Waring

What's become of WaringSince he gave us all the slip,Chose land-travel or seafaring,Boots and chest or staff and scrip,Rather than pace up and downAny longer London town?

Who'd have guessed it from his lipOr his brow's accustomed bearing,On the night he thus took shipOr started landward?--little caringFor us, it seems, who supped together(Friends of his too, I remember)And walked home thro' the merry weather,The snowiest in all December.I left his arm that night myselfFor what's-his-name's, the new prose-poetWho wrote the book there, on the shelf--How, forsooth, was I to know itIf Waring meant to glide awayLike a ghost at break of day?Never looked he half so gay!

He was prouder than the devil:How he must have cursed our revel!Ay and many other meetings,Indoor visits, outdoor greetings,As up and down he paced this London,With no work done, but great works undone,Where scarce twenty knew his name.Why not, then, have earlier spoken,Written, bustled? Who's to blameIf your silence kept unbroken?"True, but there were sundry jottings,Stray-leaves, fragments, blurs and blottings,Certain first steps were achievedAlready which (is that your meaning?)Had well borne out whoe'er believedIn more to come!" But who goes gleaningHedgeside chance-glades, while full-sheavedStand cornfields by him? Pride, o'erweeningPride alone, puts forth such claimsO'er the day's distinguished names.

Meantime, how much I loved him,I find out now I've lost him.I who cared not if I moved him,Who could so carelessly accost him,Henceforth never shall get freeOf his ghostly company,His eyes that just a little winkAs deep I go into the meritOf this and that distinguished spirit--His cheeks' raised colour, soon to sink,As long I dwell on some stupendousAnd tremendous (Heaven defend us!)Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrend-ousDemoniaco-seraphicPenman's latest piece of graphic.Nay, my very wrist grows warmWith his dragging weight of arm.E'en so, swimmingly appears,Through one's after-supper musings,Some lost lady of old yearsWith her beauteous vain endeavourAnd goodness unrepaid as ever;The face, accustomed to refusings,We, puppies that we were... Oh neverSurely, nice of conscience, scrupledBeing aught like false, forsooth, to?Telling aught but honest truth to?What a sin, had we centupledIts possessor's grace and sweetness!No! she heard in its completenessTruth, for truth's a weighty matter,And truth, at issue, we can't flatter!Well, 'tis done with; she's exemptFrom damning us thro' such a sally;And so she glides, as down a valley,Taking up with her contempt,Past our reach; and in, the flowersShut her unregarded hours.

Oh, could I have him back once more,This Waring, but one half-day more!Back, with the quiet face of yore,So hungry for acknowledgmentLike mine! I'd fool him to his bent.Feed, should not he, to heart's content?I'd say, "to only have conceived,Planned your great works, apart from progress,Surpasses little works achieved!"I'd lie so, I should be believed.I'd make such havoc of the claimsOf the day's distinguished namesTo feast him with, as feasts an ogressHer feverish sharp-toothed gold-crowned child!Or as one feasts a creature rarelyCaptured here, unreconciledTo capture; and completely givesIts pettish humours license, barelyRequiring that it lives.

Ichabod, Ichabod,The glory is departed!Travels Waring East away?Who, of knowledge, by hearsay,Reports a man upstartedSomewhere as a god,Hordes grown European-hearted,Millions of the wild made tameOn a sudden at his fame?In Vishnu-land what Avatar?Or who in Moscow, toward the Czar,With the demurest of footfallsOver the Kremlin's pavement brightWith serpentine and syenite,Steps, with five other GeneralsThat simultaneously take snuff,For each to have pretext enoughAnd kerchiefwise unfold his sashWhich, softness' self, is yet the stuffTo hold fast where a steel chain snaps,And leave the grand white neck no gash?Waring in Moscow, to those roughCold northern natures born perhaps,Like the lamb-white maiden dearFrom the circle of mute kingsUnable to repress the tear,Each as his sceptre down he flings,To Dian's fane at Taurica,Where now a captive priestess, she alwayMingles her tender grave Hellenic speechWith theirs, tuned to the hailstone-beaten beachAs pours some pigeon, from the myrrhy landsRapt by the whirlblast to fierce Scythian strandsWhere breed the swallows, her melodious cryAmid their barbarous twitter!In Russia? Never! Spain were fitter!Ay, most likely 'tis in SpainThat we and Waring meet againNow, while he turns down that cool narrow laneInto the blackness, out of grave MadridAll fire and shine, abrupt as when there's slidIts stiff gold blazing pallFrom some black coffin-lid.Or, best of all,I love to thinkThe leaving us was just a feint;Back here to London did he slink,And now works on without a winkOf sleep, and we are on the brinkOf something great in fresco-paint:Some garret's ceiling, walls and floor,Up and down and o'er and o'erHe splashes, as none splashed beforeSince great Caldara Polidore.Or Music means this land of oursSome favour yet, to pity wonBy Purcell from his Rosy Bowers--"Give me my so-long promised son,Let Waring end what I begun!"Then down he creeps and out he stealsOnly when the night concealsHis face; in Kent 'tis cherry-time,Or hops are picking: or at primeOf March he wanders as, too happy,Years ago when he was young,Some mild eve when woods grew sappyAnd the early moths had sprungTo life from many a trembling sheathWoven the warm boughs beneath;While small birds said to themselvesWhat should soon be actual song,And young gnats, by tens and twelves,Made as if they were the throngThat crowd around and carry aloftThe sound they have nursed, so sweet and pure,Out of a myriad noises soft,Into a tone that can endureAmid the noise of a July noonWhen all God's creatures crave their boon,All at once and all in tune,And get it, happy as Waring then,Having first within his kenWhat a man might do with men:And far too glad, in the even-glow,To mix with the world he meant to takeInto his hand, he told you, so--And out of it his world to make,To contract and to expandAs he shut or oped his hand.Oh Waring, what's to really be?A clear stage and a crowd to see!Some Garrick, say, out shall not heThe heart of Hamlet's mystery pluck?Or, where most unclean beasts are rife,Some Junius--am I right?--shall tuckHis sleeve, and forth with flaying-knife!Some Chatterton shall have the luckOf calling Rowley into life!Some one shall somehow run a muckWith this old world for want of strifeSound asleep. Contrive, contriveTo rouse us, Waring! Who's alive?Our men scarce seem in earnest now.Distinguished names!--but 'tis, somehow,As if they played at being namesStill more distinguished, like the gamesOf children. Turn our sport to earnestWith a visage of the sternest!Bring the real times back, confessedStill better than our very best!

"When I last saw Waring..."(How all turned to him who spoke!You saw Waring? Truth or joke?In land-travel or sea-faring?)

"We were sailing by TriestWhere a day or two we harboured:A sunset was in the West,When, looking over the vessel's side,One of our company espiedA sudden speck to larboard.And as a sea-duck flies and swimsAt once, so came the light craft up,With its sole lateen sail that trimsAnd turns (the water round its rimsDancing, as round a sinking cup)And by us like a fish it curled,And drew itself up close beside,Its great sail on the instant furled,And o'er its thwarts a shrill voice cried,(A neck as bronzed as a Lascar's)'Buy wine of us, you English Brig?Or fruit, tobacco and cigars?A pilot for you to Triest?Without one, look you ne'er so big,They'll never let you up the bay!We natives should know best.'I turned, and 'just those fellows' way,'Our captain said, 'The 'long-shore thievesAre laughing at us in their sleeves.'

"In truth, the boy leaned laughing back;And one, half-hidden by his sideUnder the furled sail, soon I spied,With great grass hat and kerchief black,Who looked up with his kingly throat,Said somewhat, while the other shookHis hair back from his eyes to lookTheir longest at us; then the boat,I know not how, turned sharply round,Laying her whole side on the seaAs a leaping fish does; from the leeInto the weather, cut somehowHer sparkling path beneath our bowAnd so went off, as with a bound,Into the rosy and golden halfO' the sky, to overtake the sunAnd reach the shore, like the sea-calfIts singing cave; yet I caught oneGlance ere away the boat quite passed,And neither time nor toil could marThose features: so I saw the lastOf Waring!"--You? Oh, never starWas lost here but it rose afar!Look East, where whole new thousands are!In Vishnu-land what Avatar?

Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrend-ous: a slight transpositionof part of a line in Virgil describing Polyphemus,"Monstrum horrendum informe ingens," a monster horrid,misshapen, huge.

Lamb-white maiden: Iphigenia, who was borneaway to Taurus by Diana, when her father, Agamemnon,was about to sacrifice her to obtain favorable winds forhis expedition to Troy.

Junius: the assumed name of a political writerwho in 1769 began to issue in London a series of famousletters which opposed the ministry in power, and denouncedseveral eminent persons with severe invective and pungentsarcasm.