And after all the labour and the pains, After the heaping up of gold on gold, After success that locked your feet in chains, And left you with a heart so tired and old,

Strange--is it not?--to find your chief desire Is what you might have had for nothing then-- The face of love beside a cottage fire And friendly laughter with your fellow-men?

You were so rich when fools esteemed you poor.

You ruled a field that kings could never buy; The glory of the sea was at your door; And all those quiet stars were in your sky.

The nook of ferns below the breathless wood Where one poor book could unlock Paradise ...

What will you give us now for that lost good?

Better forget. You cannot pay the price.

You left them for the fame in which you trust.

But youth, and hope--did you forsake them, too?

Courage! When dust at length returns to dust, In your last dreams they may come back to you.

THE OLD GENTLEMAN WITH THE AMBER SNUFF-BOX

_The old gentleman, tapping his amber snuff-box (A heart-shaped snuff-box with a golden clasp) Stared at the dying fire. "I'd like them all To understand, when I am gone," he muttered.

"But how to do it delicately! I can't Apologize. I'll hint at it ... in verse; And, to be sure that Rosalind reads it through, I'll make it an appendix to my will!"

--Still cynical, you see. He couldn't help it.

He had seen much, felt much. He snapped the snuff box, Shook his white periwig, trimmed a long quill pen, And then began to write, most carefully, These couplets, in the old heroic style:--_

O, had I known in boyhood, only known The few sad truths that time has made my own, I had not lost the best that youth can give, Nay, life itself, in learning how to live.

This laboring heart would not be tired so soon, This jaded blood would jog to a livelier tune: And some few friends, could I begin again, Should know more happiness, and much less pain.

I should not wound in ignorance, nor turn In foolish pride from those for whom I yearn.

I should have kept nigh half the friends I've lost, And held for dearest those I wronged the most.

Yet, when I see more cunning men evade With colder tact, the blunders that I made; Sometimes I wonder if the better part Is not still mine, who lacked their subtle art.

For I have conned my book in harsher schools, And learned from struggling what they worked by rules; Learned--with some pain--more quickly to forgive My fellow-blunderers, while they learn to live; Learned--with some tears--to keep a steadfast mind, And think more kindly of my own poor kind.

_He read the verses through, shaking his wig.

"Perhaps ... perhaps"--he whispered to himself, "I'd better leave it to the will of G.o.d.

They might upset my own. I do not think They'd understand. Jocelyn might, perhaps; And d.i.c.k, if only they were left alone.

But Rosalind never; nor that nephew of mine, The witty politician. No. No. No.

They'd say my mind was wandering, I'm afraid."

So, with a frozen face, reluctantly, He tossed his verses into the dying fire, And watched the sparks fly upward.

There, at dawn, They found him, cold and stiff by the cold hearth, His amber snuff-box in his ivory hand.

"You see," they said, "he never needed friends.

He had that curious antique frozen way.

He had no heart--only an amber snuff-box.

He died quite happily, taking a pinch of snuff."

His nephew, that engaging politician, Inherited the snuff-box, and remarked His epitaph should be "Snuffed Out." The clubs Laughed, and the statesman's reputation grew._

WHAT GRANDFATHER SAID

(_An epistle from a narrow-minded old gentleman to a young artist of superior intellect and intense realism._)

Your thoughts are for the poor and weak?

Ah, no, the picturesque's your pa.s.sion!

Your tongue is always in your cheek At poverty that's not in fashion.

You like a ploughman's rugged face, Or painted eyes in Piccadilly; But bowler hats are commonplace, And thread-bare tradesmen simply silly.

The clerk that sings "G.o.d save the King,"

And still believes his Tory paper,-- You hate the anaemic fool? I thought You loved the weak! Was that all vapour?

Ah, when you sneer, dear democrat, At such a shiny-trousered Tory Because he doffs his poor old hat To what he thinks his country's glory,

To you it's just a coloured rag.

You hate the "patriots" that bawl so.

Well, my Ulysses, there's a flag That lifts men in Republics also.

No doubt his thoughts are cruder far; And, where those linen folds are shaking, Perhaps he sees a kind of star Because his eyes are tired and aching.

Ba.n.a.l enough! Ba.n.a.l as truth!

But I'm not thinking of his banners.

I'm thinking of his pinched white youth And your disgusting "new art" manners.

His meek submission stirs your hate?

Better, my lad, if you're so fervent, Turn your cold steel against the State Instead of sneering at the servant.

He does his job. He draws his pay.

You sneer, and dine with those that pay him; And then you write a sn.o.bbish play For democrats, in which you play him.

Ah, yes, you like simplicity That sucks its cheeks to make the dimple.

But this domestic bourgeoisie You hate,--because it's all too simple.

You hate the hearth, the wife, the child, You hate the heavens that bend above them.

Your simple folk must all run wild Like jungle-beasts before you love them.

You own a house in Cheyne Walk, (You say it costs three thousand fully) Where subtle sn.o.bs can talk and talk And play the intellectual bully.

Yes. I say "sn.o.bs." Are names alone Free from all change? Your word "Victorian"

Could bite and sting in ninety one But now--it's deader than the saurian.

You think I live in yesterday, Because I think your way the wrong one; But I have hewed and ploughed my way, And--unlike yours--it's been a long one.

I let Victoria toll her bell, And went with Strindberg for a ride, sir.

I've fought through your own day as well, And come out on the other side, sir,--

The further side, the morning side, I read free verse (the Psalms) on Sunday.