The time doth well dispense With lovers' long discourse; Much speech hath some defence, Though beauty no remorse.

All do not all things well: Some, measures comely tread, Some, knotted riddles tell, Some, poems smoothly read.

The summer hath his joys, And winter his delights; Though love and all his pleasures are but toys, They shorten tedious nights.

_Thomas Campion._

A CHRISTMAS CATCH.

To shorten winter's sadness, See where the nymphs with gladness Disguised all are coming, Right wantonly a-mumming.

Fa la.

Whilst youthful sports are lasting, To feasting turn our fasting; With revels and with wa.s.sails Make grief and care our va.s.sals.

Fa la.

For youth it well beseemeth That pleasure he esteemeth; And sullen age is hated That mirth would have abated.

Fa la.

_Thomas Weelkes, A.D. 1597._

THE EPIC.

At Francis Allen's on the Christmas eve,-- The game of forfeits done--the girls all kissed Beneath the sacred bush and past away,-- The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall, The host, and I sat round the wa.s.sail-bowl, Then half-way ebbed: and there we held a talk, How all the old honor had from Christmas gone, Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games In some odd nooks like this; till I, tired out With cutting eights that day upon the pond, Where, three times slipping from the outer edge, I b.u.mped the ice into three several stars, Fell in a doze; and, half-awake, I heard The parson taking wide and wider sweeps, Now harping on the church-commissioners, Now hawking at geology and schism; Until I woke, and found him settled down Upon the general decay of faith Right through the world; "at home was little left, And none abroad; there was no anchor, none, To hold by." Francis, laughing, clapt his hand On Everard's shoulder with, "I hold by him."

"And I," quoth Everard, "by the wa.s.sail-bowl."

"Why, yes," I said, "we knew your gift that way At college; but another which you had, I mean of verse (for so we held it then), What came of that?" "You know," said Frank, "he burnt His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve books,"-- And then to me demanding why? "Oh, sir, He thought that nothing new was said, or else Something so said 'twas nothing--that a truth Looks freshest in the fashion of the day: G.o.d knows, he has a mint of reasons: ask.

It pleased _me_ well enough." "Nay, nay," said Hall, "Why take the style of those heroic times?

For nature brings not back the mastodon, Nor we those times; and why should any man Remodel models? These twelve books of mine Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing-worth, Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt." "But I,"

Said Francis, "picked the eleventh from this hearth, And have it: keep a thing, its use will come.

I h.o.a.rd it as a sugar-plum for Holmes."

He laughed, and I, though sleepy, like a horse That hears the corn-bin open, p.r.i.c.ked my ears; For I remembered Everard's college fame When we were freshmen: then, at my request, He brought it; and the poet, little urged, But, with some prelude of disparagement, Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes, Deep-chested music, and to this result:

MORTE D'ARTHUR.

So all day long the noise of battle rolled Among the mountains by the winter sea; Until King Arthur's table, man by man, Had fallen in Lyonesse about their Lord, King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep, The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights, And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, A broken chancel with a broken cross, That stood on a dark strait of barren land.

On one side lay the ocean, and on one Lay a great water, and the moon was full.

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: "The sequel of to-day unsolders all The goodliest fellowship of famous knights Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep They sleep--the men I loved. I think that we Shall nevermore, at any future time, Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, Walking about the gardens and the halls Of Camelot, as in the days that were.

I perish by this people which I made,-- Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again To rule once more,--but let what will be, be, I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm That without help I cannot last till morn.

Thou, therefore, take my brand, Excalibur, Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how In those old days, one summer noon, an arm Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, Holding the sword--and how I rowed across And took it, and have worn it, like a king: And, whensoever I am sung or told In after time, this also shall be known: But now delay not: take Excalibur And fling him far into the middle mere: Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word."

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere: "It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, Aidless, alone, and smitten through the helm.

A little thing may harm a wounded man, Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word."

So saying, from the ruined shrine he stept And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down By zigzag paths and juts of pointed rock, Came on the shining levels of the lake.

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt: For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, Myriads of topaz-lights and jacinth-work Of subtlest jewelry. He gazed so long That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood, This way and that dividing the swift mind, In act to throw: but at the last it seemed Better to leave Excalibur concealed There in the many-knotted water-flags That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.

So strode he back slow to the wounded King.

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: "Hast thou performed my mission which I gave?

What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?"

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: "I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, And the wild water lapping on the crag."

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale: "Thou hast betrayed thy nature and thy name, Not rendering true answer, as beseemed Thy fealty, nor like a n.o.ble knight: For surer sign had followed, either hand, Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.

This is a shameful thing for men to lie.

Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing I bad thee, watch, and lightly bring me word."

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time Across the ridge and paced beside the mere, Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought; But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, How curiously and strangely chased, he smote His palms together, and he cried aloud, "And if, indeed, I cast the brand away, Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, Should thus be lost forever from the earth, Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.

What good should follow this, if this were done?

What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey, Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.

Were it well to obey then, if a king demand An act unprofitable against himself?"

So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, And hid Excalibur the second time, And so strode back slow to the wounded King.

Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily: "What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?"

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: "I heard the water lapping on the crag, And the long ripple washing in the reeds."

To whom replied King Arthur much in wrath: "Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!

Authority forgets a dying king, Laid widowed of the power of his eye That bowed the will. I see thee what thou art; For thou, the latest left of all my knights, In whom should meet the offices of all, Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt; Either from l.u.s.t of gold, or like a girl Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.

Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, And the third time may prosper, get thee hence; But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, I will arise and slay thee with my hands."

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere and ran, And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged Among the bulrush-beds, and clutched the sword And strongly wheeled and threw it. The great brand Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon, And flashing round and round, and whirled in an arch, Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, Seen where the moving isles of winter shock By night, with noises of the northern sea, So flashed and fell the brand Excalibur: But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, And caught him by the hilt and brandished him Three times, and drew him under in the mere.

And lightly went the other to the King.

Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long Had winked, and threatened darkness, flared and fell: At which the Parson, sent to sleep with sound, And waked with silence, grunted "Good!" but we Sat rapt: it was the tone with which he read-- Perhaps some modern touches here and there Redeemed it from the charge of nothingness-- Or else we loved the man, and prized his work; I know not; but we sitting as I said, The c.o.c.k crew loud; as at that time of year The l.u.s.ty bird takes every hour for dawn: Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used, "There now--that's nothing!" drew a little back, And drove his heel into the smouldered log, That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue: And so to bed; where yet in sleep I seemed To sail with Arthur under looming sh.o.r.es, Point after point; till on to dawn, when dreams Begin to feel the truth and stir of day, To me, methought, who waited with a crowd, Then came a bark that, blowing forward, bore King Arthur, like a modern gentleman Of stateliest port; and all the people cried, "Arthur is come again: he cannot die."

Then those that stood upon the hills behind Repeated "Come again, and thrice as fair;"

And, further inland, voices echoed, "Come With all good things, and war shall be no more."

At this a hundred bells began to peal, That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas morn.

_Lord Tennyson._

THE COUNTRY LIFE.

For sports, for pageantries, and plays, Thou hast thy eves and holidays On which the young men and maids meet To exercise their dancing feet, Tripping the comely country-round, With daffodils and daisies crowned.

Thy wakes, thy quintals, here thou hast, Thy May-poles, too, with garlands graced, Thy morris-dance, thy Whitsun-ale, Thy shearing-feast, which never fail, Thy harvest home, thy wa.s.sail-bowl, That's tossed up after fox-i'-th'-hole, Thy mummeries, thy Twelfthtide kings And queens, thy Christmas revellings, Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit, And no man pays too dear for it.

O happy life! if that their good The husbandmen but understood, Who all the day themselves do please And younglings with such sports as these, And, lying down, have naught t' affright Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night.

_Robert Herrick._

CHRISTMAS OMNIPRESENT.