your little piece— Let your hearers chip and chivvy as they may— And you go on nigh despairing, ’neath your mummer-paint and grease, As you massacre the part you have to play: You may come before the curtain And erect your ragged crest, If you’re absolutely certain That you’ve done your level best!

If you’re put away like lumber, on the very topmost shelf, And the phalanx of Success’s pets condemn, Just remember most approval worth a cent comes from yourself, And heave brick for brick, “Old Failure!” back at them: For no matter how they mutter, You are worthy as the rest, When you’re lying in the gutter, If the gutter is your best!

“Where no scallywag or sinner May be counted as a guest.”]

Mark the “pity for a failure!” as the motor-hog whisks by, And the derelict steps quickly from his path: See the supercilious patronage that lights the preacher’s eye! As he maunders of a glowing aftermath, Where no scallywag or sinner May be counted as a guest When the trumpet sounds for dinner— Though he did his level best!

Never mind, old Rags and Tatters! when you reach the “golden stairs,” You may meet a Godlike cobber, who will say, “Though you’ve hobnobbed with the Devil, and forgot your vesper prayers, You were only as I fashioned forth your clay— Whether scoffer who denied Me, Or a saint who beat his breast, Only he may stand beside me Who has done his level best!”