Which is too hot to skate, I fear.”
ACROSTIC
“Are you deaf, Father William?” the young man said,
“Did you hear what I told you just now?
“Excuse me for shouting! Don't waggle your head
“Like a blundering, sleepy old cow!
“A little maid dwelling in Wallington Town,
“Is my friend, so I beg to remark:
“Do you think she'd be pleased if a book were sent down
“Entitled ‘The Hunt of the Snark?’”
“Pack it up in brown paper!” the old man cried,
“And seal it with olive-and-dove.
“I command you to do it!” he added with pride,
“Nor forget, my good fellow, to send her beside
“Easter Greetings, and give her my love.”
1876.
ACROSTIC
“Maidens! if you love the tale,
If you love the Snark,
Need I urge you, spread the sail,
Now, while freshly blows the gale,
In your ocean-barque!
“English Maidens love renown,
Enterprise, and fuss!”
Laughingly those Maidens frown;
Laughingly, with eyes cast down;
And they answer thus:
“English Maidens fear to roam.
Much we dread the dark;
Much we dread what ills might come,
If we left our English home,
Even for a Snark!”
Apr. 6, 1876.
ACROSTIC
Love-lighted eyes, that will not start
At frown of rage or malice!
Uplifted brow, undaunted heart
Ready to dine on raspberry-tart
Along with fairy Alice!
In scenes as wonderful as if
She'd flitted in a magic skiff
Across the sea to Calais:
Be sure this night, in Fancy's feast,
Even till Morning gilds the east,
Laura will dream of Alice!
Perchance, as long years onward haste,
Laura will weary of the taste
Of Life's embittered chalice:
May she, in such a woeful hour,
Endued with Memory's mystic power,
Recall the dreams of Alice!
June 17, 1876.
TO M. A. B.
(To Miss Marion Terry, “Mary Ann Bessie Terry.”)
The royal MAB, dethroned, discrowned
By fairy rebels wild,
Has found a home on English ground,
And lives an English child.
I know it, Maiden, when I see
A fairy-tale upon your knee—
And note the page that idly lingers
Beneath those still and listless fingers—
And mark those dreamy looks that stray
To some bright vision far away,
Still seeking, in the pictured story,
The memory of a vanished glory.
ACROSTIC
(To Miss Marion Terry.)
Maiden, though thy heart may quail
And thy quivering lip grow pale,
Read the Bellman's tragic tale!
Is it life of which it tells?
Of a pulse that sinks and swells
Never lacking chime of bells?
Bells of sorrow, bells of cheer,
Easter, Christmas, glad New Year,
Still they sound, afar, anear.
So may Life's sweet bells for thee,
In the summers yet to be,
Evermore make melody!
Aug. 15, 1876.
MADRIGAL
(To Miss May Forshall.)
He shouts amain, he shouts again,
(Her brother, fierce, as bluff King Hal),
“I tell you flat, I shall do that!”
She softly whispers “‘May’ for ‘shall’!”
He wistful sighed one eventide
(Her friend, that made this Madrigal),
“And shall I kiss you, pretty Miss!”
Smiling she answered “‘May’ for ‘shall’!”
With eager eyes my reader cries,
“Your friend must be indeed a val-
-uable child, so sweet, so mild!
What do you call her?” “May For shall.”
Dec. 24, 1877.
LOVE AMONG THE ROSES - ACROSTIC
“Seek ye Love, ye fairy-sprites?
Ask where reddest roses grow.
Rosy fancies he invites,
And in roses he delights,
Have ye found him?” “No!”
“Seek again, and find the boy
In Childhood's heart, so pure and clear.”
Now the fairies leap for joy,
Crying, “Love is here!”
“Love has found his proper nest;
And we guard him while he dozes
In a dream of peace and rest
Rosier than roses.”
Jan. 3, 1878.
TWO POEMS TO RACHEL DANIEL
I
[“Oh pudgy podgy pup!]
“Oh pudgy podgy pup!
Why did they wake you up?
Those crude nocturnal yells
Are not like silver bells:
Nor ever would recall
Sweet Music's ‘dying fall.’
They rather bring to mind
The bitter winter wind
Through keyholes shrieking shrilly
When nights are dark and chilly:
Or like some dire duett,
Or quarrelsome quartette,
Of cats who chant their joys
With execrable noise,
And murder Time and Tune
To vex the patient Moon!”
Nov. 1880.
II
FOR “THE GARLAND OF RACHEL” (1881)
What hand may wreathe thy natal crown,
O tiny tender Spirit-blossom,
That out of Heaven hast fluttered down
Into this Earth's cold bosom?
And how shall mortal bard aspire—
All sin-begrimed and sorrow-laden—
To welcome, with the Seraph-choir,
A pure and perfect Maiden?
Are not God's minstrels ever near,
Flooding with joy the woodland mazes?
Which shall we summon, Baby dear,
To carol forth thy praises?
With sweet sad song the Nightingale
May soothe the broken hearts that languish
Where graves are green—the orphans' wail,
The widow's lonely anguish:
The Turtle-dove with amorous coo
May chide the blushing maid that lingers
To twine her bridal wreath anew
With weak and trembling fingers:
But human loves and human woes
Would dim the radiance of thy glory—
Only the Lark such music knows
As fits thy stainless story.
The world may listen as it will—
She recks not, to the skies up-springing:
Beyond our ken she singeth still
For very joy of singing.
THE LYCEUM
“It is the lawyer's daughter,
And she is grown so dear, so dear,
She costs me, in one evening,
The income of a year!
‘You can't have children's love,’ she cried,
‘Unless you choose to fee 'em!’
‘And what's your fee, child?’ I replied.
She simply said ———
“We saw ‘The Cup.’” I hoped she'd say,
“I'm grateful to you, very.”
She murmured, as she turned away,
“That lovely [Ellen Terry.]
“Compared with her, the rest,” she cried,
“Are just like two or three um-
“berellas standing side by side!
“Oh, gem of ———
>
“We saw Two Brothers. I confess
To me they seemed one man.
“Now which is which, child? Can you guess?”
She cried, “A-course I can!”
Bad puns like this I always dread,
And am resolved to flee 'em.
And so I left her there, and fled;
She lives at ———
1881.
ACROSTIC
[Around my lonely hearth to-night]
Around my lonely hearth to-night,
Ghostlike the shadows wander:
Now here, now there, a childish sprite,
Earthborn and yet as angel bright,
Seems near me as I ponder.
Gaily she shouts: the laughing air
Echoes her note of gladness—
Or bends herself with earnest care
Round fairy-fortress to prepare
Grim battlement or turret-stair—
In childhood's merry madness!
New raptures still hath youth in store.
Age may but fondly cherish
Half-faded memories of yore—
Up, craven heart! repine no more!
Love stretches hands from shore to shore:
Love is, and shall not perish!
DREAMLAND
(Verses written to the dream-music written down by C. E. Hutchinson, of Brasenose College.)
When midnight mists are creeping,
And all the land is sleeping,
Around me tread the mighty dead,
And slowly pass away.
Lo, warriors, saints, and sages,
From out the vanished ages,
With solemn pace and reverend face
Appear and pass away.
The blaze of noonday splendour,
The twilight soft and tender,
May charm the eye: yet they shall die,
Shall die and pass away.
But here, in Dreamland's centre,
No spoiler's hand may enter,
These visions fair, this radiance rare,
Shall never pass away.
I see the shadows falling,
The forms of old recalling;
Around me tread the mighty dead,
And slowly pass away.
1882.
TO MY CHILD-FRIEND
DEDICATION TO “THE GAME OF LOGIC”
I charm in vain: for never again,
All keenly as my glance I bend,
Will Memory, goddess coy,
Embody for my joy
Departed days, nor let me gaze
On thee, my Fairy Friend!
Yet could thy face, in mystic grace,
A moment smile on me, 'twould send
Far-darting rays of light
From Heaven athwart the night,
By which to read in very deed
Thy spirit, sweetest Friend!
So may the stream of Life's long dream
Flow gently onward to its end,
With many a floweret gay,
A-down its willowy way:
May no sigh vex, no care perplex,
My loving little Friend!
1886.
A RIDDLE
(To Miss Gaynor Simpson.)
My first lends his aid when I plunge into trade:
My second in jollifications:
My whole, laid on thinnish, imparts a neat finish
To pictorial representations.
Answer. Copal.
A LIMERICK
(To Miss Vera Beringer.)
There was a young lady of station,
“I love man” was her sole exclamation;
But when men cried, “You flatter,”
She replied, “Oh! no matter,
Isle of Man is the true explanation.”
RHYME? AND REASON?
(To Miss Emmie Drury.)
“I'm EMInent in RHYME!” she said.
“I make WRY Mouths of RYE-Meal gruel!”
The Poet smiled, and shook his head:
“Is REASON, then, the missing jewel?”
A NURSERY DARLING
DEDICATION TO THE NURSERY “ALICE,” 1889
A Mother's breast:
Safe refuge from her childish fears,
From childish troubles, childish tears,
Mists that enshroud her dawning years!
See how in sleep she seems to sing
A voiceless psalm—an offering
Raised, to the glory of her King,
In Love: for Love is Rest.
A Darling's kiss:
Dearest of all the signs that fleet
From lips that lovingly repeat
Again, again, their message sweet!
Full to the brim with girlish glee,
A child, a very child is she,
Whose dream of Heaven is still to be
At Home: for Home is Bliss.
MAGGIE'S VISIT TO OXFORD (June 9th to 13th, 1889)
(Written for Maggie Bowman.)
When Maggie once to Oxford came,
On tour as “Bootles Baby,”
She said, “I'll see this place of fame,
However dull the day be.”
So with her friend she visited
The sights that it was rich in:
And first of all she popped her head
Inside the Christ Church kitchen.
The Cooks around that little child
Stood waiting in a ring:
And every time that Maggie smiled
Those Cooks began to sing—
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!
“Roast, boil and bake,
For Maggie's sake:
Bring cutlets fine
For her to dine,
Meringues so sweet
For her to eat—
For Maggie may be
Bootles' Baby!”
Then hand in hand in pleasant talk
They wandered and admired
The Hall, Cathedral and Broad Walk,
Till Maggie's feet were tired:
To Worcester Garden next they strolled,
Admired its quiet lake:
Then to St. John, a college old,
Their devious way they take.
In idle mood they sauntered round
Its lawn so green and flat,
And in that garden Maggie found
A lovely Pussy-Cat!
A quarter of an hour they spent
In wandering to and fro:
And everywhere that Maggie went,
The Cat was sure to go—
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!
“Maiow! Maiow!
Come, make your bow,
Take off your hats,
Ye Pussy-Cats!
And purr and purr,
To welcome her,
For Maggie may be
Bootles' Baby!”
So back to Christ Church, not too late
For them to go and see
A Christ Church undergraduate,
Who gave them cakes and tea.
Next day she entered with her guide
The garden called “Botanic,”
And there a fierce Wild Boar she spied,
Enough to cause a panic:
But Maggie didn't mind, not she,
She would have faced, alone,
That fierce wild boar, because, you see,
The thing was made of stone.
On Magdalen walls they saw a face
That filled her with delight,
A giant face, that made grimace
And grinned with all its might.
A little friend, industrious,
Pulled upwards all the while
The corner of its mouth, and thus
He helped that face to smile!
“How nice,” thought Maggie, “it would be
If I could have a friend
To do that very thing for me
And make my mouth turn up with glee,
By pulling at one end.”
In Magdalen Park the deer are wild
With joy, that Maggie brings
Some bread a friend had given the child,
To feed the pretty things.
They flock round Maggie without fear:
They breakfast and they lunch,
They dine, they sup, those happy deer—
Still, as they munch and munch,
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!
“Yes, Deer are we,
And dear is she!
We love this child
So sweet and mild:
We all rejoice
At Maggie's voice:
We all are fed
With Maggie's bread ...
For Maggie may be
Bootles' Baby!”
They met a Bishop on their way ...
A Bishop large as life,
With loving smile that seemed to say
“Will Maggie be my wife?”
Maggie thought not, because, you see,
She was so very young,
And he was old as old could be ...
So Maggie held her tongue.
“My Lord, she's Bootles' Baby, we
Are going up and down,”
Her friend explained, “that she may see
The sights of Oxford Town.”
“Now say what kind of place it is,”
The Bishop gaily cried.
“The best place in the Provinces!”
That little maid replied.
Away, next morning, Maggie went
From Oxford town: but yet
The happy hours she there had spent
She could not soon forget.
The train is gone, it rumbles on:
The engine-whistle screams;
But Maggie deep in rosy sleep ...
And softly in her dreams,
Whispers the Battle-cry of Freedom.
“Oxford, good-bye!”
She seems to sigh.
“You dear old City,
With gardens pretty,
And lanes and flowers,
And college-towers,
And Tom's great Bell ...
Farewell—farewell:
For Maggie may be
Bootles' Baby!”
MAGGIE B—-
(To Maggie Bowman)
Written by Maggie B—-
Bought by me:
A present to Maggie B—-
Complete Works of Lewis Carroll Page 97
