Beside a ruined Pump:
By day and night he made his moan –
It would have stirred a heart of stone
To see him wring his hoofs and groan,
[30] Because he could not jump.
A certain Camel heard him shout –
A Camel with a hump.
“Oh, is it Grief, or is it Gout?
What is this bellowing about?”
That Pig replied, with quivering snout,
“Because I cannot jump!”
That Camel scanned him, dreamy-eyed.
“Methinks you are too plump.
I never knew a Pig so wide –
[40] That wobbled so from side to side –
Who could, however much he tried,
Do such a thing as jump!
“Yet mark those trees, two miles away,
All clustered in a clump:
If you could trot there twice a day,
Nor ever pause for rest or play,
In the far future – Who can say? –
You may be fit to jump.”
That Camel passed, and left him there,
[50] Beside the ruined Pump.
Oh, horrid was that Pig’s despair!
His shrieks of anguish filled the air.
He wrung his hoofs, he rent his hair,
Because he could not jump.
There was a Frog that wandered by –
A sleek and shining lump:
Inspected him with fishy eye,
And said “O Pig, what makes you cry?”
And bitter was that Pig’s reply,
[60] “Because I cannot jump!”
That Frog he grinned a grin of glee,
And hit his chest a thump.
“O Pig,” he said, “be ruled by me,
And you shall see what you shall see.
This minute, for a trifling fee,
I’ll teach you how to jump!
“You may be faint from many a fall,
And bruised by many a bump:
But, if you persevere through all,
[70] And practise first on something small,
Concluding with a ten-foot wall,
You’ll find that you can jump!”
That Pig looked up with joyful start:
“Oh Frog, you are a trump!
Your words have healed my inward smart –
Come, name your fee and do your part:
Bring comfort to a broken heart,
By teaching me to jump!”
“My fee shall be a mutton-chop,
[80] My goal this ruined Pump.
Observe with what an airy flop
I plant myself upon the top!
Now bend your knees and take a hop,
For that’s the way to jump!”
Uprose that Pig, and rushed, full whack,
Against the ruined Pump:
Rolled over like an empty sack,
And settled down upon his back,
While all his bones at once went “Crack!”
[90] It was a fatal jump.
Little Birds are writing
Interesting books,
To be read by cooks:
Read, I say, not roasted –
Letterpress, when toasted,
Loses its good looks.
Little Birds are playing
Bagpipes on the shore,
Where the tourists snore:
[100] “Thanks!” they cry. “ ’Tis thrilling!
Take, oh take this shilling!
Let us have no more!”
Little Birds are bathing
Crocodiles in cream,
Like a happy dream:
Like, but not so lasting –
Crocodiles, when fasting,
Are not all they seem!
That Camel passed, as Day grew dim
[110] Around the ruined Pump.
“O broken heart! O broken limb!
It needs,” that Camel said to him,
“Something more fairy-like and slim,
To execute a jump!”
That Pig lay still as any stone,
And could not stir a stump:
Nor ever, if the truth were known,
Was he again observed to moan,
Nor ever wring his hoofs and groan,
[120] Because he could not jump.
Was dismal as a dump:
He knew the consequence must be
That he would never get his fee –
And still he sits, in miserie,
Upon that ruined Pump!
Little Birds are choking
Baronets with bun,
Taught to fire a gun:
[130] Taught, I say, to splinter
Salmon in the winter –
Merely for the fun.
Little Birds are hiding
Crimes in carpet-bags,
Blessed by happy stags:
Blessed, I say, though beaten –
Since our friends are eaten
When the memory flags.
Little Birds are tasting
[140] Gratitude and gold,
Pale with sudden cold
Pale, I say, and wrinkled –
When the bells have tinkled,
And the Tale is told.
Late Collections
Rhyme? And Reason? (1883)
Echoes
Lady Clara Vere de Vere
Was eight years old, she said:
Every ringlet, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden thread.
She took her little porringer:
Of me she shall not win renown:
For the baseness of its nature shall have strength to drag her down.
“Sisters and brothers, little Maid?
There stands the Inspector at thy door:
Like a dog, he hunts for boys who know not two and two are four.”
[10] “Kind words are more than coronets,”
She said, and wondering looked at me:
“It is the dead unhappy night, and I must hurry home to tea.”
A Game of Fives
Five little girls, of Five, Four, Three, Two, One:
Rolling on the hearthrug, full of tricks and fun.
Five rosy girls, in years from Ten to Six:
Sitting down to lessons – no more time for tricks.
Five growing girls, from Fifteen to Eleven:
Music, Drawing, Languages, and food enough for seven!
Five winsome girls, from Twenty to Sixteen:
Each young man that calls, I say “Now tell me which you mean!”
Five dashing girls, the youngest Twenty-one:
[10] But, if nobody proposes, what is there to be done?
Five showy girls – but Thirty is an age
When girls may be engaging, but they somehow don’t engage.
Five dressy girls, of Thirty-one or more:
So gracious to the shy young men they snubbed so much before!
Five passé girls – Their age? Well, never mind!
We jog along together, like the rest of human kind:
But the quondam “careless bachelor” begins to think he knows
The answer to that ancient problem “how the money goes”!
Four Riddles
No. I. was written at the request of some young friends, who had gone to a ball at an Oxford Commemoration – and also as a specimen of what might be done by making the Double Acrostic A CONNECTED POEM instead of what it has hitherto been, a string of disjointed stanzas, on every conceivable subject, and about as interesting to read straight through as a page of a Cyclopaedia. The first two stanzas describe the two main words, and each subsequent stanza one of the cross “lights.” [See pp. 150–53]
No. II. was written after seeing Miss Ellen Terry perform in the play of “Hamlet.” In this case the first stanza describes the two main words.
No. III. was written after seeing Miss Marion Terry perform in Mr. Gilbert’s play of “Pygmalion and Galatea.” The
three stanzas respectively describe “My First,” “My Second,” and “My Whole.”
II.
Empress of Art, for thee I twine
This wreath with all too slender skill.
Forgive my Muse each halting line,
And for the deed accept the will!
O day of tears! Whence comes this spectre grim,
Parting, like Death’s cold river, souls that love?
Is not he bound to thee, as thou to him,
By vows, unwhispered here, yet heard above?
And still it lives, that keen and heavenward flame,
[10] Lives in his eye, and trembles in his tone:
And these wild words of fury but proclaim
A heart that beats for thee, for thee alone!
But all is lost: that mighty mind o’erthrown,
Like sweet bells jangled, piteous sight to see!
“Doubt that the stars are fire,” so runs his moan,
“Doubt Truth herself, but not my love for thee!”
A sadder vision yet: thine aged sire
Shaming his hoary locks with treacherous wile!
And dost thou now doubt Truth to be a liar?
[20] And wilt thou die, that hast forgot to smile?
Nay, get thee hence! Leave all thy winsome ways
And the faint fragrance of thy scattered flowers:
In holy silence wait the appointed days,
And weep away the leaden-footed hours.
III.
The air is bright with hues of light
And rich with laughter and with singing:
Young hearts beat high in ecstasy,
And banners wave, and bells are ringing:
But silence falls with fading day,
And there’s an end to mirth and play.
Rest your old bones, ye wrinkled crones!
The kettle sings, the firelight dances.
[10] Deep be it quaffed, the magic draught
That fills the soul with golden fancies!
For Youth and Pleasance will not stay,
And ye are withered, worn, and grey.
Ah, well-a-day!
O fair cold face! O form of grace,
For human passion madly yearning!
O weary air of dumb despair,
From marble won, to marble turning!
“Leave us not thus!” we fondly pray.
[20] “We cannot let thee pass away!”
Ah, well-a-day!
IV.
My First is singular at best:
More plural is my Second:
My Third is far the pluralest –
So plural-plural, I protest
It scarcely can be reckoned!
My First is followed by a bird:
My Second by believers
In magic art: my simple Third
Follows, too often, hopes absurd
[10] And plausible deceivers.
My First to get at wisdom tries –
A failure melancholy!
My Second men revered as wise:
My Third from heights of wisdom flies
To depths of frantic folly.
My First is ageing day by day:
My Second’s age is ended:
My Third enjoys an age, they say,
That never seems to fade away,
[20] Through centuries extended.
My Whole? I need a poet’s pen
To paint her myriad phases:
The monarch, and the slave, of men –
A mountain-summit, and a den
Of dark and deadly mazes –
A flashing light – a fleeting shade –
Beginning, end, and middle
Of all that human art hath made
Or wit devised! Go, seek HER aid,
[30] If you would read my riddle!
Fame’s Penny-Trumpet
Affectionately dedicated to all “original researchers” who pant for “endowment.”
Blow, blow your trumpets till they crack,
Ye little men of little souls!
And bid them huddle at your back –
Gold-sucking leeches, shoals on shoals!
Fill all the air with hungry wails –
“Reward us, ere we think or write!
Without your Gold mere Knowledge fails
To sate the swinish appetite!”
And, where great Plato paced serene,
[10] Or Newton paused with wistful eye,
Rush to the chace with hoofs unclean
And Babel-clamour of the sty.
Be yours the pay: be theirs the praise:
We will not rob them of their due,
Nor vex the ghosts of other days
By naming them along with you.
They sought and found undying fame:
They toiled not for reward nor thanks:
Their cheeks are hot with honest shame
[20] For you, the modern mountebanks!
Who preach of Justice – plead with tears
That Love and Mercy should abound –
While marking with complacent ears
The moaning of some tortured hound:
Who prate of Wisdom – nay, forbear,
Lest Wisdom turn on you in wrath,
Trampling, with heel that will not spare,
The vermin that beset her path!
Go, throng each other’s drawing-rooms,
[30] Ye idols of a petty clique:
Strut your brief hour in borrowed plumes,
And make your penny-trumpets squeak.
Deck your dull talk with pilfered shreds
Of learning from a nobler time,
And oil each other’s little heads
With mutual Flattery’s golden slime:
And when the topmost height ye gain,
And stand in Glory’s ether clear,
And grasp the prize of all your pain –
[40] So many hundred pounds a year –
Then let Fame’s banner be unfurled!
Sing Paeans for a victory won!
Ye tapers, that would light the world,
And cast a shadow on the Sun –
Who still shall pour His rays sublime,
One crystal flood, from East to West,
When YE have burned your little time
And feebly flickered into rest!
A Tangled Tale (1885)
A Tangled Tale
The elder and the younger knight
They sallied forth at three;
How far they went on level ground
It matters not to me;
What time they reached the foot of hill,
When they began to mount,
Are problems which I hold to be
Of very small account.
The moment that each waved his hat
[10] Upon the topmost peak –
To trivial query such as this
No answer will I seek.
Yet can I tell the distance well
They must have travelled o’er:
On hill and plain, ’twixt three and nine,
The miles were twenty-four.
Four miles an hour their steady pace
Along the level track,
Three when they climbed – but six when they
[20] Came swiftly striding back
Adown the hill; and little skill
It needs, methinks, to show,
Up hill and down together told,
Four miles an hour they go.
For whether long or short the time
Upon the hill they spent,
Two thirds were passed in going up,
One third in the descent.
Two thirds at three, one third at six,
[30] If rightly reckoned o’er,
Will make one whole at four – the tale
Is tangled now no more.
Three Sunsets and Other Poems (1898)
Puck Lost and Found
“Inscribed in two book
s … presented to a little girl and boy, as a sort of memento of a visit paid by them to the author one day, on which occasion he taught them the pastime of folding paper ‘pistols.’”
Puck has fled the haunts of men:
Ridicule has made him wary:
In the woods, and down the glen,
No one meets a Fairy!
“Cream!” the greedy Goblin cries –
Empties the deserted dairy –
Steals the spoons, and off he flies.
Still we see our Fairy!
Ah! What form is entering?
[10] Lovelit eyes and laughter airy!
Is not this a better thing,
Child, whose visit thus I sing,
Even than a Fairy?
Nov. 22, 1891.
Puck has ventured back agen:
Ridicule no more affrights him
In the very haunts of men
Newer sport delights him.
Capering lightly to and fro,
Ever frolicking and funning –
“Crack!” the mimic pistols go!
Hark! The noise is stunning!
All too soon will Childhood gay
[10] Realise Life’s sober sadness.
Let’s be merry while we may,
Innocent and happy Fay!
Elves were made for gladness!
Nov. 25, 1891.
Appendix Poems Doubtfully Attributed to Lewis Carroll
Sequel to The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain
But supposing this sheep, when he entered the fold,
Had solemnly taken a vow
To shape all his bleats to one definite mould,
Pray what can be said for him now?
Must the rules we hold binding in business and trade
Be ignored in the Church’s domain?
And need promises never be kept that are made
To the Shepherd of Salisbury Plain?
Though freedom of bleat is withholden from none
[10] Of the flock, be his wool black or white,
Yet the freedom of breaking your promise is one
To which few would insist on their right.
So, my friend, without wishing to charge upon you
The quibble your verses maintain,
I but say, would that all were as honest and true
As the Shepherd of Salisbury Plain!
Audi alteram partem.
[Solutions to Puzzles from Wonderland, probably from another hand]
I
If ten the number dreamed of, why ’tis clear
That in the dream ten apples would appear.
II
In Shylock’s bargain for the flesh was found