But, marking that Bill looked bitter indeed,
For his sweet tooth hungered sore,
"Consider," he saith, "that the Sweet hath need
Of the Sour, as the Sea of the Shore!
As the night to the day is our grief to our joy,
And each for its brother prepares
A banquet, Bill, that would otherwise cloy.
Thus is it with honey and bears.”
Chorus: Roses and honey and laughter would cloy !
Give us thorns, too, and sorrow and bears!
"Consider," he saith, "how by fretting a string
The lutanist maketh sweet moan,
And a bird ere it fly must have air for its wing
To buffet or fall like a stone:
Tho' you blacken like Pluto you make but more white
These blooms which not Enna could yield!
Consider, Black Bill, ere the coming of night,
The lilies," he saith, "of the field."
Chorus: "Consider, Black Bill, in this beautiful light,
The lilies," he saith, "of the field."
"Consider the claws of a Bear," said Bill,
"That can rip off the flesh from your bones,
While his belly could cabin the skipper and still
Accommodate Timothy Jones!
Why, that's where a seaman who cares for his grog
Perspires how this world isn't square!
If there's cause for a cow, if there's use for a dog,
By Pope John, there's no Sense in a Bear!"
Cause for a cow, use for a dog,
By'r Lakin, no Sense in a Bear!
But our little ship's chaplain-"Sense," quoth he,
"Hath the Bear tho' his making have none;
For, my little book saith, by the sting of this bee
Would Ursus be wholly foredone,
But, or ever the hive he adventureth nigh
And its crisp gold-crusted dome,
He lardeth his nose and he greaseth his eye
With a piece of an honey-comb."
His velvety nose and his sensitive eye
With a piece of an honey-comb.
Black Bill at the word of that golden crust
-For his ears had forgotten the roar,
And his eyes grew soft with their innocent lust-
'Gan licking his lips once more:
"Be it bound like a missal and printed as fair,
With capitals blue and red,
'Tis a lie; for what honey could comfort a bear,
Till the bear win the honey?" he said.
Chorus: "Ay, whence the first honey wherewith the first bear First larded his nose?" he said.
"Thou first metaphysical bo'sun, Bill,"
Our chaplain quizzingly cried,
"Wilt thou riddle me redes of a dumpling still
With thy 'how came the apple inside'?"
"Nay," answered Bill, "but I quest for truth,
And I find it not on your shelf!
I will face your Hyrcanian bear, forsooth,
And look at his nose myself."
Chorus: For truth, for truth, or a little sweet tooth-
I will into the woods myself.
Breast-high thro' that foam-white ocean of bloom
With its wonderful spokes of gold,
Our sun-burnt crew in the rose-red gloom
Like buccaneer galleons rolled :
Breast-high, breast-high in the lilies we stood,
And before we could say "good-night,"
Out of the valley and into the wood
He plunged thro' the last rich light.
Chorus: Out of the lilies and into the wood,
Where the Great Bear walks all night!
And our little ship's chaplain he piped thro' the trees
As the moon rose, white and still,
"Hylas, return to thy Heracles!"
And we helped him with "Come back, Bill!'
Thrice he piped it, thrice we halloo'd,
And thrice we were dumb to hark;
But never an answer came from the wood,
So we turned to our ship in the dark.
Chorus: Good-bye, Bill! you're a Didymus still;
But-you're all alone in the dark.
"This honey now"-as the first canto ceased,
Sir Francis Bacon pompously began-
"Which Pliny calleth, as it were, the swette
Of heaven, or spettle of the stars, is found
In Muscovy. Now "Bring the muscadel,"
Ben Jonson roared-""Tis a more purple drink,
And suits with the next canto!"
John Davis drained the cup, and with one hand
Beating the measure, rapidly trolled again.
Now, Rabelais, art thou quite foredone,
Dan Chaucer, Drayton, Every One!
Leave we aboard our Cloud i the Sun
This crew of pirates dreaming-
Of Angels, minted in the blue
Like golden moons, Rose-nobles, too,
As under the silver-sliding dew
Our emerald creek lay gleaming!
Under the stars lay gleaming!
And mailed with scales of gold and green
The high star-lilied banks between,
Nosing our old black hulk unseen,
Great alligators shimmered:
Blood-red jaws i' the blue-black_ooze,
Where all the long warm day they snooze,
Chewing old cuds of pirate-crews,
Around us grimly glimmered.
Their eyes like rubies glimmered.
Let us now sing of Bill, good sirs!
Follow him, all green forestéres,
Fearless of Hyrcanian bears
As of these ghostly lilies!
For O, not Drayton there could sing
Of wild Pigwiggen and his King
So merry a jest, so jolly a thing
As this my tale of Bill is.
Into the woods where Bill is!
Now starts he as a white owl hoots,
And now he stumbles over roots,
And now beneath his big sea-boots
In yon deep glade he crunches
Black cakes of honey-comb that were
So elfin-sweet, perchance, last year;
But neither Bo'sun, now, nor Bear
At that dark banquet munches.
Onward still he crunches!
Black cakes of honey-comb he sees
Above him in the forks of trees
Filled by stars instead of bees
With brimming silver glisten:
But ah, such food of gnome and fay
Could neither Bear nor Bill delay
Till where yon ferns and moon-beams play
He starts and stands to listen!
What melody doth he listen?
Is it the Night-wind as it comes
Through the wood and softly thrums
Silvery tabors, purple drums,
To speed some wild-wood revel?
Nay, Didymus, what faint sweet din
Of viol and flute and violin
Makes all the forest round thee spin,
The Night-wind or the Devil?
No doubt at all-the Devil!
He stares, with naked knife in hand,
This buccaneer in fairyland!
Dancing in a saraband
The red ferns reel about him!
Dancing in a morrice-ring
The green ferns curtsey, kiss and cling!
Their Marions flirt, their Robins fling
Their feathery heels to flout him!
The whole wood reels about him.
Dance, ye shadows! O'er the glade,
Bill, the Bo'sun, undismayed,
Pigeon-toes with glittering blade!
Drake was never bolder!
Devil or Spaniard, what cares he
Whence your eerie music be?
Till-lo, against yon old oak-tree
He leans his brawny shoulder!
He lists and leans his shoulder!
Ah, what melody doth he hear
As to that gnarled old tree-trunk there
He lays his wind-bit brass-ringed ear,
And steals his arm about it?
What Dryad could this Bo'sun win
To that slow-rippling amorous grin ?—
'Twas full of singing bees within!
Not Didymus could doubt it!
So loud they buzzed about it!
Straight, o'er a bough one leg he throws,
And up that oaken main-mast goes
With reckless red unlarded nose
And goose-berry eyes of wonder !
Till now, as in a galleon's hold,
Below, he sees great cells of gold
Whence all the hollow trunk up-rolled
A low melodious thunder.
A sweet and perilous thunder!
Ay, there, within that hollow tree,
Will Shakespeare, might'st thou truly see
The Imperial City of the Bee,
In Chrysomelan splendour!]
And, in the midst, one eight-foot dome
Swells o'er that Titan honey-comb
Where the Bee-Empress hath her home,
With such as do attend her.
Weaponed with stings attend her!
But now her singing sentinels
Have turned to sleep in waxen cells,
And Bill leans down his face and smells
The whole sweet summer's cargo-
In one deep breath, the whole year's bloom,
Lily and thyme and rose and broom,
One Golden Fleece of flower-perfume
In that old oaken Argo.
That green and golden Argo !
And now he hangs with dangling feet
Over that dark abyss of sweet,
Striving to reach such wild gold meat
As none could buy for money:
His left hand grips a swinging branch
When-crack! Our Bo'sun, stout and stanch,
Falls like an Alpine avalanche,
Feet first into the honey!
Up to his ears in honey!
And now his red un-larded nose
And bulging eyes are all that shows
Above it, as he puffs and blows!
And now-to 'scape the scathing
Of that black host of furious bees
His nose and eyes he fain would grease
And bobs below those golden seas
Like an old woman bathing.
Chorus: Old Mother Hubbard bathing!
And now he struggles, all in vain,
To reach some little bough again;
But, though he heaves with might and main,
This honey holds his ribs, sirs,
So tight, a barque might sooner try
To steer a cargo through the sky
Than Bill, thus honey-logged, to fly
By flopping of his jib, sirs!
His tops'l and his jib, sirs!
Like Oberon in the hive his beard
With wax and honey all besmeared
Would make the crescent moon afeard
That now is sailing brightly
Right o'er his leafy donjon-keep!
But that she knows him sunken deep,
And that his tower is straight and steep,
She would not smile so lightly.
Look down and smile so lightly.
She smiles in that small heavenly space,
Ringed with the tree-trunk's leafy grace,
While upward grins his ghastly face
As if some wild-wood Satyr,
Some gnomish Ptolemy should dare
Up that dark optic tube to stare,
As all unveiled she floated there,
Poor maiden moon, straight at her!
The buccaneering Satyr!
But there, till some one help him out,
Black Bill must stay, without a doubt.
Help! Help! he gives a muffled shout!
None but the white owls hear it!
Who? Whoo? they cried: Bill answers "ME!
I am stuck fast in this great tree!
Bring me a rope, good Timothy!
There's honey, lads, we'll share it!"
Ay, now he wants to share it.
Then, thinking help may come with morn,
He sinks, half-famished and out-worn,
And scarce his nose exalts its horn
Above that sea of glory!
But, even as he owns defeat,
His belly saith, “A man must eat,
And since there is none other meat,
Come, lap this mess before 'ee!"
This glorious mess before 'ee.
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