Xcii

I somehow played the piece: remarked on each old theme I' the new dress; saw how food o' the soul, the stuff that 's made To furnish man with thought and feeling, is purveyed Substantially the same from age to age, with change Of the outside only for successive feasters, Range The banquet-room o' the world, from the dim farthest head O' the table, to its foot, for you and me bespread, This merry morn, we find sufficient fare, I trow. But, novel? Scrape away the sauce; and taste, below, The verity o' the viand,--you shall perceive there went To board-head just the dish which other condiment Makes palatable now: guests came, sat down, fell-to, Rose up, wiped mouth, went way,--lived, died,--and never knew That generations yet should, seeking sustenance, Still find the selfsame fare, with somewhat to enhance Its flavor, in the kind of cooking. As with hates And loves and fears and hopes, so with what emulates The same, expresses hates, loves, fears, and hopes in Art: The forms, the themes--no one without its counterpart Ages ago; no one but, mumbled the due time I' the mouth of the eater, needs be cooked again in rhyme, Dished up anew in paint, sauce-smothered fresh in sound, To suit the wisdom-tooth, just cut, of the age, that 's found With gums obtuse to gust and smack which relished so The meat o' the meal folk made some fifty years ago. But don't suppose the new was able to efface The old without a struggle, a pang! The commonplace Still clung about his heart, long after all the rest O' the natural man, at eye and ear, was caught, confessed The charm of change, although wry lip and wrinkled nose Owned ancient virtue more conducive to repose Than modern nothings roused to somethings by some shred Of pungency, perchance garlic in amber's stead. And so on, till one day, another age, by due Rotation, pries, sniffs, smacks, discovers old is new, And sauce, our sires pronounced insipid, proves again Sole piquant, may resume its titillating reign-- With music, most of all the arts, since change is there The law, and not the lapse: the precious means the rare, And not the absolute in all good save surprise. So I remarked upon our Schumann's victories Over the commonplace, how faded phrase grew fine, And palled perfection--piqued, up-startled by that brine, His pickle--bit the mouth and burnt the tongue aright, Beyond the merely good no longer exquisite: Then took things as I found, and thanked without demur The pretty piece--played through that movement, you prefer Where dance and shuffle past,--he scolding while she pouts, She canting while he calms,--in those eternal bouts Of age, the dog--with youth, the cat--by rose-festoon Tied teasingly enough--Columbine, Pantaloon: She, toe-tips and staccato,--legato, shakes his poll And shambles in pursuit, the senior. Fi la folle! Lie to him! get his gold and pay its price! begin Your trade betimes, nor wait till you 've wed Harlequin And need, at the week's end, to play the duteous wife, And swear you still love slaps and leapings more than life! Pretty! I say.