Fringilla: Some Tales in Verse by Richard Doddridge Blackmore (black books to read TXT) 📖

CONTENTS:

TO MY PEN

LITA OF THE NILE

KADISHA; OR, THE FIRST JEALOUSY

MOUNT ARAFA

THE WELL OF SAINT JOHN

PAUSIAS AND GLYCERA; OR, THE FIRST FLOWER-PAINTER

BUSCOMBE; OR, A MICHAELMAS GOOSE

FAME




[Fringilla loquitur]

"What means your finch?"

"Being well aware that he cannot sing like a Nightingale,
He flits about from tree to tree, and twitters a little tale."

Albeit he is an ancient bird, who tried
his pipe in better days, and then was
scared by random shots, he is fain to
lift the migrant wing once more towards the
humble perch, among the trees he loves. All
gardeners own that he does no harm, unless
he flits into a thicket of young buds, or a very
choice ladies' seed-bed. And he hopes that he is
now too wise to commit such indiscretions.

Perhaps it would have been wiser still to
have shut up his little mandible, or employed it

only upon grub. But the long gnaw of last
winter's frost, which set mankind a-shivering,
even in their most downy nest, has made them
kindly to the race that has no roof for shelter
and no hearth for warmth.

Anyhow, this little finch can do no harm,
if he does no good; and if he pleases nobody,
he will not be surprised, because he has never
satisfied himself.

May-day, 1895.

NOTE


With kind consent of Messrs. Harper, "Buscombe" returns in altered form from the other side of the ocean. Two other little tales appeared of old, but nobody would look at them, and now they are offered after careful trimming.

Standing afar. I gaze with doubt at other trimmings which are not mine. They have conquered the taste of the day perhaps, and high art announces them as her last transfiguration. Moreover they are highly recommended-- as the purest art not always is--by the modesty of the artist.

The cover design, borders, initial letters and the whole of the full-page illustrations--with the exception of the three to 'Pausias and Glycera' by James W. R. Linton--are by Louis Fairfax-Muckley.

I

Thou feeble implement of mind,
Wherewith she strove to scrawl her
name;
But, like a mitcher, left behind
No signature, no stroke, no claim,
No hint that she hath pined--

Shall ever come a stronger time,
When thou shalt be a tool of skill,
And steadfast purpose, to fulfil
A higher task than rhyme?

II

Thou puny instrument of soul,
Wherewith she labours to impart
Her efforts at some arduous goal;
But fails to bring thy coarser art
Beneath a fine control--

Shall ever come a fairer day,
When thou shalt be a buoyant plume,
To soar, where clearer suns illume,
And fresher breezes play?


III

Thou weak interpreter of heart,
So impotent to tell the tale
Of love's delight, of envy's smart,
Of passion, and ambition's bale,
Of pride that dwells apart--

Shall I, in length of time, attain
(By walking in the human ways,
With love of Him, who made and sways)
To ply thee, less in vain?

If so, thou shalt be more to me
Than sword, or sceptre, flag, or crown;
With mind, and soul, and heart in thee,
Despising gold, and sham renown;

But truthful, kind, and free--
Then come; though now a pithless quill,
Uncouth, unfledged, indefinite,--
In time, thou shalt be taught to write,
By patience, and good-will.

LITA OF THE NILE

A TALE IN THREE PARTS

PART I

I

"KING, and Father, gift and giver,
God revealed in form of river,
Issuing perfect, and sublime,
From the fountain-head of time;

"Whom eternal mystery shroudeth,
Unapproached, untracked, unknown;
Whom the Lord of heaven encloudeth
With the curtains of His throne;

"From the throne of heaven descending,
Glory, power, and goodness blending,
Grant us, ere the daylight dies,
Token of thy rapid rise,"

II

Ha, it cometh! Furrowing, flashing,
Red blood rushing o'er brown breast;
Peaks, and ridges, and domes, dashing
Foam on foam, and crest on crest!

'Tis the signal Thebes hath waited,
Libyan Thebes, the hundred-gated:
Rouse, and robe thee, River-priest
For thy dedication feast!

Follows him the loveliest maiden,
Afric's thousand hills can show;
White apparel'd, flower-laden,
With the lotus on her brow.

III

Votive maid, who hath espousal
Of the river's high carousal;
Twenty cubits if he rise,
This shall be his bridal prize.

Calm, and meek of face and carriage,
Deigning scarce a quicker breath,
Comes she to the funeral marriage,
The betrothal of black death.

Rosy hands, and hennaed fingers,
Nails whereon the onyx lingers,
Clasped, as at a lover's tale,
In the bosom's marble vale.


IV

Silvery scarf, her waist enwreathing,
Wafts a soft Sabaean balm;
Like a cloud of incense, breathing
Round the column of a palm:

Snood of lilies interweaveth
(Giving less than it receiveth)
Beauty of her clustered brow,
Calmly bent upon us now.

Through her dark hair, spread before
See the western glory wane,
As in groves of dim Cytorus,
Or the bowers of Taprobane!


V

See, the large eyes, lit by heaven,
Brighter than the Sisters Seven,
(Like a star the storm hath cowed)
Sink their flash in sorrow's cloud.

There the crystal tear refraineth,
And the founts of grief are dry;
"Father, Mother--none remaineth;
All are dead; and why not I?"

Yet, by God's will, heavenly beauty
Owes to Heaven alone its duty;
Off ye priests, who dare adjudge
Bride, like this, to slime and sludge!


VI

When they tread the river's margent,
All their mitred heads are bowed--
What hath browned the ripples argent,
Like the plume of thunder-cloud?

Where yestreen the water slumbered,
With a sickly crust encumbered,
Leapeth now a roaring flood,
Wild as war, and red as blood.

Every billow hurries quicker,
Every surge runs up the strand;
While the brindled eddies flicker,
Scourged as with a levin brand.


VII

Every bulrush, parched and welted,
Lifts his long joints yellow-belted;
Every lotus, faint and sick,
Hangs her fragrant tongue to lick.

Countless creatures, lone unthought of,
Swarm from every hole and nook;
What is man, that he make nought of
Other entries in God's book?

Scorpions, rats, and lizards flabby,
Centipedes, and hydras scabby,