Public Domain Poetry And Stories - Mr. MacCall at Cleveland Hall by James Thomson - (Bysshe Vanolis)
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Mr. MacCall at Cleveland Hall

    By James Thomson - (Bysshe Vanolis)



    Mr. MacCall at Cleveland Hall,
    Sunday evening-date to fix
    Fifteenth April, sixty-six,
    Speech reported and redacted
    By a fellow much distracted.


I

    Who lectures? No mere scorner;
    Clear-brained, his heart is warm.

    She sits at the nearest comer
    Of I will not say what form.


II

    The Conflict of Opinions
    In the Present Day, saith Chair.

    What muff in the British dominions
    Could dispute that she is fair?

III

    Mammon-worship is horrid,
    Plutocracy is base.

    Dark hair from a fine small forehead;
    I catch but the still side face.



    The WeatherPixie

IV

    We wallow in mere dimension,
    The Big to us is Great.

    If she stood at her utmost tension
    She might pass four feet eight.


V

    We lay on colour in splashes,
    With a mop, or a broom for brush.

    How dark are her long eyelashes!
    How pure is her cheek's slight flush!

VI

    But we have no perception
    For form-the divinest-now.

    Each curve there is perfection,
    In nostril, chin, and brow.


VI

    Our women are good kind creatures,
    But they cannot dress at all.

    Does her bonnet grace her features?
    Clear blue with a black lace fall.


VIII

    Low Church-very low-in the gutter;
    High Church-as ven'son high.

    O'er the flower of her face gleams the flutter
    Of a smile like a butterfly.


IX

    Herder, Wieland, Lessing;
    Bossuet, Montalembert.

    Fine names, but the name worth guessing
    Is the name of the sweet girl there.

    The individual; true man;
    Individuality.

    A man's but one half, some woman
    The other half must be.


XI

    Persistent valour the sternest,
    With love's most gentle grace.

    How grand is the eye fixed earnest
    In the half-seen up-turned face!


XII

    'How did you like the lecture?
    Was it not beautiful?'

    I should think she was! 'I conjecture
    That your brains have been gathering wool!'


P. S.

    The Chairman was a rare man;
    At every telling point
    He smiled at his post like a jolly host
    Carving rich cuts from the joint;
    Which the name he bore was Richard Moore
    Whom Heaven with grace anoint!

    That conflict of opinion
    It had its counterpart
    In conflict for dominion
    Between my head and heart.



Extra Info:
April 15, 1866


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