III

He was prouder than the devil: 
How he must have cursed our revel! 
Ay and many other meetings,
Indoor visits, outdoor greetings,
As up and down he paced this London,
With no work done, but great works undone,
Where scarce twenty knew his name. 
Why not, then, have earlier spoken,
Written, bustled?  Who’s to blame 30
If your silence kept unbroken? 
“True, but there were sundry jottings,
Stray-leaves, fragments, blurrs and blottings,
Certain first steps were achieved
Already which (is that your meaning?)
Had well borne out whoe’er believed
In more to come!” But who goes gleaning
Hedgeside chance-glades, while full-sheaved
Stand cornfields by him?  Pride, o’erweening
Pride alone, puts forth such claims 40
O’er the day’s distinguished names.

IV

Meantime, how much I loved him,
I find out now I’ve lost him. 
I who cared not if I moved him,
Who could so carelessly accost him,
Henceforth never shall get free
Of his ghostly company,
His eyes that just a little wink
As deep I go into the merit
Of this and that distinguished spirit—­ 50
His cheeks’ raised colour, soon to sink,
As long I dwell on some stupendous
And tremendous (Heaven defend us!)
Monstr’-inform’-ingens-horrend-ous
Demoniaco-seraphic
Penman’s latest piece of graphic. 
Nay, my very wrist grows warm
With his dragging weight of arm. 
E’en so, swimmingly appears,
Through one’s after-supper musings, 60
Some lost lady of old years
With her beauteous vain endeavour
And goodness unrepaid as ever;
The face, accustomed to refusings,
We, puppies that we were . . .  Oh never
Surely, nice of conscience, scrupled
Being aught like false, forsooth, to? 
Telling aught but honest truth to? 
What a sin, had we centupled
Its possessor’s grace and sweetness! 70
No! she heard in its completeness
Truth, for truth’s a weighty matter,
And truth, at issue, we can’t flatter! 
Well, ’tis done with; she’s exempt
>From damning us thro’ such a sally;
And so she glides, as down a valley,
Taking up with her contempt,
Past our reach; and in, the flowers
Shut her unregarded hours.

V

Oh, could I have him back once more, 80
This Waring, but one half-day more! 
Back, with the quiet face of yore,
So hungry for acknowledgment
Like mine!  I’d fool him to his bent. 
Feed, should not he, to heart’s content? 
I’d say, “to only have conceived,
Planned your great works, apart from progress,
Surpasses little works achieved!”