 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
“DECLINED WITH THANKS.”
What is all this endless prating,
Babblement from morn till night,
Fools with brother fools debating,
How to make the wrongful right?
Only just the same dull chatter,
Still about the same dull things,
Each new nasty mess or matter,
Each new nasty season brings?
Darkness, welcomed as a portal,
For the slippery boards and banks,
And the light with truth immortal,
That might save—“Declined with thanks.”
Babblement from morn till night,
Fools with brother fools debating,
How to make the wrongful right?
Only just the same dull chatter,
Still about the same dull things,
Each new nasty mess or matter,
Each new nasty season brings?
360
For the slippery boards and banks,
And the light with truth immortal,
That might save—“Declined with thanks.”
Why is all this weary walking,
Up and down the well-known mount,
Dipping, with the usual talking,
From the well-known muddy fount?
Nothing done but idle sinning,
Wasted pounds and hoarded pence.
And the stale old work beginning,
With the stale old impotence?
Drain upon the dwindling coffers
Fostered, though they leave such blanks,
And the great unselfish offers
Fain to bless,—“Declined with thanks.”
Up and down the well-known mount,
Dipping, with the usual talking,
From the well-known muddy fount?
Nothing done but idle sinning,
Wasted pounds and hoarded pence.
And the stale old work beginning,
With the stale old impotence?
Drain upon the dwindling coffers
Fostered, though they leave such blanks,
And the great unselfish offers
Fain to bless,—“Declined with thanks.”
Whence the love of scoff or scandal,
If but black enough a lie,
Games that are not worth the candle,
While they let a nation die?
Study of unworthy trifles,
Pattern of a glove or boot,
Toys in bayonets or rifles,
That will break or cannot shoot?
For the wealthy knave promotion,
Though a coward in the ranks,
And the hero's grand devotion
Of a life—“Declined with thanks.”
If but black enough a lie,
Games that are not worth the candle,
While they let a nation die?
Study of unworthy trifles,
Pattern of a glove or boot,
Toys in bayonets or rifles,
That will break or cannot shoot?
For the wealthy knave promotion,
Though a coward in the ranks,
And the hero's grand devotion
Of a life—“Declined with thanks.”
Who has strength to hold the rudder,
Now the waters rise to whelm,
And with not a doubt or shudder,
Will stand steadfast at the helm?
Who is tainted not with leaven,
That is poison to a State,
And has still belief in Heaven,
To control a people's fate?
Who can pierce through falsehood's mystery
Padding its poor shrunken shanks,
Though to faith which made our history,
Thousands cry—“Declined with thanks.”
Now the waters rise to whelm,
And with not a doubt or shudder,
Will stand steadfast at the helm?
Who is tainted not with leaven,
That is poison to a State,
And has still belief in Heaven,
To control a people's fate?
Who can pierce through falsehood's mystery
Padding its poor shrunken shanks,
Though to faith which made our history,
Thousands cry—“Declined with thanks.”
When shall men to Good give hearty
Homage, as their fathers trod,
Sink not principle in party
And unite to serve their God?
When will leaders really ruling,
Hold not sacred honour cheap,
Leave not lands the prey to fooling,
While we sow and others reap?
When will statesmen heed the anguish,
Where the labour's fetter clanks,
Think it shame that prophets languish,
Hearing but—“Declined with thanks”?
Homage, as their fathers trod,
Sink not principle in party
And unite to serve their God?
When will leaders really ruling,
Hold not sacred honour cheap,
Leave not lands the prey to fooling,
While we sow and others reap?
361
Where the labour's fetter clanks,
Think it shame that prophets languish,
Hearing but—“Declined with thanks”?
Whither is our England drifting,
As she turns a darker page,
By the shabby ways of shifting,
From her glorious anchorage?
Whither all the aimless babble,
Of the same familiar text,
Wild appealings from one rabble
Of electors, to the next?
Whither is our grandour falling,
While the enemy our flanks
Threatens, and our guides are calling
To true help,—“Declined with thanks?”
As she turns a darker page,
By the shabby ways of shifting,
From her glorious anchorage?
Whither all the aimless babble,
Of the same familiar text,
Wild appealings from one rabble
Of electors, to the next?
Whither is our grandour falling,
While the enemy our flanks
Threatens, and our guides are calling
To true help,—“Declined with thanks?”
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |