Old King Cole

1797

OLD KING COLE

IN Tilbury Town did Old King Cole
A wise old age anticipate,
Desiring, with his pipe and bowl,

No Khan's extravagant estate.
No crown annoyed his honest head,

No fiddlers three were called or needed;

For two disastrous heirs instead

Made music more that ever three did.

Bereft of her with whom his life

Was harmony without a flaw,
He took no other for a wife,

Nor sighed for any that he saw;
And if he doubted his two sons,
And heirs, Alexis and Evander,
He might have been as doubtful once
Of Robert Burns and Alexander.

Alexis, in his early youth,

Began to steal-from old and young. Likewise Evander, and the truth

Was like a bad taste on his tongue. Born thieves and liars, their affair Seemed only to be tarred with evilThe most insufferable pair

Of scamps that ever cheered the devil.

The world went on, their fame went on,
And they went on-from bad to worse;

Till, goaded hot with nothing done,

And each accoutered with a curse, The friends of Old King Cole, by twos, And fours, and sevens, and elevens, Pronounced unalterable views

Of doings that were not of Heaven's. And having learned again whereby

Their baleful zeal had come about, King Cole met many a wrathful eye

So kindly that its wrath went out→

Or partly out. Say what they would,

He seemed the more to court their candor; But never told what kind of good

Was in Alexis and Evander.

And Old King Cole, with many a puff
That haloed his urbanity,

Would smoke till he had smoked enough,
And listen most attentively.

He beamed as with an inward light
That had the Lord's assurance in it;
And once a man was there all night,
Expecting something every minute.

But whether from too little thought,
Or too much fealty to the bowl,
A dim reward was all he got

For sitting up with Old King Cole.
"Though mine," the father mused aloud,
"Are not the sons I would have chosen,
Shall I, less evilly endowed,

By their infirmity be frozen?

"They'll have a bad end, I'll agree,

But I was never born to groan;

For I can see what I can see,

And I'm accordingly alone. With open heart and open door,

I love my friends, I like my neighbors; But if I try to tell you more,

Your doubts will overmatch my labors. "This pipe would never make me calm, This bowl my grief would never drown For grief like mine there is no balm

In Gilead, or in Tilbury Town. And if I see what I can see,

I know not any way to blind it; Nor more if any way may be

For you to grope or fly to find it.

"There may be room for ruin yet,

And ashes for a wasted love;

The Master Mariner

Or, like One whom you may forget,

I may have meat you know not of.
And if I'd rather live than weep

Meanwhile, do you find that surprising?
Why, bless my soul, the man's asleep!
That's good. The sun will soon be rising."
Edwin Arlington Robinson [1869-

THE MASTER MARINER

My grandshire sailed three years from home,
And slew unmoved the sounding whale:
Here on the windless beach I roam

And watch far out the hardy sail.

The lions of the surf that cry
Upon this lion-colored shore
On reefs of midnight met his eye:

He knew their fangs as I their roar.
My grandsire sailed uncharted seas,
And toll of all their leagues he took:
I scan the shallow bays at ease,

And tell their colors in a book.

The anchor-chains his music made

And wind in shrouds and running-gear:
The thrush at dawn beguiles my glade,
And once, 'tis said, I woke to hear.

My grandsire in his ample fist
The long harpoon upheld to men:
Behold obedient to my wrist

A gray gull's-feather for my pen!

Upon my grandsire's leathern cheek
Five zones their bitter bronze had set:
Some day their hazards I will seek,
I promise me at times. Not yet.

I think my grandsire now would turn
A mild but speculative eye

On me, my pen and its concern,

Then gaze again to sea-and sigh.

George Sterling [1969

1799

A ROSE TO THE LIVING

A ROSE to the living is more

Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead: In filling love's infinite store,

A rose to the living is more,

If graciously given before

The hungering spirit is fled,

A rose to the living is more

Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead.

Nixon Waterman [1859

Biftek Aux Champignons

That Mimi stooped to gather,

As she strolled across the down, And held her dress skirt ratherOh, now, you need n't frown.

For you know the dew was heavy,
And your boots, I know, were thin;
So a little extra brevi-

ty in skirts was, sure, no sin. Besides, who minds a cousin?

First, second, even third,—

I've kissed 'em by the dozen,

And they never once demurred.

"If one's allowed to ask it," Quoth I, "Ma belle cousine, What have you in your basket?" (Those baskets white and green The brave Passamaquoddies Weave out of scented grass,

And sell to tourist bodies

Who through Mt. Desert pass.)

You answered, slightly frowning,
"Put down your stupid book-
That everlasting Browning!-
And come and help me look.
Mushroom you spik him English,
I call him champignon:

I'll teach you to distinguish

The right kind from the wrong."

There was no fog on Fundy

That blue September day;

The west wind, for that one day,

Had swept it all away.

The lighthouse glasses twinkled,

The white gulls screamed and flew,

The merry sheep-bells tinkled,

The merry breezes blew.

1801