Adventure Of A Poet

As I was walking down the street          A week ago,     Near Henderson's I chanced to meet          A man I know.     His name is Alexander Bell,          His home, Dundee;     I do not know him quite so well          As he knows me.     He gave my hand a hearty shake,          Discussed the weather,     And then proposed that we should take          A stroll together.      Down College Street we took our way,          And there we met     The beautiful Miss Mary Gray,          That arch coquette,     Who stole last spring my heart away          And has it yet.     That smile with which my bow she greets,          Would it were fonder!     Or else less fond--since she its sweets          On all must squander.     Thus, when I meet her in the streets,          I sadly ponder,     And after her, as she retreats,          My thoughts will wander.     And so I listened with an air          Of inattention,     While Bell described a folding-chair          Of his invention.      And when we reached the Swilcan Burn,          'It looks like rain,'     Said I, 'and we had better turn.'          'Twas all in vain,     For Bell was weather-wise, and knew          The signs aerial;     He bade me note the strip of blue          Above the Imperial,     Also another patch of sky,          South-west by south,     Which meant that we might journey dry          To Eden's mouth.     He was a man with information          On many topics:     He talked about the exploration          Of Poles and Tropics,      The scene in Parliament last night,          Sir William's letter;     'And do you like the electric light,          Or gas-lamps better?'     The strike among the dust-heap pickers          He said was over;     And had I read about the liquors          Just seized at Dover?     Or the unhappy printer lad          At Rothesay drowned?     Or the Italian ironclad          That ran aground?     He told me stories (lately come)          Of good society,     Some slightly tinged with truth, and some          With impropriety.      He spoke of duelling in France,          Then lightly glanced at     Mrs. Mackenzie's monster dance,          Which he had danced at.     So he ran on, till by-and-by          A silence came,     For which I greatly fear that I          Was most to blame.     Then neither of us spoke a word          For quite a minute,     When presently a thought occurred          With promise in it.     'How did you like the Shakespeare play          The students read?'     By this, the Eden like a bay          Before us spread.      Near Eden many softer plots          Of sand there be;     Our feet, like Pharaoh's chariots,          Drave heavily.     And ere an answer I could frame,          He said that Irving     Of his extraordinary fame          Was undeserving,     And for his part he thought more highly          Of Ellen Terry;     Although he knew a girl named Riley          At Broughty Ferry,     Who might be, if she only chose,          As great a star.     She had a part in the tableaux          At the bazaar.      If I had said but little yet,          I now said less,     And smoked a home-made cigarette          In mute distress.     The smoke into his face was blown          By the wind's action,     And this afforded me, I own,          Some satisfaction;     But still his tongue received no check          Till, coming home,     We stood beside the ancient wreck          And watched the foam     Wash in among the timbers, now          Sunk deep in sand,     Though I can well remember how          I used to stand      On windy days and hold my hat,          And idly turn     To read 'Lovise, Frederikstad'          Upon her stern.     Her stern long since was buried quite,          And soon no trace     The absorbing sand will leave in sight          To mark her place.     This reverie was not permitted          To last too long.     Bell's mind had left the stage, and flitted          To fields of song.     And now he spoke of Marmion          And Lewis Morris;     The former he at school had done,          Along with Horace.      His maiden aunts, no longer young,          But learned ladies,     Had lately sent him Songs Unsung,          Epic of Hades,     Gycia, and Gwen.    He thought them fine;          Not like that Browning,     Of whom he would not read a line,          He told me, frowning.     Talking of Horace--very clever,          Beyond a doubt,     But what the Satires meant, he never          Yet could make out.     I said I relished Satire Nine          Of the First Book;     But he had skipped to the divine          Eliza Cook.      He took occasion to declare,          In tones devoted,     How much he loved her old Arm-chair,          Which now he quoted.     And other poets he reviewed,          Some two or three,     Till, having touched on Thomas Hood,          He turned to me.     'Have you been stringing any rhymes          Of late?' he said.     I could not lie, but several times          I shook my head.     The last straw to the earth will bow          The o'erloaded camel,     And surely I resembled now          That ill-used mammal.      See how a thankless world regards          The gifted choir     Of minstrels, singers, poets, bards,          Who sweep the lyre.     This is the recompense we meet          In our vocation.     We bear the burden and the heat          Of inspiration;     The beauties of the earth we sing          In glowing numbers,     And to the 'reading public' bring          Post-prandial slumbers;     We save from Mammon's gross dominion          These sordid times . . .     And all this, in the world's opinion,          Is 'stringing rhymes.'      It is as if a man should say,          In accents mild,     'Have you been stringing beads to-day,          My gentle child?'     (Yet even children fond of singing          Will pay off scores,     And I to-day at least am stringing          Not beads but bores.)     And now the sands were left behind,          The Club-house past.     I wondered, Can I hope to find          Escape at last,     Or must I take him home to tea,          And bear his chatter     Until the last train to Dundee          Shall solve the matter?      But while I shuddered at the thought          And planned resistance,     My conquering Alexander caught          Sight in the distance     Of two young ladies, one of whom          Is his ambition;     And so, with somewhat heightened bloom,          He asked permission     To say good-bye to me and follow.          I freely gave it,     And wished him all success.    Apollo          Sic me servavit.