Fame is a Food That Dead Men Eat

FAME is a food that dead men eat,--

I have no stomach for such meat.

In little light and narrow room,

They eat it in the silent tomb,

With no kind voice of comrade near

To bid the banquet be of cheer.

But Friendship is a nobler thing,--

Of Friendship it is good to sing.

For truly, when a man shall end,

He lives in memory of his friend,

Who doth his better part recall,

And of his faults make funeral.

Austin Dobson

A Garden Song

HERE in this sequestered close

Bloom the hyacinth and rose,

Here beside the modest stock

Flaunts the flaring hollyhock;

Here,without a pang, one sees

Ranks, conditions, and degrees.

All the seasons run their race

In this quiet resting place,

Peach and apricot and fig

Here will ripen and grow big;

Here is store and overplus,--

More had not Alcinoüs!

Here, in alleys cool and green,

Far ahead the thrush is seen;

Here along the soutern wall

Keeps the bee his festival;

All is quiet else--afar

Sounds of toil and turmoil are.

Here be shadows large and long;

Here be spaces meet for song;

Grant, O garden-god, that I,

Now that none profane is nigh,--

Now that mood and moment please,--

Find the fair Pierides!

Austin Dobson

Rondeau

IN after days when grasses high

O'er-top the stone where I shall lie,

Though ill or well the world adjust

My slender claim to honour'd dust,

I shall not question nor reply.

I shall not see the morning sky;

I shall not hear the night-wind sigh;

I shall be mute, as all men must

       In after days!

But yet, now living, fain would I

That some one then should testify,

Saying -- 'He held his pen in trust

To Art, not serving shame or lust.'

Will none? -- Then let my memory die

       In after days!

Austin Dobson

Rose Leaves

I INTENDED an Ode,

And it turned to a Sonnet.

It began à la mode,

I intended an Ode;

But Rose cross'd the road

In her latest new bonnet;

I intended an Ode;

And it turned to a Sonnet.

Austin Dobson

"You Bid Me Try"

YOU bid me try, blue-eyes, to write

A Rondeau. What! -- forthwith? -- tonight?

Reflect. Some skill I have, 'tis true;

But thirteen lines! -- and rimed on two!

"Refrain" as well. Ah, Hapless plight!

Still, there are five lines -- ranged aright.

These Gallic bonds, I feared, would fright

My easy Muse. They did, till you --

    You bid me try!

That makes them eight. The port's in sight --

'Tis all because your eyes are bright!

Now just a pair to end in "oo" --

When maids command, what can't we do?

Behold! -- the rondeau, tasteful, light,

    You bid me try!

Austin Dobson

On a Fan That Belonged to the Marquise de Pompadour

CHICKEN-skin, delicate, white

Painted by Carlo Vanloo,

Loves in a riot of light,

Roses and vaporous blue;

Hark to the dainty frou-frou!

Picture above, if you can,

Eyes that could melt as the dew --

This was the Pompadour's fan!

See how they rise at the sight,

Thronging the OEil de Boeuf through

Courtiers as butterflies bright,

Beauties that Fragoard drew,

Talon-rouge, falbala, queue,

Cardinal, Duke, -- to a man,

Eager to sigh or to sue --

This was the Pompadour's fan!

Ah, but things more than polite

Hung on this toy, voyes-nous!

Matters of state and of might,

Things that great ministers do;

Things that, maybe, overthrew

Those in whose brains they began;

Here was the sign and the cue --

This was the Pompadour's fan!

         Envoy

Where are the secrets it knew?

Weavings of plot and of plan?

--But where is the Pompadour, too?

This was the Pompadour's fan!

Austin Dobson

On the Hurry of This Time

WITH slower pen men used to write,

Of old, when "letters" were "polite";

In Anna's, or in George's days,

They could afford to turn a phrase,

Or trim a straggling theme aright.

They knew not steam; electric light

Not yet had dazed their calmer sight; --

They meted out both blame and praise

    With slower pen.

Too swiftly now the hours take flight!

What's read at morn is dead at night;

Scant space have we for Art's delays,

Whose breathless thought so briefly stays,

We may not work -- ah! would we might! --

    With slower pen.

Austin Dobson

The Ladies of St. James's

A Proper New Ballad of the Country and the Town

THE ladies of St.James's

Go swinging to the play;

Their footmen run before them,

With a "Stand by! Clear the way!"

But Phyllida, my Phyllida!

She takes her buckled shoon,

When we go out a-courting

Beneath the harvest moon.

The ladies of St. James's

Wear satin on their backs;

They sit all night at Ombre,

With candles all of wax.

But Phyllida, my Phyllida!

She dons her russet gown,

And runs to gather May dew

Before the world is down.

The ladies of St. James's!

They are so fine and fair,

You'd think a box of essences

Was broken in the air;

But Phyllida, my Phillida!

The breath of heath and furze,

When breezes blow at morning,

Is not so fresh as hers.

The ladies of St. James's!

They're painted to the eyes;

Their white it stays forever,

Their red it never dies.

But Phyllida, my Phyllida!

Her color comes and goes;

It trembles to a lily --

It wavers to a rose.

The ladies of St. James's!

You scarce can understand

The half of all their speeches,

Their phrases are so grand;

But Phyllida, my Phyllida!

Her shy and simple words

Are clear as after rain-drops

The music of the birds.

The ladies of St. James's!

They have their fits and freaks;

They smile on you -- for seconds,

They frown on you -- for weeks.

But Phyllida, my Phyllida!

Come either storm or shine,

From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide,

Is always true -- and mine.

My Phyllida! my Phyllida!

I care not though they heap

The hearts of all St. James's,

And give me all to keep;

I care not whose the beauties

Of all the world may be,

For Phyllida -- for Phyllida

Is all the world to me!

Austin Dobson

On a Nankin Plate

"AH, me, but it might have been!

Was there ever so dismal a fate?" --

Quoth the little blue mandarin.

"Such a maid as was never seen!

She passed, though I cried to her 'Wait' --

Ah me, but it might have been!

"I cried, 'O my Flower, my Queen,

Be mine!' 'Twas precipitate" --

Quoth the little blue mandarin --

"But then . . . she was just sixteen,

Long-eyed -- as a lily straight --

Ah me, but it might have been!

"As it was,from her palankeen,

She laughed -- 'You're a week too late!' "

(Quoth the little blue mandarin.)

"That is why, in a mist of spleen,

I mourn on this Nankin Plate.

Ah me, but it might of been!" --

Quoth the little blue mandarin.

Austin Dobson

"When Burbadge Played"

WHEN Burbadge played, the stage was bare

Of fount and temple, tower and stair;

Two backswords eked a battle out;

Two supers made a rabble rout;

The throne of Denmark was a chair!

And yet, no less, the audience there

Thrilled, through all changes of Despair,

Hope, Anger, Fear, Delight, and Doubt

    When Burbadge played!

This is the Actor's gift: to share

All moods, all passions, nor to care

One whit for scene, so he without

Can lead men's minds the roundabout

Stirred as of old those hearers were,

    When Burbadge played!

Austin Dobson

On the Future of Poetry

BARDS of the Future! you that come

With striding march, and roll of drum,

What will your newest challenge be

To our prose-bound community?

What magic will you find to stir

The limp and languid listener?

Will it be daring and dramatic?

Will it be frankly democratic?

Will Pegasus return again

In guise of modern aeroplane,

Descending from a cloudless blue

To drop on us a bomb or two?

I know not. Far be it from me

To darken dark futurity;

Still less to render more perplexed

The last vagary, or the next.

Leave Pindus Hill to those who list,

Iconoclast or anarchist --

So be it. "They that break shall pay."

I stand upon the ancient way.

I hold it for a certain thing,

That, blank or riming, song must sing;

And more, that what is good for verse,

Need not, by dint of rime, grow worse.

I hold that they who deal in rime

Must take the standpoint of the time --

But not to catch the public ear,

As mountebank or pulpiteer;

That the old notes are still the new,

If the musician's touch be true --

Nor can the hand that knows its trade

Achieve the trite and ready-made;

That your first theme is Human Life,

Its hopes and fears, it love and strife --

A theme no custom can efface,

Common, but never commonplace;

For this, beyond all doubt is plain:

The Truth that pleased will please again,

And move men as in bygone years

When Hector's wife smiled through her tears.

Austin Dobson

A Song of the Four Seasons

WHEN Spring comes laughing

By vale and hill,

By wind-flower walking

And daffodil,--

Sing stars of morning,

Sing morning skies,

Sing blue of speedwell,--

And my Love's eyes.

When comes the Summer,

Full-leaved and strong,

And gay birds gossip

The orchard long,--

Sing hid, sweet honey

That no bee sips;

Sing red, red roses,--

And my Love's lips.

When Autumn scatters

The leaves again,

And piled sheaves bury

The broad-wheeled wain,--

Sing flutes of harvest

Where men rejoice;

Sing rounds of reapers,--

And my Love's voice.

But when comes Winter

With hail and storm,

And red fire roaring

And ingle warm,--

Sing first sad going

Of friends that part;

Then sing glad meeting,--

And my Love's heart.

Austin Dobson

For A Copy of Theocritus

O SINGER of the field and fold,

THEOCRITUS! Pan's pipe was thine,--

Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

For thee the scent of new-turned mould,

The bee-hives, and the murmuring pine,

O Singer of the field and fold!

Thou sang'st the simple feasts of old,--

The beechen bowl made glad with wine . . .

Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

Thou bad'st the rustic loves be told,--

Thou bad'st the tuneful reeds combine,

O Singer of the field and fold!

And round thee, ever-laughing, rolled

The blithe and blue Sicilian brine:

Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

Alas for us! Our songs are cold;

Our Northern suns too sadly shine:--

O Singer of the field and fold,

Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

Austin Dobson

"When This Old World Was New"

WHEN this old world was new,

Before the towns were made,

Love was a shepherd too.

Clear-eyed as flowers men grew,

Of evil unafraid,

When this old world was made.

No skill had they to woo,

Who but their hearts obey'd--

Love was a shepherd too.

What need to feign or sue?

Not thus was life delay'd

When this old world was new.

Under the cloudless blue

They kiss'd their shepherd-maid--

Love was a shepherd too.

They knew but joy; they knew

No pang of Love decay'd:

When this old world was new,

Love was a shepherd too.

Austin Dobson

The Paradox of Time

(A Variation on Ronsard)

"Le temps s'en va, le lemps s'en va, ma dame!

Las! le temps non: mais NOUS nous en allons!"

TIME goes, you say? Ah no!

Alas, Time stays, we go;

Or else, were this not so,

What need to chain the hours,

For Youth were always ours?

Time goes, you say?--ah no!

Ours is the eyes' deceit

Of men whose flying feet

Lead through some landscape low;

We pass, and think we see

The earth's fixed surface flee:--

Alas, Time stays,--we go!

Once in the days of old,

Your locks were curling gold,

And mine had shamed the crow.

Now, in the self-same stage,

We've reached the silver age;

Time goes, you say?--ah no!

Once, when my voice was strong,

I filled the woods with song

To praise your "rose" and "snow";

My bird, that sang, is dead;

Where are your roses fled?

Alas, Time stays,--we go!

See, in what traversed ways,

What backward Fate delays

The hopes we used to know;

Where are our old desires?--

Ah, where those vanished fires?

Time goes, you say?--ah no!

How far, how far, O Sweet,

The past behind our feet

Lies in the even-glow!

Now, on the forward way,

Let us fold hands, and pray;

Alas, Time stays,--we go!

Austin Dobson

"With Pipe and Flute"

      (To E. G.)

WITH pipe and flute the rustic Pan

Of old made music sweet for man;

And wonder hushed the warbling bird,

And closer drew the calm-eyed herd,--

The rolling river slowlier ran.

Ah! would,--ah! would, a little span,

Some air of Arcady could fan

This age of ours, too seldom stirred,

          With pipe and flute!

But now for gold we plot and plan;

And from Beersheba unto Dan,

Apollo's self might pass unheard,

Or find the night-jar's note preferred;--

Not so it fared, when time began,

          With pipe and flute!

Austin Dobson

The Ballad[e] of Imitation

"C'est imiter quelqu'un que de planter des choux."

          --Alfred de Musset

IF they hint, O Musician, the piece that you played

Is nought but a copy of Chopin or Spohr;

That the ballad you sing is but merely "conveyed"

From the stock of the Arnes and the Purcells of yore;

That there's nothing, in short, in the words or the score

That is not as out-worn as the "Wandering Jew,"

Make answer--Beethoven could scarcely do more--

That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

If they tell you, Sir Artist, your light and your shade

Are simply "adapted" from other men's lore;

That--plainly to speak of a "spade" as a "spade"--

You've "stolen" your grouping from three or from four;

That (however the writer the truth may deplore),

'Twas Gainsborough painted your "Little Boy Blue";

Smile only serenely--though cut to the core--

For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

And you too, my Poet, be never dismayed

If they whisper your Epic--"Sir Eperon d'Or"--

Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayed

In a tissue that's taken from Morris's store;

That no one, in fact, but a child could ignore

That you "lift" or "accommodate" all that you do;

Take heart--though your Pegasus' withers be sore--

For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

POSTSCRIPTUM--And you, whom we all so adore,

Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so new!--

One word in your ear. There were Critics before . . .

And the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

Austin Dobson

The Ballad[e] of the Bore

"Garrulus hunc quando consumet cunque."

          --Horace Sat. I, ix,33.

I SEE him come from far,

And, sick with hopelessness,

Invoke some kindly star,--

I see him come, no less.

Is there no sure recess

Where hunted men may lie?

Ye gods, it is too hard!

I feel his glittering eye,--

Defend us from The Bard!

He knows nor let nor bar:

With ever-nearing stress,

Like Juggernaut his car,

I see him onward press;

He waves a huge MS.;

He puts evasion by,

He stands--as one on guard,

And reads--how volubly!--

Defend us from The Bard!

He reads--of Fates that mar,

Of Woes beyond redress,

Of all the Moons that are,

Of Maids that never bless,

(As one, indeed, might guess);

Of Vows, of Hopes too high,

Of Dolours by the yard

That none believe (nor buy),--

Defend us from The Bard!

      ENVOY

Prince Phoebus, all must die,

Or well- or evil-starred,

Or whole of heart or scarred;

But why in this way--why?

Defend us from The Bard!

Austin Dobson