The Vagabond And Other Poems From Punch Part 7

["Euclid, we are told, is at last dead, after two thousand years of an immortality that he never much deserved."--_The Times Literary Supplement_.]

A THRENODY for EUCLID! This is he Who with his learning made our youth a waste, Holding our souls in fee; A G.o.d whose high-set crystal throne was based Beyond the reach of tears, Deeper than time and his relentless years!

Come then, ye Angle-Nymphs, and make lament; Ye little Postulates, and all the throng Of Definitions, with your heads besprent In funeral ashes, ye who long Wors.h.i.+pped the King and followed in his train; For he is dead and cannot rise again.

Then from the shapes that beat their b.r.e.a.s.t.s and wept, Soft to the light a gentle Problem stepped, And, lo, her clinging robe she swiftly loosed And with majestic hands her side produced:

"Sweet Theorem," she said, and called her mate, "Sweet Theorem, be with me at this hour.

How oft together in a dear debate We two bore witness to our Sovereign's power.

But he is dead and henceforth all our days Are wrapped in gloom, And we who never ceased to sing his praise May weep our lord, but cannot call him from his tomb."

And, as they bowed their heads and to and fro Wove in a mournful gait their web of woe, Two sentinels forth came, Their hearts aflame, And moved behind the pair: "Warders we are," they cried, "Of these two sisters who were once so fair, So joyous in their pride."

And now their ma.s.sy s.h.i.+elds they lifted high, Embossed with letters three, And, though a mist of tears bedimmed each eye, The sorrowing Nymphs could see Q., E. and F. on one, and on the other Q. E. D.

But on a sudden, with a hideous noise Of joy and laughter rushed a rout of boys; And all the mourners in affright Scattered to left and right.

Problems and Theorems and Angles too, Postulates, Definitions, Circles, Planes, A jibbering crew, With all their h.o.a.ry gains Of knowledge, from their monarch dead Into the outer darkness shrieking fled.

And now with festal dance and laughter loud Broke in the boyish and intruding crowd; Nor did they fail, Seeing that all the painful throng was sped, To let high mirth prevail, And raise the song of joy for EUCLID dead.

TO POSTUMOUS IN OCTOBER

When you and I were younger the world was pa.s.sing fair; Our days were sped with laughter, our steps were free as air; Life lightly lured us onward, and ceased not to unroll In endless s.h.i.+ning vistas a playground for the soul.

But now no glory fires us; we linger in the cold, And both of us are weary, and both are growing old; Come, Postumus, and face it, and, facing it, confess Your years are half a hundred, and mine are nothing less.

When you and I were twenty, my Postumus, we kept In tidy rooms in College, and there we snugly slept.

And still, when I am dreaming, the bells I can recall That ordered us to chapel or welcomed us to hall.

The towers repeat our voices, the grey and ancient Courts Are filled with mirth and movement, and echo to our sports; Then riverward we trudge it, all talking, once again Down all the long unlovely extent of Jesus Lane.

One figure leads the others; with frank and boyish mien, Straight back and st.u.r.dy shoulders, he lords it o'er the scene; His grip is firm and manly, his cheeks are smooth and red; The tangled curls cling tightly about his jolly head.

And when we launch the eight-oar I hear his orders ring; With dauntless iteration I see his body swing: The pride of all the river, the mainstay of our crew-- O Postumous, my bold one, can this be truly you?

Nay, Postumus, my comrade, the years have hurried on; You're not the only Phoenix, I know, whose plumes are gone.

When I recall your splendour, your memory, too, is stirred; You too can show a moulted, but once refulgent, bird; And, if I still should press you, you too could hardly fail To point a hateful moral where I adorned the tale.

'Twere better to be thankful to Heaven that ruled it so, And gave us for our spending the days of long ago.

A RAMSHACKLE ROOM

When the gusts are at play with the trees on the lawn, And the lights are put out in the vault of the night; When within all is snug, for the curtains are drawn, And the fire is aglow and the lamps are alight, Sometimes, as I muse, from the place where I am My thoughts fly away to a room near the Cam.

'Tis a ramshackle room, where a man might complain Of a slope in the ceiling, a rise in the floor; With a view on a court and a glimpse on a lane, And no end of cool wind through the c.h.i.n.ks of the door; With a deep-seated chair that I love to recall, And some groups of young oarsmen in shorts on the wall.

There's a fat jolly jar of tobacco, some pipes-- A meerschaum, a briar, a cherry, a clay-- There's a three-handled cup fit for Audit or Swipes When the breakfast is done and the plates cleared away.

There's a litter of papers, of books a scratch lot, Such as _Plato_, and _d.i.c.kens_, and _Liddell and Scott_.

And a crone in a bonnet that's more like a rag From a mist of remembrance steps suddenly out; And her funny old tongue never ceases to wag As she tidies the room where she bustles about; For a man may be strong and a man may be young, But he can't put a drag on a Bedmaker's tongue.

And, oh, there's a youngster who sits at his ease In the hope, which is vain, that the tongue may run down, With his feet on the grate and a book on his knees, And his cheeks they are smooth and his hair it is brown.

Then I sigh myself back to the place where I am From that ramshackle room near the banks of the Cam.

THE LAST STRAW

I sing the sofa! It had stood for years, An invitation to benign repose, A foe to all the fretful brood of fears, Bidding the weary eye-lid sink and close.

Ma.s.sive and deep and broad it was and bland-- In short the n.o.blest sofa in the land.

You, too, my friend, my solid friend, I sing, Whom on an afternoon I did behold Eying--'twas after lunch--the cus.h.i.+oned thing, And murmuring gently, "Here are realms of gold, And I shall visit them," you said, "and be The sofa's burden till it's time for tea."

"Let those who will go forth," you said, "and dare, Beyond the cl.u.s.ter of the little shops, To strain their limbs and take the eager air, Seeking the heights of Hedsor and its copse.

I shall abide and watch the far-off gleams Of fairy beacons from the world of dreams."

Then forth we fared, and you, no doubt, lay down, An easy victim to the sofa's charms, Forgetting hopes of fame and past renown, Lapped in those padded and alluring arms.

"How well," you said, and veiled your heavy eyes, "It slopes to suit me! This is Paradise."

So we adventured to the topmost hill, And, when the sunset shot the sky with red, Homeward returned and found you taking still Deep draughts of peace with pillows 'neath your head.

"His sleep," said one, "has been unduly long."

Another said, "Let's bring and beat the gong."

"Gongs," said a third and gazed with looks intent At the full sofa, "are not adequate.

There fits some dread, some heavy, punishment For one who sleeps with such a dreadful weight.

Behold with me," he moaned, "a scene accurst.

The springs are broken and the sofa's burst!"

Too true! Too true! Beneath you on the floor Lay blent in ruin all the obscure things That were the sofa's strength, a scattered store Of tacks and battens and protruded springs.

Through the rent ticking they had all been spilt, Mute proofs and mournful of your weight and guilt.

And you? You slept as sweetly as a child, And when you woke you recked not of your shame, But babbled greetings, stretched yourself and smiled From that eviscerated sofa's frame, Which, flawless erst, was now one mighty flaw Through the addition of yourself as straw.

THE OLD GREY MARE

There's a line of rails on an upland green With a good take-off and a landing sound, Six fences grim as were ever seen, And it's there I would be with fox and hound.

Oh, that was a country free and fair For the raking stride of my old grey mare!

With her raking stride, and her head borne high, And her ears a-p.r.i.c.k, and her heart a-flame, And the steady look of her deep brown eye, I warrant the grey mare knew the game: It was "Up to it, la.s.s," and before I knew We were up and over, and on we flew.

The rooks from the gra.s.s got up, and so, With a caw and flap, away they went; When the grey mare made up her mind to go At the tail of the bounds on a breast-high scent, The best of the startled rooks might fail To match her flight over post and rail.