We saunter, or we brawl;
We answer, or we call;
We search the stars for Fame, Or sink her subterranities;
The legend's still the same:-
'O Vanity of Vanities!'
Here at the wine one birls, There some one clanks a chain.
The flag that this man furls That man to float is fain.
Pleasure gives place to pain:
These in the kennel crawl, While others take the wall.
SHE has a glorious aim, HE lives for the inanities.
What comes of every claim?
O Vanity of Vanities!
Alike are clods and earls.
For sot, and seer, and swain, For emperors and for churls, For antidote and bane, There is but one refrain:
But one for king and thrall, For David and for Saul, For fleet of foot and lame, For pieties and profanities, The picture and the frame:-
'O Vanity of Vanities!'
Life is a smoke that curls -
Curls in a flickering skein, That winds and whisks and whirls A figment thin and vain, Into the vast Inane.
One end for hut and hall!
One end for cell and stall!
Burned in one common flame Are wisdoms and insanities.
For this alone we came:-
'O Vanity of Vanities!'
Envoy Prince, pride must have a fall.
What is the worth of all Your state's supreme urbanities?
Bad at the best's the game.
Well might the Sage exclaim:-
'O Vanity of Vanities!'
AT QUEENSFERRY--To W. G. S.
The blackbird sang, the skies were clear and clean We bowled along a road that curved a spine Superbly sinuous and serpentine Thro' silent symphonies of summer green.
Sudden the Forth came on us--sad of mien, No cloud to colour it, no breeze to line:
A sheet of dark, dull glass, without a sign Of life or death, two spits of sand between.
Water and sky merged blank in mist together, The Fort loomed spectral, and the Guardship's spars Traced vague, black shadows on the shimmery glaze:
We felt the dim, strange years, the grey, strange weather, The still, strange land, unvexed of sun or stars, Where Lancelot rides clanking thro' the haze.
ORIENTALE
She's an enchanting little Israelite, A world of hidden dimples!--Dusky-eyed, A starry-glancing daughter of the Bride, With hair escaped from some Arabian Night, Her lip is red, her cheek is golden-white, Her nose a scimitar; and, set aside The bamboo hat she cocks with so much pride, Her dress a dream of daintiness and delight.
And when she passes with the dreadful boys And romping girls, the cockneys loud and crude, My thought, to the Minories tied yet moved to range The Land o' the Sun, commingles with the noise Of magian drums and scents of sandalwood A touch Sidonian--modern--taking--strange!
IN FISHERROW
A hard north-easter fifty winters long Has bronzed and shrivelled sere her face and neck;
Her locks are wild and grey, her teeth a wreck;
Her foot is vast, her bowed leg spare and strong.
A wide blue cloak, a squat and sturdy throng Of curt blue coats, a mutch without a speck, A white vest broidered black, her person deck, Nor seems their picked, stern, old-world quaintness wrong.
Her great creel forehead-slung, she wanders nigh, Easing the heavy strap with gnarled, brown fingers, The spirit of traffic watchful in her eye, Ever and anon imploring you to buy, As looking down the street she onward lingers, Reproachful, with a strange and doleful cry.
BACK-VIEW--To D. F.
I watched you saunter down the sand:
Serene and large, the golden weather Flowed radiant round your peacock feather, And glistered from your jewelled hand.
Your tawny hair, turned strand on strand And bound with blue ribands together, Streaked the rough tartan, green like heather, That round your lissome shoulder spanned.
Your grace was quick my sense to seize:
The quaint looped hat, the twisted tresses, The close-drawn scarf, and under these The flowing, flapping draperies -
My thought an outline still caresses, Enchanting, comic, Japanese!
CROLUIS--To G. W.
The beach was crowded. Pausing now and then, He groped and fiddled doggedly along, His worn face glaring on the thoughtless throng The stony peevishness of sightless men.
He seemed scarce older than his clothes. Again, Grotesquing thinly many an old sweet song, So cracked his fiddle, his hand so frail and wrong, You hardly could distinguish one in ten.
He stopped at last, and sat him on the sand, And, grasping wearily his bread-winner, Stared dim towards the blue immensity, Then leaned his head upon his poor old hand.
He may have slept: he did not speak nor stir:
His gesture spoke a vast despondency.
ATTADALE WEST HIGHLANDS--To A. J.
A black and glassy float, opaque and still, The loch, at furthest ebb supine in sleep, Reversing, mirrored in its luminous deep The calm grey skies; the solemn spurs of hill;
Heather, and corn, and wisps of loitering haze;
The wee white cots, black-hatted, plumed with smoke;
The braes beyond--and when the ripple awoke, They wavered with the jarred and wavering glaze.
The air was hushed and dreamy. Evermore A noise of running water whispered near.
