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First Line: Nature had late a strife with art
Last Line: "and riley, and his friends, shall share it."
Subject(s): Riley, James Whitcomb (1849-1916)


NATURE had late a strife with Art
To prove which bears the worthier part
In poets' fame. The words ran high
While Justice, friend to both, stood by
To name the victor.

Nature rose,
Impressive in her artless pose,
And in a few words fitly chose
(Confined to generalities)
Pleaded the nature of the thing --
That singers born to sing must sing,
That it could not be otherwise;
Spoke of the poet's "flight of wing,"
His "flow of song," his "zephyr sighs,"
And hid in trope and allegory
A whole campaign of a priori.

Then Art began to plead her cause;
Said Nature's windy words had flaws --
That e'en the larklet soaring high
Must surely once have learned to fly
And eke to sing. Moreover, Song
Is something more than baby-prattle;
Or plow-boy's carol to the cattle;
Or love's acrostic -- though it be
Faultless (at one extremity);
Or verse that school-girls spoil a day for,
Found good to print, but not to pay for.
This well she with herself debated,
And, lacking points, elaborated,
And, like a lawyer closely pressed,
Naught having proved, assumed the rest.

But Justice, knowing how to prick
The airy globes of rhetoric,
Said, "Friends, your theories are ample,
Yet light upon the case we need,
And, me judice, she'll succeed
Who shall present the best example."

A moment both were still as death,
Then shouted "Shakespeare!" in a breath;
And then, confounded by each other
(While pondering moderated pother),
Ran down the list of English charmers,
As in a fugue of two performers:
'T was "Chaucer!" "Philip Sidney!" "Donne!"
"George Herbert!" "Milton!" "Tennyson!"
And, quick as either one would name them,
The other would be sure to claim them! --
Till Justice -- blindfold all these years
Because she can't believe her eyes --
Convinced that hearing, too, belies,
Now pulled her bandage o'er her ears.
Then Nature, in affected candor,
Renounced all ownership in Landor,
And said: "Let's both make fair returns;
I'll give you Keats -- you give me Burns."
"No, no,"said Art, "you have a fit man, --
Your whole contention lies in Whitman."
Then, she not wanting from her rival
A gift of what was hers by right,
At once there followed a revival
Of acrimony -- till in fright
Pale Justice, with a sly suggestion
Of dining, moved the previous question.
But Nature, conscious of her force,
Had in reserve a shrewd resource,
And, while the judgment hung uncertain,
She quickly drew aside a curtain,
And, full of confidence, said dryly:
"I rest my case on Whitcomb Riley!
And further to enforce my right,
He has consented to recite,
That all may see by how large part
He has possession of my heart."
. . .
Five minutes! and the wager's o'er:
A ballad, homely, simple, true --
And then, and ever after, you
See Nature as you'd ne'er before.
First is the kind eye's twinkling ray
So lit with human sympathy
That, kindled by its flash, you say
Humor's the true democracy.
The next note's deeper -- there's no guile
Mixed with the shrewdness of that smile
That breaks from sadness into joy --
The man's glad memory of the boy.
Then tears, ah! they are Nature's rain,
The tears of love and death and grief
And rapture -- the divine relief
That gives us back the sun again.
. . .
No more need Nature nurse her fears,
For look! e'en Art herself's in tears,
And in the general acclaim
The jade has nigh forgot her name.
Yet has she left one arrow more,
And, proudly rising to the floor,
"Not yet, "she says, "for what you take
For Nature's work is mine, who make
Jewels of stones that else would lie
Unnoticed 'neath the searching sky.
Receive the secret -- mine your tears:
He's been my pupil fifteen years!"

Then Justice said: "Since there's no winner,
'T is fair the two should pay a dinner;
Nature shall furnish, Art prepare it,
And Riley, and his friends, shall share it."





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