The Poetry Corner

Telemachus versus Mentor

By Bret Harte (Francis)

Dont mind me, I beg you, old fellow, Ill do very well here alone; You must not be kept from your German because Ive dropped in like a stone. Leave all ceremony behind you, leave all thought of aught but yourself; And leave, if you like, the Madeira, and a dozen cigars on the shelf. As for me, you will say to your hostess well, I scarcely need give you a cue. Chant my praise! All will list to Apollo, though Mercury pipe to a few. Say just what you please, my dear boy; theres more eloquence lies in youths rash Outspoken heart-impulse than ever growled under this grizzling mustache. Go, don the dress coat of our tyrant, youths panoplied armor for fight, And tie the white neckcloth that rumples, like pleasure, and lasts but a night; And pray the Nine Gods to avert you what time the Three Sisters shall frown, And youll lose your high-comedy figure, and sit more at ease in your gown. Hes off! Theres his foot on the staircase. By Jove, what a bound! Really now Did I ever leap like this springald, with Loves chaplet green on my brow? Was I such an ass? No, I fancy. Indeed, I remember quite plain A gravity mixed with my transports, a cheerfulness softened my pain. Hes gone! Theres the slam of his cab door, theres the clatter of hoofs and the wheels; And while he the light toe is tripping, in this armchair Ill tilt up my heels. Hes gone, and for what? For a tremor from a waist like a teetotum spun; For a rosebud thats crumpled by many before it is gathered by one. Is there naught in the halo of youth but the glow of a passionate race Midst the cheers and applause of a crowd to the goal of a beautiful face? A race that is not to the swift, a prize that no merits enforce, But is won by some faineant youth, who shall simply walk over the course? Poor boy! shall I shock his conceit? When he talks of her cheeks loveliness, Shall I say twas the air of the room, and was due to carbonic excess? That when waltzing she drooped on his breast, and the veins of her eyelids grew dim, Twas oxygens absence she felt, but never the presence of him? Shall I tell him first love is a fraud, a weakling thats strangled in birth, Recalled with perfunctory tears, but lost in unsanctified mirth? Or shall I go bid him believe in all womankinds charm, and forget In the light ringing laugh of the world the rattlesnakes gay castanet? Shall I tear out a leaf from my heart, from that book that forever is shut On the past? Shall I speak of my first love Augusta my Lalage? But I forget. Was it really Augusta? No. Twas Lucy! No. Mary! No. Di! Never mind! they were all first and faithless, and yet Ive forgotten just why. No, no! Let him dream on and ever. Alas! he will waken too soon; And it doesnt look well for October to always be preaching at June. Poor boy! All his fond foolish trophies pinned yonder a bow from her hair, A few billets-doux, invitations, and whats this? My name, I declare! Humph! Youll come, for Ive got you a prize, with beauty and money no end: You know her, I think; twas on dit she once was engaged to your friend; But she says thats all over. Ah, is it? Sweet Ethel! incomparable maid! Or what if the thing were a trick? this letter so freely displayed! My opportune presence! No! nonsense! Will nobody answer the bell? Call a cab! Half past ten. Not too late yet. Oh, Ethel! Why dont you go? Well? Master said you would wait Hang your master! Have I ever a message to send? Yes, tell him Ive gone to the German to dance with the friend of his friend.