Collected Poems Volume II Part 83

I have honeyed," he yammers, "my nose and mine eye, And the bees cannot sting me at all!

And it's O, for the sting of a little brown bee, Or to blister my hands on a rope, Or to buffet a thundering broad-side sea On a deck like a mountain-slope!"

_Chorus:_ With her mast snapt short, and a list to port And a deck like a mountain-slope.

But alas, and he thinks of the chaplain's voice When that roar from the woods out-break-- _R-r-re-joice! R-r-re-joice!_ "Now, wherefore rejoice In the music a bear could make?

'Tis a judgment, maybe, that I stick in this tree; Yet in this I out-argued him fair!

Though I live, though I die, in this honey-comb pie, By Pope Joan, there's no sense in a bear!"

_Chorus:_ Notes in a nightingale, plums in a pie, By'r Lakin, no _Sense_ in a _Bear_!

He knew not our anchor was heaved from the mud: He was growling it over again, When--a strange sound suddenly froze his blood, And curdled his big slow brain!-- A marvellous sound, as of great steel claws Gripping the bark of his tree, Softly ascended! Like lightning ended His honey-comb reverie!

_Chorus:_ The honey-comb quivered! The little leaves s.h.i.+vered!

_Something was climbing the tree!_

Something that breathed like a fat sea-cook, Or a pirate of fourteen ton!

But it clomb like a cat (tho' the whole tree shook) Stealthily tow'rds the sun, Till, as Black Bill gapes at the little blue ring Overhead, which he calls the sky, It is clean blotted out by a monstrous Thing Which--_hath larded its nose and its eye._

_Chorus:_ O, well for thee, Bill, that this monstrous Thing Hath blinkered its little red eye.

Still as a mouse lies Bill with his face Low down in the dark sweet gold, While this monster turns round in the leaf-fringed s.p.a.ce!

Then--taking a good firm hold, As the skipper descending the cabin-stair, Tail-first with a vast slow tread, Solemnly, softly, cometh this Bear Straight down o'er the Bo'sun's head.

_Chorus:_ Solemnly--slowly--cometh this Bear, Tail-first o'er the Bo'sun's head.

Nearer--nearer--then all Bill's breath Out-bursts in one leap and yell!

And this Bear thinks, "Now am I gripped from beneath By a roaring devil from h.e.l.l!"

And madly Bill clutches his brown bow-legs, And madly this Bear doth hale, With his little red eyes fear-mad for the skies And Bill's teeth fast in his tail!

_Chorus:_ Small wonder a Bear should quail!

To have larded his nose, to have greased his eyes, And be stung at the last in his tail.

Pull, Bo'sun! Pull, Bear! In the hot sweet gloom, Pull Bruin, pull Bill, for the skies!

Pull--out of their gold with a bombard's boom Come Black Bill's honeyed thighs!

Pull! Up! Up! Up! with a scuffle and scramble, To that little blue ring of bliss, This Bear doth go with our Bo'sun in tow Stinging his tail, I wis.

_Chorus:_ And this Bear thinks--"Many great bees I know, But there never was Bee like this!"

All in the gorgeous death of day We had slipped from our emerald creek, And our _Cloud i' the Sun_ was careening away With the old gay flag at the peak, When, suddenly, out of the purple wood, Breast-high thro' the lilies there danced A tall lean figure, black as a n.i.g.g.e.r, That shouted and waved and pranced!

_Chorus:_ A gold-greased figure, but black as a n.i.g.g.e.r, Waving his s.h.i.+rt as he pranced!

"'Tis Hylas! 'Tis Hylas!" our chaplain flutes, And our skipper he looses a shout!

"'Tis Bill! Black Bill, in his old sea-boots!

_Stand by to bring her about!

Har-r-rd a-starboard!"_ And round we came, With a lurch and a dip and a roll, And a banging boom thro' the rose-red gloom For our old Black Bo'sun's soul!

_Chorus:_ Alive! Not dead! Tho' behind his head He'd a seraphin's aureole!

And our chaplain he sniffs, as Bill finished his tale, (With the honey still scenting his hair!) O'er a plate of salt beef and a mug of old ale-- "By Pope Joan, there's no sense in a bear!"

And we laughed, but our Bo'sun he solemnly growls --"Till the sails of yon heavens be furled, It taketh--now, mark!--all the beasts in the Ark, Teeth and claws, too, to make a good world!"

Chorus: Till the great--blue--sails--be--furled, It taketh--now, mark!--all the beasts in the Ark, Teeth and claws, too, to make a good world!

"Sack! Sack! Canary! Malmsey! Muscadel!"-- As the last canto ceased, the Mermaid Inn Chorussed. I flew from laughing voice to voice; But, over all the hubbub, rose the drone Of Francis Bacon,--"Now, this Muscovy Is a cold clime, not favourable to bees (Or love, which is a weakness of the south) As well might be supposed. Yet, as hot lands Gender hot fruits and odoriferous spice, In this case we may think that honey and flowers Are comparable with the light airs of May And a more temperate region. Also we see, As Pliny saith, this honey being a swette Of heaven, a certain spettle of the stars, Which, gathering unclean vapours as it falls, Hangs as a fat dew on the boughs, the bees Obtain it partly thus, and afterwards Corrupt it in their stomachs, and at last Expel it through their mouths and harvest it In hives; yet, of its heavenly source it keeps A great part. Thus, by various principles Of natural philosophy we observe--"

And, as he leaned to Drayton, droning thus, I saw a light gleam of celestial mirth Flit o'er the face of Shakespeare--scarce a smile-- A swift irradiation from within As of a cloud that softly veils the sun.

IV

THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN SHOE

We had just set our brazier smouldering, To keep the Plague away. Many a house Was marked with the red cross. The bells tolled Incessantly. Nash crept into the room s.h.i.+vering like a fragment of the night, His face yellow as parchment, and his eyes Burning.

"The Plague! He has taken it!" voices cried.

"That's not the Plague! The old carrion-crow is drunk; But stand away. What ails you, Nash my lad?"

Then, through the clamour, as through a storm at sea, The master's voice, the voice of Ben, rang out, "Nas.h.!.+"

Ben leapt to his feet, and like a s.h.i.+p Shouldering the waves, he shouldered the throng aside.

"What ails you, man? What's that upon your breast?

Blood?"

"Marlowe is dead," said Nash, And stunned the room to silence ...

"Marlowe--dead!"

Ben caught him by the shoulders. "Nas.h.!.+ Awake!

What do you mean? Marlowe? Kit Marlowe? Dead?

I supped with him--why--not three nights ago!

You are drunk! You are dazed! There's blood upon your coat!"

"That's--where he died," said Nash, and suddenly sank Sidelong across a bench, bowing his head Between his hands ...

Wept, I believe. Then, like a whip of steel, His lean black figure sprang erect again.

"Marlowe!" he cried, "Kit Marlowe, killed for a punk, A taffeta petticoat! Killed by an apple-squire!

Drunk! I was drunk; but I am sober now, Sober enough, by G.o.d! Poor Kit is dead."

The Mermaid Inn was thronged for many a night With startled faces. Voices rose and fell, As I recall them, in a great vague dream, Curious, pitiful, angry, thras.h.i.+ng out The tragic truth. Then, all along the Cheape, The ballad-mongers waved their sheets of rhyme, Croaking: _Come buy! Come buy! The b.l.o.o.d.y death Of Wormall, writ by Master Richard Bame!

Come buy! Come buy! The Atheist's Tragedy._ And, even in Bread Street, at our very door, The crowder to his cracked old fiddle sang:--

"_He was a poet of proud repute And wrote full many a play, Now strutting in a silken suit, Now begging by the way._"

Then, out of the hubbub and the clash of tongues, The bawdy tales and sc.r.a.ps of balladry, (As out of chaos rose the slow round world) At last, though for the Mermaid Inn alone, Emerged some tragic semblance of a soul, Some semblance of the rounded truth, a world Glimpsed only through great mists of blood and tears, Yet smitten, here and there, with dreadful light, As I believe, from heaven.

Strangely enough, (Though Ben forgot his pipe and Will's deep eyes Deepened and softened, when they spoke of Kit, For many a month thereafter) it was Nash That took the blow like steel into his heart.

Nash, our "Piers Penniless," whom Rob Greene had called "Young Juvenal," the first satirist of our age, Nash, of the biting tongue and subtle sneer, Brooded upon it, till his grief became Sharp as a rapier, ready to lunge in hate At all the lies of shallower hearts.

One night, The night he raised the mists from that wild world, He talked with Chapman in the Mermaid Inn Of Marlowe's poem that was left half-sung, His _Hero and Leander_.