 | English Roses |  |
DOCTOR JOHNSON.
Great Doctor, without thee this mighty land
Were poor indeed, nor worthy of the fate
Which built it up an archetypal State
And clothed it with the thunder of command;
To be a power no evil may withstand,
And hold its freedom open as a gate.
An army corps, an India unto thee,
Girt with the terrors of thy lexicography
And all the learning of our whole cosmography,
Were little! For thou art a banyan tree;
And to the shadow nations flock and rest,
While on thy bounty feasting they are blest.
Were poor indeed, nor worthy of the fate
Which built it up an archetypal State
And clothed it with the thunder of command;
To be a power no evil may withstand,
And hold its freedom open as a gate.
An army corps, an India unto thee,
Girt with the terrors of thy lexicography
And all the learning of our whole cosmography,
Were little! For thou art a banyan tree;
And to the shadow nations flock and rest,
While on thy bounty feasting they are blest.
Thy foibles too are grand and on one stalk
Of wit and wisdom grow, and echoes yet
The ocean music which none may forget;
Though thy mere minnows cannot choose but talk
As whales, and even thy very peasants walk
Like kings with cares of empire sore beset.
But if that vastness follows thee and makes
The geese appear black swans and mole-hills mountains,
Still deepest humour found in thee its fountains
And with the laughter now our country shakes.
Thy faults themselves were virtues, and the scars
Stand out more sweet than others and their stars.
Of wit and wisdom grow, and echoes yet
The ocean music which none may forget;
Though thy mere minnows cannot choose but talk
As whales, and even thy very peasants walk
Like kings with cares of empire sore beset.
But if that vastness follows thee and makes
The geese appear black swans and mole-hills mountains,
Still deepest humour found in thee its fountains
And with the laughter now our country shakes.
Thy faults themselves were virtues, and the scars
Stand out more sweet than others and their stars.
The smallest trifle grew beneath thy touch
Supreme, and got a brighter broader plan;
The abject slave rose up and was a man,
Remembering not that he was ever such;
Thou gavest more, if thou didst gather much
In that big orbit cosmopolitan.
For with the compass of its dreadful dower
Thy royal might dealt largely with each matter,
The short waxed tall, the threadbare subject fatter,
And barren minds from thee rushed into flower;
The beggar had not time or need to ask,
And liars heard thy roar and dropt their mask.
Supreme, and got a brighter broader plan;
The abject slave rose up and was a man,
521
Thou gavest more, if thou didst gather much
In that big orbit cosmopolitan.
For with the compass of its dreadful dower
Thy royal might dealt largely with each matter,
The short waxed tall, the threadbare subject fatter,
And barren minds from thee rushed into flower;
The beggar had not time or need to ask,
And liars heard thy roar and dropt their mask.
Come to our Feast of Letters, worthy son
Of this fair England! Take an honoured place,
Second alone to Shakspeare's wider grace
And many gifts! For thou art meet, and one
With all our richest glory dared and done,
And hast increased the splendour and the space.
Now we may drink wine from the empty skull
Of some hard publisher, who had his innings
And sucked the brains of bards for golden winnings—
Come, without thee 'tis incomplete and dull!
And here are authors meek in maiden zone,
With leisured Deans to give our table tone.
Of this fair England! Take an honoured place,
Second alone to Shakspeare's wider grace
And many gifts! For thou art meet, and one
With all our richest glory dared and done,
And hast increased the splendour and the space.
Now we may drink wine from the empty skull
Of some hard publisher, who had his innings
And sucked the brains of bards for golden winnings—
Come, without thee 'tis incomplete and dull!
And here are authors meek in maiden zone,
With leisured Deans to give our table tone.
| English Roses | |