 | Collected poems |  |
524
THE BALLAD OF THE BORE
“Garrulus hunc quando consumet cunque.”
—Hor. Sat. ix. lii.
I see him come from far,
And, sick with hopelessness,
Invoke some kindly star,—
I see him come, not less.
Is there no sure recess
Where hunted men may lie?
Ye Gods, it is too hard!
I feel his glittering eye,—
Defend us from The Bard!
And, sick with hopelessness,
Invoke some kindly star,—
I see him come, not less.
Is there no sure recess
Where hunted men may lie?
Ye Gods, it is too hard!
I feel his glittering eye,—
Defend us from The Bard!
He knows nor let nor bar:
With ever-nearing stress,
Like Juggernaut his car,
I see him onward press;
He waves a huge MS.;
He puts evasion by,
He stands—as one on guard,
And reads—how volubly!—
Defend us from The Bard!
With ever-nearing stress,
Like Juggernaut his car,
I see him onward press;
He waves a huge MS.;
He puts evasion by,
He stands—as one on guard,
And reads—how volubly!—
Defend us from The Bard!
525
He reads—of Fates that mar,
Of Woes beyond redress,
Of all the Moons that are,
Of Maids that never bless
(As one, indeed, might guess);
Of Vows, of Hopes too high,
Of Dolours by the yard
That none believe (nor buy),—
Defend us from The Bard!
Of Woes beyond redress,
Of all the Moons that are,
Of Maids that never bless
(As one, indeed, might guess);
Of Vows, of Hopes too high,
Of Dolours by the yard
That none believe (nor buy),—
Defend us from The Bard!
Envoy.
Prince Phœbus, all must die,Or well- or evil-starred,
Or whole of heart or scarred;
But why in this way—why?
Defend us from The Bard!
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