The Battle of the Bays Part 1

The Battle of the Bays.

by Owen Seaman.

I. THE BATTLE OF THE BAYS.

1.

A SONG OF RENUNCIATION.

(AFTER A. C. S.)

In the days of my season of salad, When the down was as dew on my cheek, And for French I was bred on the ballad, For Greek on the writers of Greek,-- Then I sang of the rose that is ruddy, Of 'pleasure that winces and stings,'

Of white women and wine that is b.l.o.o.d.y, And similar things.

Of Delight that is dear as Desi-er, And Desire that is dear as Delight; Of the fangs of the flame that is fi-er, Of the bruises of kisses that bite; Of embraces that clasp and that sever, Of blushes that flutter and flee Round the limbs of Dolores, whoever Dolores may be.

I sang of false faith that is fleeting As froth of the swallowing seas, Time's curse that is fatal as Keating Is fatal to amorous fleas; Of the wanness of woe that is whelp of The l.u.s.t that is blind as a bat-- By the help of my Muse and the help of The relative THAT.

Panatheist, bruiser and breaker Of kings and the creatures of kings, I shouted on Freedom to shake her Feet loose of the fetter that clings; Far rolling my ravenous red eye, And lifting a mutinous lid, To all monarchs and matrons I said I Would shock them--and did.

Thee I sang, and thy loves, O Thala.s.sian, O 'n.o.ble and nude and antique!'

Unashamed in the 'fearless old fas.h.i.+on'

Ere was.h.i.+ng was done by the week; When the 'roses and rapture' that girt you Were visions of delicate vice, And the 'lilies and languors of virtue'

Not nearly so nice.

O delights of the time of my teething, Felise, Fragoletta, Yolande!

Foam-yeast of a youth in its seething On blasted and blithering sand!

Snake-crowned on your tresses and belted With blossoms that coil and decay, Ye are gone; ye are lost; ye are melted Like ices in May.

Hushed now is the bibulous bubble Of 'lithe and lascivious' throats; Long stript and extinct is the stubble Of h.o.a.ry and harvested oats; From the sweets that are sour as the sorrel's The bees have abortively swarmed; And Algernon's earlier morals Are fairly reformed.

I have written a loyal Armada, And posed in a Jubilee pose; I have babbled of babies and played a New tune on the turn of their toes; Washed white from the stain of Astarte, My books any virgin may buy; And I hear I am praised by a party Called Something Mackay!

When erased are the records, and rotten The meshes of memory's net; When the grace that forgives has forgotten The things that are good to forget; When the trill of my juvenile trumpet Is dead and its echoes are dead; Then the laurel shall lie on the crumpet And crown of my head!

2.

FOR THE ALb.u.mS OF CROWNED HEADS ONLY.

(AFTER SIR E. A.)

1. _From the third Sa'dine Box of the eighth Gazelle of Ghazal._

Ya Ya! Best-Beloved! I look to thy dimples and drink; Tiddlihi! to thy cheek-pits and chin-pit, my Tulip, my Pink!

See my heart rises up like a bubble, and bursts in my throat, And the dimples that draw it are Three, like the Men in a Boat.

Thrice Three are the Muses, and I that begat her should guess That the Tenth is the TELE-EPHEMERA, Pride of the PRESS!

And the Graces were triplets till lately the fruitful Diti Propagated a Fourth, and the infant was W. G.

From my post of Propinquity p.r.o.ne on my languorous knees My tears slither down like the Gum of Arabia's trees.

"Am I drunk?" Heart-Entangler! By Hafiz, the Blender of Squis.h.!.+

'Tis the camel that sits on the prayer-mat is drunk as a fish.

As I hope for the future Uprising, deny it who can, Two years I have worn the Blue Ribbon, come next Ramadan!

Chest-Preserver! thou knowest thine eyes, they alone, are my drink, Blue-black as the sloes of the Garden or Stephens his Ink.

On thy sugar-sweet liplets, my Cypress! I browse like a bee, And am aching, as after a surfeit of Melon, for thee!

Low laid at thy feet--little feet--in the dust like a worm, Round the train of thy skirt, O my Peac.o.c.k, I fitfully squirm.

By Allah! I swoon, I rotate, I am sickly of hue!

And the Infidel swore that Jam-Jam was a Temperance brew!

Heart-Punisher! Surely I think it was jalapped with gin!

Aha! Paradise! I am pa.s.sing! So be it! Amin!

2. _From a little thing by the Princess Onono Goawai._

The bulbul hummeth like a book Upon the pooh-pooh tree, And now and then he takes a look At you and me, At me and you.

Kuchi!

Kuchoo!

3. _From the Sanskrit of Matabiliwaijo._

Wind! a word with thee! thou goest where my Well-Preserved lies On her bed of bonny briers keeping off the wicked flies.

Thou shalt know her by th' aroma of her bosom, which is musk, And her ivories that glisten like an elephantine tusk.

Seek her coral-guarded tympanum and whisper "Poppinjai!"

And (referring to her lover) kindly add "A-lal-lal-lai!"

Breeze! thou knowest my condition; state it broadly, if you please, In a smattering of Indo-Turco-Perso-j.a.panese.

Say my youth is flitting freely, and before the season goes From the garden of my Tutsi I am fain to pluck a rose.

Tell her I'm a wanton Sufi (what a Sufi really is She may know, perhaps--I count it one of Allah's mysteries).

Fly, O blessed Breeze, and hither bring me back the net result; Fly as flies the rude mosquito from Abdullah's catapult.

Fly as flies the rusty rickshaw of the Kurumayasan, When he scents a Hippopotam down the groves of Gulistan.