Collected poems | ||
518
FOR “AN APPENDIX TO THE ROWFANT LIBRARY”
(F. L. L.: IN MEMORIAM)
“His Books.” Oh yes, his Books I know,—
Each worth a monarch's ransom;
But now, beside their row on row,
I see, erect and handsome,
Each worth a monarch's ransom;
But now, beside their row on row,
I see, erect and handsome,
The courtly Owner, glass in eye,
With half-sad smile, forerunning
Some triumph of an apt reply,—
Some master-stroke of punning.
With half-sad smile, forerunning
Some triumph of an apt reply,—
Some master-stroke of punning.
Where shall we meet his like again?
Where hear, in such perfection,
Such genial talk of gods and men,—
Such store of recollection;
Where hear, in such perfection,
Such genial talk of gods and men,—
Such store of recollection;
Or where discern a verse so neat,
So well-bred and so witty,—
So finished in its least conceit,
So mixed of mirth and pity?
So well-bred and so witty,—
So finished in its least conceit,
So mixed of mirth and pity?
519
Pope taught him rhythm, Prior ease,
Praed buoyancy and banter;
What modern bard would learn from these?
Ah, tempora mutantur!
Praed buoyancy and banter;
What modern bard would learn from these?
Ah, tempora mutantur!
The old régime departs,—departs;
Our days of mime and mocker,
For all their imitative arts,
Produce no Frederick Locker.
Our days of mime and mocker,
For all their imitative arts,
Produce no Frederick Locker.
Collected poems | ||