The Old Leaven - A Dialogue

Mark:     So, Maurice, you sail to-morrow, you say?     And you may or may not return?     Be sociable, man! for once in a way,     Unless youre too old to learn.     The shadows are cool by the water side     Where the willows grow by the pond,     And the yellow laburnums drooping pride     Sheds a golden gleam beyond.     For the blended tints of the summer flowers,     For the scents of the summer air,     For all natures charms in this world of ours,     Tis little or naught you care.     Yet I know for certain you havent stirred     Since noon from your chosen spot;     And youve hardly spoken a single word,     Are you tired, or cross, or what?     Youre fretting about those shares you bought,     They were to have gone up fast;     But I heard how they fell to nothing, in short,     They were given away at last.     Maurice:     No, Mark, Im not so easily crossd;     Tis true that Ive had a run     Of bad luck lately; indeed, Ive lost;     Well! somebody else has won.     Mark:     The glass has fallen, perhaps you fear     A return of your ancient stitch,     That souvenir of the Ladys Mere,     Park palings and double ditch.     Maurice:     Youre wrong. Im not in the least afraid     Of that. If the truth be told,     When the stiffness visits my shoulder-blade,     I think on the days of old;     It recalls the rush of the freshening wind,     The strain of the chestnut springing,     And the rolling thunder of hoofs behind,     Like the Rataplan chorus ringing.     Mark:     Are you bound to borrow, or loth to lend?     Have you purchased another screw?     Or backed a bill for another friend?     Or had a bad night at loo?     Maurice:     Not one of those, youre all in the dark,     If you choose you can guess again;     But youd better give over guessing, Mark,     Its only labour in vain.     Mark:     Ill try once more; does it plague you still,     That trifle of lead you carry?     A guest that lingers against your will,     Unwelcome, yet bound to tarry.     Maurice:     Not so! That burden Im used to bear,     Tis seldom it gives me trouble;     And to earn it as I did then and there,     Id carry a dead weight double.     A shock like that for a splintered rib     Can a thousand-fold repay,     As the swallow skims through the spiders web,     We rode through their ranks that day!     Mark:     Come, Maurice, you shant escape me so!     Ill hazard another guess:     That girl that jilted you long ago,     Youre thinking of her, confess!     Maurice:     Tho the blue lake flushd with a rosy light,     Reflected from yonder sky,     Might conjure a vision of Aphrodite     To a poets or painters eye;     Tho the golden drop, with its drooping curl,     Between the water and wood,     Hangs down like the tress of a wayward girl     In her dreamy maidenhood:     Such boyish fancies seem out of date     To one half inclined to censure     Their folly, and yet, your shaft flew straight,     Though you drew your bow at a venture.     I saw my lady the other night     In the crowded opera hall,     When the boxes sparkled with faces bright,     I knew her amongst them all.     Tho little for these things now I reck,     I singled her from the throng     By the queenly curves of her head and neck,     By the droop of her eyelash long.     Oh! passionless, placid, and calm, and cold,     Does the fire still lurk within     That lit her magnificent eyes of old,     And coloured her marble skin?     For a weary look on the proud face hung,     While the music clashd and swelld,     And the restless child to the silk skirt clung     Unnoticed tho unrepelled.     Theyve paled, those rosebud lips that I kist,     That slim waist has thickened rather,     And the cub has the sprawling mutton fist,     And the great splay foot of the father.     May the blight.     Mark:     Hold hard there, Maurice, my son,     Let her rest, since her spell is broken;     We can neither recall deeds rashly done,     Nor retract words hastily spoken.     Maurice:     Time was when to pleasure her girlish whim,     In my blind infatuation,     Ive freely endangered life and limb;     Aye, perilled my souls salvation.     Mark:     With the best intentions we all must work     But little good and much harm;     Be a Christian for once, not a Pagan Turk,     Nursing wrath and keeping it warm.     Maurice:     If our best intentions pave the way     To a place that is somewhat hot,     Can our worst intentions lead us, say,     To a still more sultry spot?     Mark:     Tis said that charity makes amends     For a multitude of transgressions.     Maurice:     But our perjured loves and our faithless friends     Are entitled to no concessions.     Mark:     Old man, these many years side by side     Our parallel paths have lain;     Now, in lifes long journey, diverging wide,     They can scarcely unite again;     And tho, from all that Ive seen and heard,     Youre prone to chafe and to fret     At the least restraint, not one angry word     Have we two exchanged as yet.     Weve shared our peril, weve shared our sport,     Our sunshine and gloomy weather,     Feasted and flirted, and fenced and fought,     Struggled and toiled together;     In happier moments lighter of heart,     Stouter of heart in sorrow;     Weve met and weve parted, and now we part     For ever, perchance, to-morrow.     Shes a matron now; when you knew her first     She was but a child, and your hate,     Fostered and cherished, nourished and nursed,     Will it never evaporate?     Your grievance is known to yourself alone,     But, Maurice, I say, for shame,     If in ten long years you havent outgrown     Ill-will to an ancient flame.     Maurice:     Well, Mark, youre right; if I spoke in spite,     Let the shame and the blame be mine;     At the risk of a headache well drain this night     Her health in a flask of wine;     For a castle in Spain, tho it never was built;     For a dream, tho it never came true;     For a cup, just tasted, tho rudely spilt,     At least she can hold me due.     Those hours of pleasure she dealt of yore,     As well as those hours of pain,     I ween they would flit as they flitted before,     If I had them over again.     Against her no word from my lips shall pass,     Betraying the grudge Ive cherished,     Till the sand runs down in my hour-glass,     And the gift of my speech has perished.     Say! why is the spirit of peace so weak,     And the spirit of wrath so strong,     That the right we must steadily search and seek,     Tho we readily find the wrong?     Mark:     Our parents of old entailed the curse     Which must to our children cling;     Let us hope, at least, that were not much worse     Than the founder from whom we spring.     Fit sire was he of a selfish race,     Who first to temptation yielded,     Then to mend his case tried to heap disgrace     On the woman he should have shielded.     Say! comrade mine, the forbidden fruit     Wed have plucked, that I well believe,     But I trust wed rather have suffered mute     Than have laid the blame upon Eve.     Maurice (yawning):     Who knows? not I; I can hardly vouch     For the truth of what little I see;     And now, if youve any weed in your pouch,     Just hand it over to me.