Lapsus Calami (Aug 1891)/To B. H. H.
To B. H. H.
(On his travels).
And will thy travels never end?And wilt thou not return, my friend?Shall Piccadilly never more,Amid the busses' daily roar,Where prowls the Baron's stately goat,Thy philosophic footfall note?Nor ever will the Savile's boardThe dainties of the hour affordTo one grave form amid the BabelWhich girds that lofty-minded table?
Come for we miss thee. That slow smileHas failed us now too long a while:That network of ingenious phraseSuggesting more than what it says:The literary epigramWhich gracefully unmasks a sham,Or else awards judicious praiseTo one who earns but wears not bays,Are lacking in our midst, and weDrift, rudderless, about a seaOf conversation unadornedBy him whose absence long we've mourned. Come: for I need you: more or lessBecause I love to play at chess;Partly because I want to knowYour views about a book or so,Which I have published, or intendTo publish most of all, my friend,Because I found thy converse sweet,Thy fellowship a joy complete,And life is short and art is long,And still the absent suffer wrong.
I know not where thy footsteps stray,Nor what the ordering of thy day:If now thy graceful shallop slipsAmid the gorgeous Eastern ships,Where some vast river makes a laneAcross the forest-hidden plain:If, stretched upon a soft divan,You lounge, as orientals can,And trace the rings of fragrant smokeOne graceful moment soar unbroke;While, lo, the wordless KitmagarPresents the welcome waterjar,And swart Chuprassis stand at ease,Beneath umbrageous banyan trees:If now perchance the crescent moonHangs high, at night's reposeful noon,Against a gloomy purple sky,Star-studded in its majesty,While slow you walk alone, and deepIn thoughts that bring more rest than sleep. Come, anyhow: if not to findAn occupation to thy mind,Nor yet a Fortunatus' purse,Nor any cure for any curse:Come, talk, live, marry, work, write, sing;Be eloquent on anything:Be active in whatever line:And if a sun less splendid shine,And vegetation less profuse,And persons worthier of abuse,Are found with us than now with you;Still, though our merits may be few,We are at least thy friends of youth,Thy fellow-seekers after truth,Thy fellow-talkers, fellow-bards,Thy fellows still in all regards;So turn again towards the West,And grasp their hands who love you best.