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    Fringilla: Some Tales In Verse
    Fringilla: Some Tales In Verse
    Fringilla: Some Tales In Verse
    Ebook156 pages1 hour

    Fringilla: Some Tales In Verse

    By R. D. (Richard Doddridge) Blackmore

    ()

    Read preview
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 26, 2013
    Fringilla: Some Tales In Verse

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      Book preview

      Fringilla - R. D. (Richard Doddridge) Blackmore

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Fringilla: Some Tales In Verse, by

      Richard Doddridge Blackmore

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: Fringilla: Some Tales In Verse

      Author: Richard Doddridge Blackmore

      Illustrator: Louis Fairfax-Muckley and James W. R. Linton

      Release Date: August 31, 2007 [EBook #22474]

      Last Updated: December 17, 2012

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRINGILLA: SOME TALES IN VERSE ***

      Produced by David Widger

      FRINGILLA

      SOME TALES IN VERSE

      By Richard Doddridge Blackmore

      Contents

      [Fringilla loquitur]

      What means your finch?

      "Being well aware that he cannot sing like a Nightingale,

      He flits about from tree to tree, and twitters a little tale."

           Albeit he is an ancient bird, who tried

           his pipe in better days, and then was

           scared by random shots, he is fain to

           lift the migrant wing once more towards the

           humble perch, among the trees he loves. All

           gardeners own that he does no harm, unless

           he flits into a thicket of young buds, or a very

           choice ladies' seed-bed. And he hopes that he is

           now too wise to commit such indiscretions.

           Perhaps it would have been wiser still to

           have shut up his little mandible, or employed it

           only upon grub. But the long gnaw of last

           winter's frost, which set mankind a-shivering,

           even in their most downy nest, has made them

           kindly to the race that has no roof for shelter

           and no hearth for warmth.

           Anyhow, this little finch can do no harm,

           if he does no good; and if he pleases nobody,

           he will not be surprised, because he has never

           satisfied himself.

           May-day, 1895.

      NOTE

      With kind consent of Messrs. Harper, Buscombe returns in altered form from the other side of the ocean. Two other little tales appeared of old, but nobody would look at them, and now they are offered after careful trimming.

      Standing afar. I gaze with doubt at other trimmings which are not mine. They have conquered the taste of the day perhaps, and high art announces them as her last transfiguration. Moreover they are highly recommended— as the purest art not always is—by the modesty of the artist.

      The cover design, borders, initial letters and the whole of the full-page illustrations—with the exception of the three to 'Pausias and Glycera' by James W. R. Linton—are by Louis Fairfax-Muckley.

      TO MY PEN

          I

          Thou feeble implement of mind,

            Wherewith she strove to scrawl her

              name;

          But, like a mitcher, left behind

            No signature, no stroke, no claim,

              No hint that she hath pined—

          Shall ever come a stronger time,

              When thou shalt be a tool of skill,

            And steadfast purpose, to fulfil

          A higher task than rhyme?

          II

          Thou puny instrument of soul,

            Wherewith she labours to impart

          Her efforts at some arduous goal;

            But fails to bring thy coarser art

              Beneath a fine control—

            Shall ever come a fairer day,

              When thou shalt be a buoyant plume,

              To soar, where clearer suns illume,

            And fresher breezes play?

           Thou weak interpreter of heart,

             So impotent to tell the tale

           Of love's delight, of envy's smart,

             Of passion, and ambition's bale,

               Of pride that dwells apart—

             Shall I, in length of time, attain

               (By walking in the human ways,

                With love of Him, who made and sways)

             To ply thee, less in vain?

           If so, thou shalt be more to me

             Than sword, or sceptre, flag, or crown;

           With mind, and soul, and heart in thee,

             Despising gold, and sham renown;

               But truthful, kind, and free—

             Then come; though now a pithless quill,

               Uncouth, unfledged, indefinite,—

               In time, thou shalt be taught to write,

             By patience, and good-will.

      LITA OF THE NILE

      A TALE IN THREE PARTS

      PART   I

           I

           "KING, and Father, gift and giver,

           God revealed in form of river,

           Issuing perfect, and sublime,

           From the fountain-head of time;

           "Whom eternal mystery shroudeth,

             Unapproached, untracked, unknown;

           Whom the Lord of heaven encloudeth

             With the curtains of His throne;

           "From the throne of heaven descending,

           Glory, power, and goodness blending,

           Grant us, ere the daylight dies,

           Token of thy rapid rise,"

           II

           Ha, it cometh! Furrowing, flashing,

             Red blood rushing o'er brown breast;

           Peaks, and ridges, and domes, dashing

             Foam on foam, and crest on crest!

           'Tis the signal Thebes hath waited,

           Libyan Thebes, the hundred-gated:

           Rouse, and robe thee, River-priest

           For thy dedication feast!

           Follows him the loveliest maiden,

             Afric's thousand hills can show;

           White apparel'd, flower-laden,

             With the lotus on her brow.

           III

           Votive maid, who hath espousal

           Of the river's high carousal;

           Twenty cubits if he rise,

           This shall be his bridal prize.

           Calm, and meek of face and carriage,

             Deigning scarce a quicker breath,

           Comes she to the funeral marriage,

             The betrothal of black death.

           Rosy hands, and hennaed fingers,

           Nails whereon the onyx lingers,

           Clasped, as at a lover's tale,

           In the bosom's marble vale.

           IV

           Silvery scarf, her waist enwreathing,

             Wafts a soft Sabaean balm;

           Like a cloud of incense, breathing

             Round the column of a palm:

           Snood of lilies interweaveth

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