'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition

So here I am, within these storied stones,
To choose a place for my illustrious bones
To rest, among the dead who had their fling,
And lived and cheated subject fools and king,
(As is my lot), and having had their day
And done their best (or worst) then passed away
Devoutly, or with the convenient aid
Of other adverbs, when the debt was paid.
And I am quite as good as any here.
Though my leaf may be getting somewhat sere
And sickly. Never mind! The yellow tones
Will not appear in the distinguished stones
Wherein I still can lie, as I have all
These fifty years, while I kept the great ball
Going. My features have the classic turn,
And will look glorious o'er a funeral urn
Of marble.

Hang those precious busts!
One lifts a foot, and one a finger thrusts
Indignant at me; just because they failed
To ruin England, and I have prevailed,
I have succeeded. How they seem to frown,
As if I came to cut the nonsense down
Of their untrue memorials! I could find
A joy in trimming them more to my mind,
And mending histories that my patience tax,
If I had only brought my trusty axe.
Confound that ugly knave, that Chatham there,
Whose angry ghost must meet me everywhere,
And haunts like conscience that I cannot kill—
So you are there, and you accuse me still!
I hate you, I defy you: out with fear,
While I have got the purblind people's ear,
And keep it! I shall fill a larger space
In public memory, than your threatening face.

Come, let me now be still. He cannot harm,
Although he knits his brow, and shakes his arm.
“Let's talk of tombs, of worms,” and mortal state,
It does one good at times to meditate
On death—I mean the death of others—fools,
Who were awhile my honoured toys and tools—
Not on my own: for Proteus cannot die,
If in this Temple he hereafter lie.
I've followed to the end my settled plan,
And killed them all, and buried the last man—
For duty's sake I packed them in the shell
Myself, poor Morley, Spencer, Harcourt, and Parnell
And all the rest. I undertaker am;

506

I snap my fingers now at Birmingham,
And Manchester, that bullied me so long,
With their eternal drivelling Caucus song,
And cant about the people's rights and cheer,
Who do not want more freedom but more beer.
This is a pleasant place, and fit for me:
How beautiful and blest it is to be,
Or rather not to be—it's all the same—
When you have neatly rounded off your Fame,
And got the headstone ready, and the Book
(Like magic views) through which the world shall look,
And read the picture done by your own hand,
With every shadow toned to the demand
Of eager dupes! And yet it's nice to live,
To show at least you never do forgive—
To teach the children in the Sunday schools,
And thunder lessons to religious fools
Who come to Church and never had a doubt,
And then to go away and feel devout
For half an hour! It's really quite divine,
So long as they don't ask me to resign,
Or even share my empire with some ass
Who sees the world through one small looking-glass,
And not through many. I will live and die
For my dear country, sunder every tie,
But this of Office; here the line I draw;
My service still shall be without the flaw
Of such a weakness. England's general voice
Chose me as chief, and I accept the choice,
But now what shall I do? The season calls,
And echoes answer from the holy walls.
My epitaph I'll write, and be no debtor
To ignorant men: and who could do it better?

EPITAPH.

“His acts were many, but his fame was most
That naught could shake his grasp of Duty's post;
And though he often shifted form and plan,
Yet he remained through all the Grand Old Man.”

University of Virginia Library

PROTEUS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

EPITAPH.