How It Strikes A Contemporary

I only knew one poet in my life:     And this, or something like it, was his way.     You saw go up and down Valladolid,     A man of mark, to know next time you saw.     His very serviceable suit of black     Was courtly once and conscientious still,     And many might have worn it, though none did:     The cloak that somewhat shone and shewed the threads     Had purpose, and the ruff, significance.     He walked and tapped the pavement with his cane,     Scenting the world, looking it full in face,     An old dog, bald and blindish, at his heels.     They turned up, now, the alley by the church,     That leads no whither; now, they breathed themselves     On the main promenade just at the wrong time.     Youd come upon his scrutinising hat,     Making a peaked shade blacker than itself     Against the single window spared some house     Intact yet with its mouldered Moorish work,     Or else surprise the ferrel of his stick     Trying the mortars temper tween the chinks     Of some new shop a-building, French and fine.     He stood and watched the cobbler at his trade,     The man who slices lemons into drink,     The coffee-roasters brazier, and the boys     That volunteer to help him turn its winch.     He glanced oer books on stalls with half an eye,     And fly-leaf ballads on the vendors string,     And broad-edge bold-print posters by the wall.     He took such cognisance of men and things,     If any beat a horse, you felt he saw;     If any cursed a woman, he took note;     Yet stared at nobody, they stared at him,     And found, less to their pleasure than surprise,     He seemed to know them and expect as much.     So, next time that a neighbours tongue was loose     It marked the shameful and notorious fact,     We had among us, not so much a spy,     As a recording chief-inquisitor,     The towns true master if the town but knew!     We merely kept a Governor for form,     While this man walked about and took account     Of all thought, said, and acted, then went home,     And wrote it fully to our Lord the King     Who has an itch to know things, He knows why,     And reads them in His bed-room of a night.     Oh, you might smile! there wanted not a touch,     A tang of . . . well, it was not wholly ease     As back into your mind the mans look came     Stricken in years a little, such a brow     His eyes had to live under! clear as flint     On either side the formidable nose     Curved, cut, and coloured, like an eagles claw.     Had he to do with A.s surprising fate?     When altogether old B. disappeared     And young C. got his mistress, wast our friend,     His letter to the King, that did it all?     What paid the bloodless man for so much pains?     Our Lord the King has favourites manifold,     And shifts his ministry some once a month;     Our city gets new Governors at whiles,     But never word or sign, that I could hear,     Notified to this man about the streets     The Kings approval of those letters conned     The last thing duly at the dead of night.     Did the man love his office? frowned our Lord,     Exhorting when none heard Beseech me not !     Too far above my people, beneath Me!     I set the watch, how should the people know?     Forget them, keep Me all the more in mind!     Was some such understanding twixt the Two?     I found no truth in one report at least     That if you tracked him to his home, down lanes     Beyond the Jewry, and as clean to pace,     You found he ate his supper in a room     Blazing with lights, four Titians on the wall,     And twenty naked girls to change his plate!     Poor man, he lived another kind of life     In that new, stuccoed, third house by the bridge,     Fresh-painted, rather smart than otherwise!     The whole street might oerlook him as he sat,     Leg crossing leg, one foot on the dogs back,     Playing a decent cribbage with his maid     (Jacynth, youre sure her name was) oer the cheese     And fruit, three red halves of starved winter-pears,     Or treat of radishes in April! nine     Ten, struck the church clock, straight to bed went he.     My father, like the man of sense he was,     Would point him out to me a dozen times;     St-St, hed whisper, the Corregidor!     I had been used to think that personage     Was one with lacquered breeches, lustrous belt,     And feathers like a forest in his hat,     Who blew a trumpet and proclaimed the news,     Announced the bull-fights, gave each church its turn,     And memorized the miracle in vogue!     He had a great observance from us boys     I was in error; that was not the man.     Id like now, yet had haply been afraid,     To have just looked, when this man came to die,     And seen who lined the clean gay garrets sides     And stood about the neat low truckle-bed,     With the heavenly manner of relieving guard.     Here had been, mark, the general-in-chief,     Thro a whole campaign of the worlds life and death,     Doing the Kings work all the dim day long,     In his old coat, and up to his knees in mud,     Smoked like a herring, dining on a crust,     And now the day was won, relieved at once!     No further show or need for that old coat,     You are sure, for one thing! Bless us, all the while     How sprucely we are dressed out, you and I!     A second, and the angels alter that.     Well, I could never write a verse, could you?     Lets to the Prado and make the most of time.