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AT Francis Allen’s on the Christmas-eve,— The game of forfeits done—the girls all kiss’d Beneath the sacred bush and past away— The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall, The host, and I sat round the wassail-bowl, Then half-way ebb’d: and there we held a talk, How all the old honour had from Christmas gone, Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games In some odd nooks like this; till I, tired out With cutting eights that day upon the pond, Where, three times slipping from the outer edge, I bump’d the ice into three several stars, Fell in a doze; and half-awake I heard The parson taking wide and wider sweeps, Now harping on the church-commissionners, Now hawking at Geology and schism; Until I woke, and found him settled down Upon the general decay of faith Right thro’ the world, ‘at home was little left, And none abroad: there was no anchor none, To hold by.’ Francis, laughing, clapt his hand On Everard’s shoulder, with ‘I hold by him.’ ‘And I,’ quoth Everard, ‘by the wassail-bowl.’ ‘Why yes,’ I said, ‘we knew your gift that way At college: but another which you had, I mean of verse (for so we held it then), What came of that ?’ ‘You know,’ said Frank, ‘he burnt His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve books’— And then to me demanding why? ‘Oh, sir, He thought that nothing new was said, or else Something so said ’twas nothing—that a truth Looks freshest in the fashion of the clay God knows: he has a mint of reasons: ask. It pleased me well enough.’ ‘Nay, nay,’ said Hall, ‘Why take the style of those heroic times? For nature brings not back the Mastodon, Nor we those times; and why should any man Remodel models? these twelve books of mine Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing-worth. Mere chaff and draft, much better burnt.’ ‘But I,’ Said Francis, ‘pick’d the eleventh from this hearth And have it: keep a thing, its use will come. I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes.’ He laugh’d, and I, tho’ sleepy, like a horse That hears the corn-bin open, prick’d my ears; For I remember’d Everard’s college fame When we were Freshmen: then at my request He brought it ; and the poet little urged, But with some prelude of disparagement, Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes, Deep-chested music, and to this result. |