Complete Works of Lewis Carroll (125 page)

FOUR RIDDLES

[These consist of two Double Acrostics and two Charades.

No.
I.
was written at the request of some young friends, who had gone to a ball at an Oxford Commemoration - and also as a specimen of what might be done by making the Double Acrostic
a connected
poem
instead of what it has hitherto been, a string of disjointed stanzas, on every conceivable subject, and about as interesting to read straight through as a page of a Cyclopaedia.  The first two stanzas describe the two main words, and each subsequent stanza one of the cross “lights.”

No.
II.
was written after seeing Miss Ellen Terry perform in the play of “Hamlet.”  In this case the first stanza describes the two main words.

No.
III.
was written after seeing Miss Marion Terry perform in Mr.
Gilbert’s play of “Pygmalion and Galatea.”  The three stanzas respectively describe “My First,” “My Second,” and “My Whole.”]

I

There was an ancient City, stricken down

With a strange frenzy, and for many a day

They paced from morn to eve the crowded town,

And danced the night away.

I asked the cause: the aged man grew sad:

They pointed to a building gray and tall,

And hoarsely answered “Step inside, my lad,

And then you’ll see it all.”

* * * *

Yet what are all such gaieties to me

Whose thoughts are full of indices and surds?

x*x + 7x
+
53 = 11/3

But something whispered “It will soon be done:

Bands cannot always play, nor ladies smile:

Endure with patience the distasteful fun

For just a little while!”

A change came o’er my Vision - it was night:

We clove a pathway through a frantic throng:

The steeds, wild-plunging, filled us with affright:

The chariots whirled along.

Within a marble hall a river ran -

A living tide, half muslin and half cloth:

And here one mourned a broken wreath or fan,

Yet swallowed down her wrath;

And here one offered to a thirsty fair

(His words half-drowned amid those thunders tuneful)

Some frozen viand (there were many there),

A tooth-ache in each spoonful.

There comes a happy pause, for human strength

Will not endure to dance without cessation;

And every one must reach the point at length

Of absolute prostration.

At such a moment ladies learn to give,

To partners who would urge them over-much,

A flat and yet decided negative -

Photographers love such.

There comes a welcome summons - hope revives,

And fading eyes grow bright, and pulses quicken:

Incessant pop the corks, and busy knives

Dispense the tongue and chicken.

Flushed with new life, the crowd flows back again:

And all is tangled talk and mazy motion -

Much like a waving field of golden grain,

Or a tempestuous ocean.

And thus they give the time, that Nature meant

For peaceful sleep and meditative snores,

To ceaseless din and mindless merriment

And waste of shoes and floors.

And One (we name him not) that flies the flowers,

That dreads the dances, and that shuns the salads,

They doom to pass in solitude the hours,

Writing acrostic-ballads.

How late it grows!  The hour is surely past

That should have warned us with its double knock?

The twilight wanes, and morning comes at last -

“Oh, Uncle, what’s o’clock?”

The Uncle gravely nods, and wisely winks.

It
may
mean much, but how is one to know?

He opens his mouth - yet out of it, methinks,

No words of wisdom flow.

II

Empress of Art, for thee I twine

This wreath with all too slender skill.

Forgive my Muse each halting line,

And for the deed accept the will!

* * * *

O day of tears!  Whence comes this spectre grim,

Parting, like Death’s cold river, souls that love?

Is not he bound to thee, as thou to him,

By vows, unwhispered here, yet heard above?

And still it lives, that keen and heavenward flame,

Lives in his eye, and trembles in his tone:

And these wild words of fury but proclaim

A heart that beats for thee, for thee alone!

But all is lost: that mighty mind o’erthrown,

Like sweet bells jangled, piteous sight to see!

“Doubt that the stars are fire,” so runs his moan,

“Doubt Truth herself, but not my love for thee!”

A sadder vision yet: thine aged sire

Shaming his hoary locks with treacherous wile!

And dost thou now doubt Truth to be a liar?

And wilt thou die, that hast forgot to smile?

Nay, get thee hence!  Leave all thy winsome ways

And the faint fragrance of thy scattered flowers:

In holy silence wait the appointed days,

And weep away the leaden-footed hours.

III.

The air is bright with hues of light

And rich with laughter and with singing:

Young hearts beat high in ecstasy,

And banners wave, and bells are ringing:

But silence falls with fading day,

And there’s an end to mirth and play.

Ah, well-a-day

Rest your old bones, ye wrinkled crones!

The kettle sings, the firelight dances.

Deep be it quaffed, the magic draught

That fills the soul with golden fancies!

For Youth and Pleasance will not stay,

And ye are withered, worn, and gray.

Ah, well-a-day!

O fair cold face!  O form of grace,

For human passion madly yearning!

O weary air of dumb despair,

From marble won, to marble turning!

“Leave us not thus!”
we fondly pray.

“We cannot let thee pass away!”

Ah, well-a-day!

IV.

My First is singular at best:

More plural is my Second:

My Third is far the pluralest -

So plural-plural, I protest

It scarcely can be reckoned!

My First is followed by a bird:

My Second by believers

In magic art: my simple Third

Follows, too often, hopes absurd

And plausible deceivers.

My First to get at wisdom tries -

A failure melancholy!

My Second men revered as wise:

My Third from heights of wisdom flies

To depths of frantic folly.

My First is ageing day by day:

My Second’s age is ended:

My Third enjoys an age, they say,

That never seems to fade away,

Through centuries extended.

My Whole?  I need a poet’s pen

To paint her myriad phases:

The monarch, and the slave, of men -

A mountain-summit, and a den

Of dark and deadly mazes -

A flashing light - a fleeting shade -

Beginning, end, and middle

Of all that human art hath made

Or wit devised!  Go, seek
her
aid,

If you would read my riddle!

FAME’S PENNY-TRUMPET

[Affectionately dedicated to all “original researchers” who pant for “endowment.”]

Blow, blow your trumpets till they crack,

Ye little men of little souls!

And bid them huddle at your back -

Gold-sucking leeches, shoals on shoals!

Fill all the air with hungry wails -

“Reward us, ere we think or write!

Without your Gold mere Knowledge fails

To sate the swinish appetite!”

And, where great Plato paced serene,

Or Newton paused with wistful eye,

Rush to the chace with hoofs unclean

And Babel-clamour of the sty

Be yours the pay: be theirs the praise:

We will not rob them of their due,

Nor vex the ghosts of other days

By naming them along with you.

They sought and found undying fame:

They toiled not for reward nor thanks:

Their cheeks are hot with honest shame

For you, the modern mountebanks!

Who preach of Justice - plead with tears

That Love and Mercy should abound -

While marking with complacent ears

The moaning of some tortured hound:

Who prate of Wisdom - nay, forbear,

Lest Wisdom turn on you in wrath,

Trampling, with heel that will not spare,

The vermin that beset her path!

Go, throng each other’s drawing-rooms,

Ye idols of a petty clique:

Strut your brief hour in borrowed plumes,

And make your penny-trumpets squeak.

Deck your dull talk with pilfered shreds

Of learning from a nobler time,

And oil each other’s little heads

With mutual Flattery’s golden slime:

And when the topmost height ye gain,

And stand in Glory’s ether clear,

And grasp the prize of all your pain -

So many hundred pounds a year -

Then let Fame’s banner be unfurled!

Sing Paeans for a victory won!

Ye tapers, that would light the world,

And cast a shadow on the Sun -

Who still shall pour His rays sublime,

One crystal flood, from East to West,

When
ye
have burned your little time

And feebly flickered into rest!

THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK

This nonsense poem in eight parts was first published in 1874.  The poem borrows occasionally from Carroll's short poem
Jabberwocky
in
Through the Looking-Glass
, also featuring strange creatures and portmanteau words, with illustrations by Henry Holiday.

The first edition