Green Bays. Verses and Parodies   By: Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch (1863-1944)

VERSES AND PARODIES.

BY ARTHUR THOMAS QUILLER COUCH (Q).

ET, SI NON ALIUM LATE JACTARET ODOREM LAURUS ERAT.

Most of the verses in this volume were written at Oxford, and first appeared in the 'Oxford Magazine.' A few are reprinted from 'The Speaker' and a few from certain works of fiction published by Messrs. Cassell and Co.

Q.

CONTENTS.

IN A COLLEGE GARDEN.

THE SPLENDID SPUR.

THE WHITE MOTH.

IRISH MELODIES I. TIM THE DRAGOON. II. KENMARE RIVER.

LADY JANE (SAPPHICS).

A TRIOLET.

AN OATH.

UPON GRACIOSA, WALKING AND TALKING.

WRITTEN UPON LOVE'S FRONTIER POST.

TITANIA.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

RETROSPECTION.

WHY THIS VOLUME IS SO THIN.

NUGAE OXONIENSES.

TWILIGHT.

WILLALOO.

THE SAIR STROKE.

THE DOOM OF THE ESQUIRE BEDELL.

'BEHOLD! I AM NOT ONE THAT GOES TO LECTURES.'

CALIBAN UPON RUDIMENTS.

SOLVITUR ACRIS HIEMPS.

A LETTER.

OCCASIONAL VERSES.

ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS.

UNITY PUT QUARTERLY.

FIRE!

DE TEA FABULA.

L'ENVOI (AS I LAYE A DREAMYNGE).

IN A COLLEGE GARDEN.

Senex. Saye, cushat, callynge from the brake, What ayles thee soe to pyne? Thy carefulle heart shall cease to ake When dayes be fyne And greene thynges twyne: Saye, cushat, what thy griefe to myne?

Turtur. Naye, gossyp, loyterynge soe late, What ayles thee thus to chyde? My love is fled by garden gate; Since Lammas tyde I wayte my bryde. Saye, gossyp, whom dost thou abyde?

Senex. Loe! I am he, the 'Lonelie Manne,' Of Time forgotten quite, That no remembered face may scanne Sadde eremyte, I wayte tonyghte Pale Death, nor any other wyghte.

O cushat, cushat, callynge lowe, Goe waken Time from sleepe: Goe whysper in his ear, that soe His besom sweepe Me to that heape Where all my recollections keepe.

Hath he forgott? Or did I viewe A ghostlye companye This even, by the dismalle yewe, Of faces three That beckoned mee To land where no repynynges bee?

O Harrye, Harrye, Tom and Dicke, Each lost companion! Why loyter I among the quicke, When ye are gonne? Shalle I alone Delayinge crye 'Anon, Anon'?

Naye, let the spyder have my gowne, To brayde therein her veste. My cappe shal serve, now I 'goe downe,' For mouse's neste. Loe! this is best. I care not, soe I gayne my reste.

THE SPLENDID SPUR.

Not on the neck of prince or hound, Nor on a woman's finger twin'd, May gold from the deriding ground Keep sacred that we sacred bind: Only the heel Of splendid steel Shall stand secure on sliding fate, When golden navies weep their freight.

The scarlet hat, the laurell'd stave Are measures, not the springs, of worth; In a wife's lap, as in a grave, Man's airy notions mix with earth. Seek other spur Bravely to stir The dust in this loud world, and tread Alp high among the whisp'ring dead.

Trust in thyself , then spur amain: So shall Charybdis wear a grace, Grim Aetna laugh, the Libyan plain Take roses to her shrivell'd face. This orb this round Of sight and sound Count it the lists that God hath built For haughty hearts to ride a tilt.

THE WHITE MOTH.

If a leaf rustled, she would start: And yet she died, a year ago. How had so frail a thing the heart To journey where she trembled so? And do they turn and turn in fright, Those little feet, in so much night?

The light above the poet's head Streamed on the page and on the cloth, And twice and thrice there buffeted On the black pane a white wing'd moth; 'Twas Annie's soul that beat outside And 'Open, open, open!' cried: