Ex Fumo Dare Lucem - Twixt The Cup And The Lip

Prologue     Calm and clear! the bright day is declining,     The crystal expanse of the bay,     Like a shield of pure metal, lies shining     Twixt headlands of purple and grey,     While the little waves leap in the sunset,     And strike with a miniature shock,     In sportive and infantine onset,     The base of the iron-stone rock.     Calm and clear! the sea-breezes are laden     With a fragrance, a freshness, a power,     With a song like the song of a maiden,     With a scent like the scent of a flower;     And a whisper, half-weird, half-prophetic,     Comes home with the sigh of the surf;     But I pause, for your fancies poetic     Never rise from the level of Turf.     Fellow-bungler of mine, fellow-sinner,     In public performances past,     In trials whence touts take their winner,     In rumours that circulate fast,     In strains from Prunella or Priam,     Staying stayers, or goers that go,     Youre much better posted than I am,     Tis little I care, less I know.     Alas! neither poet nor prophet     Am I, though a jingler of rhymes,     Tis a hobby of mine, and Im off it     At times, and Im on it at times;     And whether Im off it or on it,     Your readers my counsels will shun,     Since I scarce know Van Tromp from Blue Bonnet,     Though I might know Cigar from the Nun.     With visions you ought to be sated     And sickend by this time, I swear     That mine are all myths self-created,     Air visions that vanish in air;     If I had some loose coins I might chuck one,     To settle this question and say,     Here goes! this is tails for the black one,     And heads for my favrite the bay.     And must I rob Paul to pay Peter,     Or Peter defraud to pay Paul?     My rhymes, are they stale? if my metre     Is varied, one chime rings through all:     One chime, though I sing more or sing less,     I have but one string to my lute,     And it might have been better if, stringless     And songless, the same had been mute.     Yet not as a seer of visions,     Nor yet as a dreamer of dreams,     I send you these partial decisions     On hackneyd, impoverishd themes;     But with song out of tune, sung to pass time,     Flung heedless to friends or to foes,     Where the false notes that ring for the last time,     May blend with some real ones, who knows?     The Race     On the hill they are crowding together,     In the stand they are crushing for room,     Like midge-flies they swarm on the heather,     They gather like bees on the broom;     They flutter like moths round a candle,     Stale similes, granted, what then?     Ive got a stale subject to handle,     A very stale stump of a pen.     Hark! the shuffle of feet that are many,     Of voices the many-tongued clang,     Has he had a bad night? Has he any     Friends left? How I hate your turf slang;     Tis stale to begin with, not witty,     But dull, and inclined to be coarse,     But bad men cant use (mores the pity)     Good words when they slate a good horse.     Heu! heu! quantus equis (thats Latin     For bellows to mend with the weeds),     Theyre off! lights and shades! silk and satin!     A rainbow of riders and steeds!     And one shows in front, and another     Goes up and is seen in his place,     Sic transit (more Latin), Oh! bother,     Lets get to the end of the race.     -    -    -    -    -    -     See, they come round the last turn careering,     Already Taits colours are struck,     And the green in the vanguard is steering,     And the reds in the rear of the ruck!     Are the stripes in the shade doomd to lie long?     Do the blue stars on white skies wax dim?     Is it Tamworth or Smuggler? Tis Bylong     That wins, either Bylong or Tim.     As the shell through the breach that is riven     And sappd by the springing of mines,     As the bolt from the thunder-cloud driven,     That levels the larches and pines,     Through yon mass parti-colourd that dashes     Goal-turnd, clad in many-hued garb,     From rear to van, surges and flashes     The yellow and black of The Barb.     Past The Fly, falling back on the right, and     The Gull, giving way on the left,     Past Tamworth, who feels the whip smite, and     Whose sides by the rowels are cleft;     Where Tim and the chestnut together     Still bear of the battle the brunt,     As if eight stone twelve were a feather,     He comes with a rush to the front.     Tim Whiffler may yet prove a Tartar,     And Bylongs the horse that can stay,     But Kean is in trouble, and Carter     Is hard on the satin-skinnd bay;     And The Barb comes away unextended,     Hard held, like a second Eclipse,     While behind the hoof-thunder is blended     With the whistling and crackling of whips.     Epilogue     He wins; yes, he wins upon paper,     He hasnt yet won upon turf,     And these rhymes are but moonshine and vapour,     Air-bubbles and spume from the surf.     So be it, at least they are given     Free, gratis, for just what theyre worth,     And (whatever there may be in heaven)     Theres little worth much upon earth.     When, with satellites round them the centre,     Of all eyes, hard pressd by the crowd,     The pair, horse and rider, re-enter     The gate, mid a shout long and loud,     You may feel, as you might feel, just landed     Full length on the grass from the clip     Of a vicious cross-counter, right-handed,     Or upper-cut whizzing from hip.     And thats not so bad if youre pickd up     Discreetly, and carefully nursed;     Loose teeth by the sponge are soon lickd up,     And next time you MAY get home first.     Still Im not sure youd like it exactly     (Such tastes as a rule are acquired),     And youll find in a nutshell this fact lie,     Bruised optics are not much admired.     Do I bore you with vulgar allusions?     Forgive me, I speak as I feel,     Ive pondered and made my conclusions,     As the mill grinds the corn to the meal;     So man striving boldly but blindly,     Ground piecemeal in Destinys mill,     At his best, taking punishment kindly,     Is only a chopping-block still.     Are we wise? Our abstruse calculations     Are based on experience long;     Are we sanguine? Our high expectations     Are founded on hope that is strong;     Thus we build an air-castle that crumbles     And drifts till no traces remain,     And the fool builds again while he grumbles,     And the wise one laughs, building again.     How came they to pass, these rash blunders,     These false steps so hard to defend?     Our friend puts the question and wonders,     We laugh and reply, Ah! my friend,     Could you trace the first stride falsely taken,     The distance misjudged, where or how,     When you pickd yourself up, stunnd and shaken,     At the fence twixt the turf and the plough?     In the jar of the panel rebounding!     In the crash of the splintering wood!     In the ears to the earth shock resounding!     In the eyes flashing fire and blood!     In the quarters above you revolving!     In the sods underneath heaving high!     There was little to aid you in solving     Such questions, the how or the why.     And destiny, steadfast in trifles,     Is steadfast for better or worse     In great things, it crushes and stifles,     And swallows the hopes that we nurse.     Men wiser than we are may wonder,     When the future they cling to so fast,     To the roll of that destinys thunder,     Goes down with the wrecks of the past.     -    -    -    -    -    -     The past! the dead past! that has swallowd     All the honey of life and the milk,     Brighter dreams than mere pastimes weve followd,     Better things than our scarlet or silk;     Aye, and worse things, that past is it really     Dead to us who again and again     Feel sharply, hear plainly, see clearly,     Past days with their joy and their pain?     Like corpses embalmd and unburied     They lie, and in spite of our will,     Our souls on the wings of thought carried,     Revisit their sepulchres still;     Down the channels of mystery gliding,     They conjure strange tales, rarely read,     Of the priests of dead Pharaohs presiding     At mystical feasts of the dead.     Weird pictures arise, quaint devices,     Rude emblems, baked funeral meats,     Strong incense, rare wines, and rich spices,     The ashes, the shrouds, and the sheets;     Does our thraldom fall short of completeness     For the magic of a charnel-house charm,     And the flavour of a poisonous sweetness,     And the odour of a poisonous balm?     And the links of the past, but, no matter,     For Im getting beyond you, I guess,     And youll call me as mad as a hatter     If my thoughts I too freely express;     I subjoin a quotation, pray learn it,     And with the aid of your lexicon tell us     The meaning thereof, Res discernit     Sapiens, quas confundit asellus.     Already green hillocks are swelling,     And combing white locks on the bar,     Where a dull, droning murmur is telling     Of winds that have gatherd afar;     Thus we know not the day, nor the morrow,     Nor yet what the night may bring forth,     Nor the storm, nor the sleep, nor the sorrow,     Nor the strife, nor the rest, nor the wrath.     Yet the skies are still tranquil and starlit,     The sun twixt the wave and the west     Dies in purple, and crimson, and scarlet,     And gold; let us hope for the best,     Since again from the earth his effulgence     The darkness and damp-dews shall wipe.     Kind reader, extend your indulgence     To this the last lay of The Pipe.