An Ancient To Ancients

WHERE once we danced, where once sang, Gentlemen, The floors are sunken, cobwebs hang, And cracks creep; worms have fed upon The doors. Yea, sprightlier times were then Than now, with harps and tabrets gone, Gentlemen!

Where once we rowed, where once we sailed, Gentlemen, And damsels took the tiller, veiled Against too strong a stare (God wot Their fancy, then or anywhen!) Upon that shore we are clean forgot, Gentlemen!

We have lost somewhat, afar and near, Gentlemen, The thinning of our ranks each year Affords a hint we are nigh undone, That we shall not be ever again The marked of many, loved of one, Gentlemen.

In dance the polka hit our wish, Gentlemen, The paced quadrille, the spry schottische, “Sir Roger.”—And in opera spheres The “Girl” (the famed “Bohemian”), And “Trovatore,” held the ears, Gentlemen.

This season’s paintings do not please, Gentlemen, Like Etty, Mulready, Maclise; Throbbing romance has waned and wanned; No wizard wields the witching pen Of Bulwer, Scott, Dumas, and Sand, Gentlemen.

The bower we shrined to Tennyson, Gentlemen, Is roof-wrecked; damps there drip upon Sagged seats, the creeper-nails are rust, The spider is sole denizen; Even she who read those rhymes is dust, Gentlemen!

We who met sunrise sanguine-souled, Gentlemen, Are wearing weary. We are old; These younger press; we feel our rout Is imminent to Aïdes’ den,— That evening’s shades are stretching out, Gentlemen!

And yet, though ours be failing frames, Gentlemen, So were some others’ history names, Who trode their track light-limbed and fast As these youth, and not alien From enterprise, to their long last, Gentlemen.

Sophocles, Plato, Socrates, Gentlemen, Pythagoras, Thucydides, Herodotus, and Homer,—yea, Clement, Augustin, Origen, Burnt brightlier towards their setting-day, Gentlemen.

And ye, red-lipped and smooth-browed; list, Gentlemen; Much is there waits you we have missed; Much lore we leave you worth the knowing, Much, much has lain outside our ken: Nay, rush not: time serves: we are going, Gentlemen.

AFTER READING PSALMS XXXIX., XL., ETC.

SIMPLE was I and was young; Kept no gallant tryst, I; Even from good words held my tongue, Quoniam Tu fecisti!

Through my youth I stirred me not, High adventure missed I, Left the shining shrines unsought; Yet—me deduxisti!

At my start by Helicon Love-lore little wist I, Worldly less; but footed on; Why? Me suscepisti!

When I failed at fervid rhymes, “Shall,” I said, “persist I?” “Dies” (I would add at times) “Meos posuisti!”

So I have fared through many suns; Sadly little grist I Bring my mill, or any one’s, Domine, Tu scisti!

And at dead of night I call: “Though to prophets list I, Which hath understood at all? Yea: Quem elegisti?”

187–

SURVIEW “Cogitavi vias meas”

A CRY from the green-grained sticks of the fire Made me gaze where it seemed to be: ’Twas my own voice talking therefrom to me On how I had walked when my sun was higher— My heart in its arrogancy.

“You held not to whatsoever was true,” Said my own voice talking to me: “Whatsoever was just you were slack to see; Kept not things lovely and pure in view,” Said my own voice talking to me.

“You slighted her that endureth all,” Said my own voice talking to me; “Vaunteth not, trusteth hopefully; That suffereth long and is kind withal,” Said my own voice talking to me.

“You taught not that which you set about,” Said my own voice talking to me; “That the greatest of things is Charity. . . ” —And the sticks burnt low, and the fire went out, And my voice ceased talking to me.