Wandering Heath

Jetsom

Where Gerennius' beacon stands

High above Pendower sands;

Where, about the windy Nare,

Foxes breed and falcons pair;

Where the gannet dries a wing

Wet with fishy harvesting,

And the cormorants resort,

Flapping slowly from their sport

With the fat Atlantic shoal,

Homeward to Tregeagle's Hole--

Walking there, the other day,

In a bight within a bay,

I espied amid the rocks,

Bruis'd and jamm'd, the daintiest box,

That the waves had flung and left

High upon an ivied cleft.

Striped it was with white and red,

Satin-lined and carpeted,

Hung with bells, and shaped withal

Like the queer, fantastical

Chinese temples you'll have seen

Pictured upon white Nankin,

Where, assembled in effective

Head-dresses and odd perspective,

Tiny dames and mandarins

Expiate their egg-shell sins

By reclining on their drumsticks,

Waving fans and burning gum-sticks.

Land of poppy and pekoe!

Could thy sacred artists know--

Could they distantly conjecture

How we use their architecture,

Ousting the indignant Joss

For a pampered Flirt or Floss,

Poodle, Blenheim, Skye, Maltese,

Lapped in purple and proud ease--

They might read their god's reproof

Here on blister'd wall and roof;

Scaling lacquer, dinted bells,

Floor befoul'd of weed and shells,

Where, as erst the tabid Curse

Brooded over Pelops' hearse,

Squats the sea-cow, keeping house,

Sibylline, gelatinous.

Where is Carlo? Tell, O tell,

Echo, from this fluted shell,

In whose concave ear the tides

Murmur what the main confides

Of his compass'd treacheries!

What of Carlo? Did the breeze

Madden to a gale while he,

Curl'd and cushion'd cosily,

Mixed in dreams its angry breathings

With the tinkle of the tea-things

In his mistress' cabin laid?

--Nor dyspeptic, nor dismay'd,

Drowning in a gentle snore

All the menace of the shore

Thunder'd from the surf a-lee.

Near and nearer horribly,--

Scamper of affrighted feet,

Voices cursing sail and sheet,

While the tall ship shook in irons--

All the peril that environs

Vessels 'twixt the wind and rock

Clawing--driving? Did the shock,

As the sunk reef split her back,

First arouse him? Did the crack

Widen swiftly and deposit

Him in homeless night?

Or was it,

Not when wave or wind assail'd,

But in waters dumb and veil'd,

That a looming shape uprist

Sudden from the Channel mist,

And with crashing, rending bows

Woke him, in his padded house,

To a world of alter'd features?

Were these panic-ridden creatures

They who, but an hour agone,

Ran with biscuit, ran with bone,

Ran with meats in lordly dishes,

To anticipate his wishes?

But an hour agone! And now how

Vain his once compelling bow-wow!

Little dogs are highly treasured,

Petted, patted, pamper'd, pleasured:

But when ships go down in fogs,

No one thinks of little dogs.

Ah, but how dost fare, I wonder,

Now thine Argo splits asunder,

Pouring on the wasteful sea

All her precious bales, and thee?

Little use is now to rave,

Calling god or saint to save;

Little use, if choked with salt, a

Prayer to holy John of Malta.

Patron John, he hears thee not.

Or, perchance, in dusky grot

Pale Persephone, repining

For the fields that still are shining,

Shining in her sleepless brain,

Calling "Back! come back again!"

Fain of playmate, fain of pet--

Any drug to slay regret,

Hath from hell upcast an eye

On thy fatal symmetry;

And beguiled her sooty lord

With his brother to accord

For this black betrayal.

Else Nereus in his car of shells

Long ago had cleft the waters

With his natatory daughters

To the rescue: or Poseidon

Sent a fish for thee to ride on--

Such a steed as erst Arion

Reached the mainland high and dry on.

Steed appeareth none, nor pilot!

Little dog, if it be thy lot

To essay the dismal track

Where Odysseus half hung back,

How wilt thou conciliate

That grim mastiff by the gate?

Sure, 'twill puzzle thee to fawn

On his muzzles three that yawn

Antrous; or to find, poor dunce,

Grace in his six eyes at once--

Those red eyes of Cerberus.

Daughters of Oceanus,

Save our darling from this hap!

Arethusa, spread thy lap,

Catch him, and with pinky hands

Bear him to the coral sands,

Where thy sisters sit in school

Carding the Milesian wool:--

Clio, Spio, Beroe,

Opis and Phyllodoce,--

Pass by these, and also pass

Yellow-haired Lycorias;

Pass Ligea, shrill of song--

All the dear surrounding throng;

Lay him at Cyrene's feet

There, where all the rivers meet:

In their waters crystalline

Bathe him clean of weed and brine,

Comb him, wipe his pretty eyes,

Then to Zeus who rules the skies

Call, assembling in a round

Every fish that can be found--

Whale and merman, lobster, cod,

Tittlebat and demigod:--

"Lord of all the Universe,

We, thy finny pensioners,

Sue thee for the little life

Hurried hence by Hades' wife.

Sooner than she call him her dog,

Change, O change him to a mer-dog!

Re-inspire the vital spark;

Bid him wag his tail and bark,

Bark for joy to wag a tail

Bright with many a flashing scale;

Bid his locks refulgent twine,

Hyacinthian, hyaline;

Bid him gambol, bid him follow

Blithely to the mermen's 'holloa!'

When they call the deep-sea calves

Home with wreathed univalves.

Softly shall he sleep to-night,

Curled on couch of stalagmite,

Soft and sound, if slightly moister

Than the shell-protected oyster.

Grant us this, Omnipotent,

And to Hera shall be sent

One black pearl, but of a size

That shall turn her rivals' eyes

Greener than the greenest snake

Fed in meadow-grass, and make

All Olympus run agog--

Grant for this our darling dog!"

Musing thus, the other day,

In a bight within a bay,

I'd a sudden thought that yet some

Purpose for this piece of jetsom

Might be found; and straight supplied it.

On the turf I knelt beside it,

Disengaged it from the boulders,

Hoisted it upon my shoulders,

Bore it home, and, with a few

Tin-tacks and a pot of glue,

Mended it, affix'd a ledge;

Set it by the elder-hedge;

And in May, with horn and kettle,

Coax'd a swarm of bees to settle.

Here around me now they hum;

And in autumn should you come

Westward to my Cornish home,

There'll be honey in the comb--

Honey that, with clotted cream

(Though I win not your esteem

As a bard), will prove me wise,

In that, of the double prize

Sent by Hermes from the sea, I've

Sold the song and kept the bee-hive.