Flammonde
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he man Flammonde, from God knows where,With firm address and foreign air,With news of nations in his talkAnd something royal in his walk,With glint of iron in his eyes,But never doubt, nor yet surprise,Appeared, and stayed, and held his headAs one by kings accredited. Erect, with his alert reposeAbout him, and about his clothes,He pictured all tradition hearsOf what we owe to fifty years.His cleansing heritage of tasteParaded neither want nor waste;And what he needed for his feeTo live, he borrowed graciously. He never told us what he was,Or what mischance, or other cause,Had banished him from better daysTo play the Prince of Castaways.Meanwhile he played surpassing wellA part, for most, unplayable;In fine, one pauses, half afraidTo say for certain that he played. For that, one may as well foregoConviction as to yes or no;Nor can I say just how intenseWould then have been the differenceTo several, who, having strivenIn vain to get what he was given,Would see the stranger taken onBy friends not easy to be won. Moreover, many a malcontentHe soothed and found munificent;His courtesy beguiled and foiledSuspicion that his years were soiled;His mien distinguished any crowd,His credit strengthened when he bowed;And women, young and old, were fondOf looking at the man Flammonde. There was a woman in our townOn whom the fashion was to frown;But while our talk renewed the tingeOf a long-faded scarlet fringe,The man Flammonde saw none of that,And what he saw we wondered at--That none of us, in her distress,Could hide or find our littleness. There was a boy that all agreedHad shut within him the rare seedOf learning. We could understand,But none of us could lift a hand.The man Flammonde appraised the youth,And told a few of us the truth;And thereby, for a little gold,A flowered future was unrolled. There were two citizens who foughtFor years and years, and over nought;They made life awkward for their friends,And shortened their own dividends.The man Flammonde said what was wrongShould be made right; nor was it longBefore they were again in line,And had each other in to dine. And these I mention are but fourOf many out of many more.So much for them. But what of him--So firm in every look and limb?What small satanic sort of kinkWas in his brain? What broken linkWithheld him from the destiniesThat came so near to being his? What was he, when we came to siftHis meaning, and to note the driftOf incommunicable waysThat make us ponder while we praise?Why was it that his charm revealedSomehow the surface of a shield?What was it that we never caught?What was he, and what was he not? How much it was of him we metWe cannot ever know; nor yetShall all he gave us quite atoneFor what was his, and his alone;Nor need we now, since he knew best,Nourish an ethical unrest:Rarely at once will nature giveThe power to be Flammonde and live. We cannot know how much we learnFrom those who never will return,Until a flash of unforeseenRemembrance falls on what has been.We've each a darkening hill to climb;And this is why, from time to timeIn Tilbury Town, we look beyondHorizons for the man Flammonde.
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