 | The White Pilgrim and Other Poems |  |
179
RHYMES FOR THE TIMES.
181
A WINTER'S TALE.
The wretched world has had enough
Of snow and ice, and quantum suff,
Altogether,
Of floundering over field and park,
And shivering through the light and dark,
And vain petitions to the clerk
Of the weather.
Of snow and ice, and quantum suff,
Altogether,
Of floundering over field and park,
And shivering through the light and dark,
And vain petitions to the clerk
Of the weather.
I try to keep the cold at bay,
By storing brandy night and day
In my cupboard;
And every pretty girl I meet
Wants to avoid me in the street,
Because her nose is red, and feet
India-rubbered.
By storing brandy night and day
In my cupboard;
And every pretty girl I meet
Wants to avoid me in the street,
Because her nose is red, and feet
India-rubbered.
Man likes his skating for a bit,
But grows a little tired of it;
Si sic semper,
Although both amiable and mild,
And very gentle from a child,
It strikes me that I may get riled
In my temper.
But grows a little tired of it;
Si sic semper,
Although both amiable and mild,
And very gentle from a child,
It strikes me that I may get riled
In my temper.
182
Next must the times return again,
When on the wooden heads of men
Down there fell huge
Torrents of rain—the largest out,
As Yankees say—in fact, about
The worst recorded waterspout,
Called the Deluge?
When on the wooden heads of men
Down there fell huge
Torrents of rain—the largest out,
As Yankees say—in fact, about
The worst recorded waterspout,
Called the Deluge?
Then did the globe, they say, become
A sort of large Aquarium,
And their senses
The finned and feathered tribes forsook;
The thrushes swam by hook or crook,
And all the little fishes took
All the fences.
A sort of large Aquarium,
And their senses
The finned and feathered tribes forsook;
The thrushes swam by hook or crook,
And all the little fishes took
All the fences.
If Father Thames should overflow
His banks for just a month or so?
And unsparing
Of Beauty's self, upset the King-ston
Waterworks, that lovely thing,
Or the fair bridge to ruin bring
Down at Charing!
His banks for just a month or so?
And unsparing
Of Beauty's self, upset the King-ston
Waterworks, that lovely thing,
Or the fair bridge to ruin bring
Down at Charing!
Whom shall we call on to assuage
The Winter-God's resistless rage,
Even while foemen
Of savage race destroy the flower
Of England's youth, and all the power
Of Evil round us seems to lower?
Absit omen!
The Winter-God's resistless rage,
Even while foemen
Of savage race destroy the flower
Of England's youth, and all the power
Of Evil round us seems to lower?
Absit omen!
183
The good Sir Walter's moral ran,
How swift and sure from Folly man
Into Sin goes;
Kind Heaven, the cup of Reason mix,
And save us from the conjuring tricks,
And blood-and-thunder politics
Of the Jingoes!
How swift and sure from Folly man
Into Sin goes;
Kind Heaven, the cup of Reason mix,
And save us from the conjuring tricks,
And blood-and-thunder politics
Of the Jingoes!
February, 1879.
184
HÄCKEL OF JENA.
[_]
(A dinner was given last night to Professor Häckel of Jena by French savants. In his speech, as reported in the Temp, he expressed gratification at the progress of evolutionist ideas among French men of science, and remarked that professors and preachers who ridiculed man's descent from the ape unwittingly furnished the best proof of it, their pride and childish vanity being foibles which might have been bequeathed by the ape. Man, however, did not descend from any known anthropoid, but was a branch of the catarhine monkeys of the Old World. The continuity of nature was daily becoming more evident, and superstition, mysticism, and teleology would give way to reason, causality, and mechanism. Among philosophic minds, at least, the believers in final causes of the universe, immutability of species, sterility of bastards, geological cataclysms, successive creations, and the late appearance of man were dying out. The primitive life-organisms were formed chemically by spontaneous generation at the bottom of the sea, like saline crystals in water. Nohow else could the origin of life be explained. Lamarck and Darwin had struck the last blow at the doctrine of final causes, and modern morphology was irreconcilable not only with the dogma of the Creation, but with that of Providence, or the vague idealist pantheism of Hegel, Schopenhauer, and Hartmann. The transformation of living organisms under the influence of adaptation, hereditary selection, and struggle for existence could not, indeed, be mathematically demonstrated, but its existence could not be doubted any more than psychology or social science, and anomalies would soon be explained by the laws of mechanics were all the elements procurable; but the instability of the elements constituting the tissue of organised beings made biological problems very complex. The speech was much applauded.— Times Paris correspondence, 30th August, 1879.)
Power to thine elbow, thou newest of sciences!
All the old landmarks are ripe for decay;
Wars are but shadows, and so are alliances;
Häckel of Jena's the man of the day.
All the old landmarks are ripe for decay;
Wars are but shadows, and so are alliances;
Häckel of Jena's the man of the day.
185
All other ologies want an apology;
Bread's a mistake—science offers a stone;
Nothing is true but anthropobiology:
Häckel of J. understands it alone.
Bread's a mistake—science offers a stone;
Nothing is true but anthropobiology:
Häckel of J. understands it alone.
Häckel the real evolutionist teacher is,
Licking morphology clean into shape:
Lord, what an ape the professor or preacher is,
Ever to doubt his descent from an ape!
Licking morphology clean into shape:
Lord, what an ape the professor or preacher is,
Ever to doubt his descent from an ape!
“Children are you in your pride and your vanity,
If you can laugh at a word that I say;
Naught in the world but the sheerest insanity
Questions my apehood,” quoth Häckel of J.
If you can laugh at a word that I say;
Naught in the world but the sheerest insanity
Questions my apehood,” quoth Häckel of J.
“Man's an anthropoid (he cannot help that, you know),
First evoluted from Häckels of old;
He's but a branch of the catarh-ine cat, you know—
Monkey, I mean—that's an ape with a cold!
First evoluted from Häckels of old;
He's but a branch of the catarh-ine cat, you know—
Monkey, I mean—that's an ape with a cold!
“Daily is Nature's revealed Conte-inuity
Pulling Causality's nose into joint;
All Teleology's but incongruity
(What it all means is not now to the point).
Pulling Causality's nose into joint;
All Teleology's but incongruity
(What it all means is not now to the point).
“Species loses its immutability;
Minds philosophic see naught in a cause;
Bastard Sterility's mere imbecility:
Häckel's remarks must be taken as laws.
Minds philosophic see naught in a cause;
Bastard Sterility's mere imbecility:
Häckel's remarks must be taken as laws.
186
“Fast dying out are man's later appearances,
Cataclysmitic geologies gone—
Now of Creation completed the clearance is:
Häckel of J. you must anchor upon.
Cataclysmitic geologies gone—
Now of Creation completed the clearance is:
Häckel of J. you must anchor upon.
“Primitive Life-Organisms were chemical,
‘Busting' spontaneous under the sea;
Purely subaqueous, panaquademical,
Was the original Crystal of Me!
‘Busting' spontaneous under the sea;
Purely subaqueous, panaquademical,
Was the original Crystal of Me!
“I'm the apostle of mighty Darwinity
(Stands for Divinity—sounds much the same),
Apo-theistico-Panasininity
Only can doubt whence the lot of us came.
(Stands for Divinity—sounds much the same),
Apo-theistico-Panasininity
Only can doubt whence the lot of us came.
“Down on your knees, Superstition and Flunkeydom;
Can't you accept my plain doctrines instead?
What is so simple as primitive Monkeydom,
Born in the sea with a cold in its head?
Can't you accept my plain doctrines instead?
What is so simple as primitive Monkeydom,
Born in the sea with a cold in its head?
“Häckel's the man! but whatever the issue of
This comprehensible practical creed,
Still I'm afraid the demonstrable tissue of
Organised beings is complex indeed!”
This comprehensible practical creed,
Still I'm afraid the demonstrable tissue of
Organised beings is complex indeed!”
Häckel was silent; they loudly applauded him,
Highly commended his utterance tall;
All evolution respectfully lauded him—
Then it was over. What came of it all?
Highly commended his utterance tall;
All evolution respectfully lauded him—
Then it was over. What came of it all?
187
WH*STL*R v. R*SK*N.
ON A CERTAIN CAUSE CÉLÉBRE, 1879.
Thy Wh*stl*r's wrath, to Art the unfathomed spring
Of woes on woes, æsthetic goddess, sing!
Sing how he battled, that Columbian bold,
For outraged symphonies in black and gold;
His puny critic in full court would meet,
And laid his wrongs before the judgment-seat.
Should he, in might before his easel set,
Outwork the rapid hand of Tintoret?
Lend with a touch to Chelsea's glowing skies
A richer hue than Titian's mightiest dyes?
Out-Raphael Raphael in a blaze of power?
Bid canvas live for ever in an hour?
For Beauty's sake defy heraldic rules,
And quarter scarlet on a field of gules?
And pour before a world tradition-sated,
In strains profuse, art unpremeditated?
Should he do this, and more, yet knuckle down
Before a hireling scribbler's venal frown?
“Never,” quoth he, “by the mispainted sun,
In earth or heaven shall such foul wrong be done!
Forbid it, Law; forbid it, H*ddl*st*n!
What though the Forty, whom my soul abhors,
Against my genius bar their envious doors?
Time-serving slaves, unfit to black the boots
Of my large-hearted patron, great Sir C—tts!
What though T*m T*yl*r, Punch's showman small,
Compare my tints to paper on the wall?
What though B*rn* J*n*s, the imperceptive wretch,
Call my best ‘nocturne’ an unfinished sketch?
What though to R*sk*n's ignorant pretence
Better than I have bent in deference,
Whose stones of Venice, with precision hurled,
Break half the heads of the artistic world?
Though all beside submit to his abuse,—
Professor G*ldw*n Sm*th be dubbed a goose;
Fair M*rt*n*u, the famed agnostic belle,
A vulgar and a foolish infidel;
Though all his lightnings play and thunders roll
Round the white head of unrepressed Sir C*l*e,
Let me but pay the necessary fee,
Writ down a coxcomb Wh*stl*r ne'er shall be!
Art of the future, bid these minions blush;
Behold in me the W*gn*r of the brush!
Would that my fist around their orbs of view
Might paint choice symphonies in black and blue!
In Art's fair name drive we these penmen back,
Down with their discords dire in white and black;
Come forth, ye twelve, palladium of the free,
Who settle everything when ye agree,
And solve all knotty points with sure precision,
From High Art to an omnibus collision;
Come forth, and bravely do your fearless part,
Avenge in me this outrage upon Art;
And be our golden Yankee rule confest,
Whate'er is quickest done is done the best.”
Of woes on woes, æsthetic goddess, sing!
Sing how he battled, that Columbian bold,
For outraged symphonies in black and gold;
His puny critic in full court would meet,
And laid his wrongs before the judgment-seat.
Should he, in might before his easel set,
Outwork the rapid hand of Tintoret?
Lend with a touch to Chelsea's glowing skies
A richer hue than Titian's mightiest dyes?
Out-Raphael Raphael in a blaze of power?
Bid canvas live for ever in an hour?
For Beauty's sake defy heraldic rules,
And quarter scarlet on a field of gules?
And pour before a world tradition-sated,
In strains profuse, art unpremeditated?
Should he do this, and more, yet knuckle down
Before a hireling scribbler's venal frown?
188
In earth or heaven shall such foul wrong be done!
Forbid it, Law; forbid it, H*ddl*st*n!
What though the Forty, whom my soul abhors,
Against my genius bar their envious doors?
Time-serving slaves, unfit to black the boots
Of my large-hearted patron, great Sir C—tts!
What though T*m T*yl*r, Punch's showman small,
Compare my tints to paper on the wall?
What though B*rn* J*n*s, the imperceptive wretch,
Call my best ‘nocturne’ an unfinished sketch?
What though to R*sk*n's ignorant pretence
Better than I have bent in deference,
Whose stones of Venice, with precision hurled,
Break half the heads of the artistic world?
Though all beside submit to his abuse,—
Professor G*ldw*n Sm*th be dubbed a goose;
Fair M*rt*n*u, the famed agnostic belle,
A vulgar and a foolish infidel;
Though all his lightnings play and thunders roll
Round the white head of unrepressed Sir C*l*e,
Let me but pay the necessary fee,
Writ down a coxcomb Wh*stl*r ne'er shall be!
Art of the future, bid these minions blush;
Behold in me the W*gn*r of the brush!
Would that my fist around their orbs of view
Might paint choice symphonies in black and blue!
In Art's fair name drive we these penmen back,
Down with their discords dire in white and black;
189
Who settle everything when ye agree,
And solve all knotty points with sure precision,
From High Art to an omnibus collision;
Come forth, and bravely do your fearless part,
Avenge in me this outrage upon Art;
And be our golden Yankee rule confest,
Whate'er is quickest done is done the best.”
Spirits of Pope and Johnson, where ye sleep,
Call grinning Bathos from the vasty deep.
In melting tones the guileless P*rry spoke,
And neck and heels the Judge dragged in his joke;
The General Attorney for the Crown
Brought for the nonce his oratory down
From all the high disputes of moneyed men
To this ignoble strife 'twixt pot and pen;
The wigs wagged all around the smoke-dried court,
And of the suitors made their usual sport;
Then, when my lord would by his twelve abide,
For “much was to be said on either side,”
Amid the breathless silence of the house,
The legal mountain bore its youngest mouse,
And laid the damages to Art (if any,
In pleaders' phrase) at one-fourth of a penny.
Call grinning Bathos from the vasty deep.
In melting tones the guileless P*rry spoke,
And neck and heels the Judge dragged in his joke;
The General Attorney for the Crown
Brought for the nonce his oratory down
From all the high disputes of moneyed men
To this ignoble strife 'twixt pot and pen;
The wigs wagged all around the smoke-dried court,
And of the suitors made their usual sport;
Then, when my lord would by his twelve abide,
For “much was to be said on either side,”
Amid the breathless silence of the house,
The legal mountain bore its youngest mouse,
And laid the damages to Art (if any,
In pleaders' phrase) at one-fourth of a penny.
190
RORKE'S DRIFT.
Nine hundred gone. Broad seas of Time
O'er a deaf world have surged and rolled,
Since the first lowly Christmas chime
Rang out its note of virgin gold.
Peace came two thousand years ago—
Man would not greet her. Be it so.
O'er a deaf world have surged and rolled,
Since the first lowly Christmas chime
Rang out its note of virgin gold.
Peace came two thousand years ago—
Man would not greet her. Be it so.
O fools and blind! Light from on high
The humble soul illumines still;
But doth all purer rays deny
To hearts full swollen in selfish will,
Though flashes, ever and anon,
Heaven's warning down. Nine hundred gone.
The humble soul illumines still;
But doth all purer rays deny
To hearts full swollen in selfish will,
Though flashes, ever and anon,
Heaven's warning down. Nine hundred gone.
Fond dreamers they, whom visions nursed
Of peaceful cures for human woes:
When the black cloud of battle burst
Over the sad Crimean snows,
Had forty winters welcomed in
Peace, as if Christendom were kin.
Of peaceful cures for human woes:
When the black cloud of battle burst
Over the sad Crimean snows,
Had forty winters welcomed in
Peace, as if Christendom were kin.
191
Alas, how oft on England's heart
Palled those brief years of tranquil life!
How would our wakeful passions start
At every sound of distant strife;
Answer each cry of disaccord,
And whet for war the ready sword!
Palled those brief years of tranquil life!
How would our wakeful passions start
At every sound of distant strife;
Answer each cry of disaccord,
And whet for war the ready sword!
O'erpampered with each peaceful glory,
Won, step by step, through toil and skill,
We traced our fathers' martial story,
And would not hear the “Peace, be still!”
The angel sighed and fled from men;
And angry Battle reigned again.
Won, step by step, through toil and skill,
We traced our fathers' martial story,
And would not hear the “Peace, be still!”
The angel sighed and fled from men;
And angry Battle reigned again.
Ay, reigned indeed: from shore to shore
His devilish triumphs have been won;
And Statecraft rises, as of yore,
To mar what better hands have done;
Till sudden as the trump of doom,
War claims of her his hecatomb.
His devilish triumphs have been won;
And Statecraft rises, as of yore,
To mar what better hands have done;
Till sudden as the trump of doom,
War claims of her his hecatomb.
Ye lords and rulers of the State,
Secure in all your place and pride,
Think of the homes left desolate,
Think of the heroes who have died;
And pause, ere mad Ambition's race
Makes very Mercy veil her face.
Secure in all your place and pride,
Think of the homes left desolate,
Think of the heroes who have died;
And pause, ere mad Ambition's race
Makes very Mercy veil her face.
What is't to us if others rave,
When England lays her weapons down?
The island-queen, who ruled the wave,
Wears still the iron in her crown;
Full as of old the life-blood runs
Through the great hearts of England's sons.
When England lays her weapons down?
The island-queen, who ruled the wave,
Wears still the iron in her crown;
192
Through the great hearts of England's sons.
Not in the days of bow and spear,
And deadly counter hand to hand—
God bless them!—Knew they less of fear
Than when, with small undaunted band,
Our Bromhead faced that savage fight
From dark to dawn, through Afric night.
And deadly counter hand to hand—
God bless them!—Knew they less of fear
Than when, with small undaunted band,
Our Bromhead faced that savage fight
From dark to dawn, through Afric night.
Still tremble on the verge of death
The hearts that hang on news from sea;
Still hold we back the passionate breath,
In silent cry on bended knee;
The souls that pray, pray yet the more;
Down, ye that never prayed before!
The hearts that hang on news from sea;
Still hold we back the passionate breath,
In silent cry on bended knee;
The souls that pray, pray yet the more;
Down, ye that never prayed before!
Pray Heaven, that yet with humbled heart
The eternal lesson we may learn,
That statesman's craft and statesman's art
To smaller things than dust return;
And blessings new our land shall bless,
Whose strength should be in quietness.
The eternal lesson we may learn,
That statesman's craft and statesman's art
To smaller things than dust return;
And blessings new our land shall bless,
Whose strength should be in quietness.
193
“POSTE RESTANTE.”
FROM SIR ST*FF*D N*RTHC*TE TO LORDS B*C*NSF*LD AND S*L*SB*RY.
My Lords B. and S., on a day coming round,
I shall wish myself several miles underground;
And i feel far from well as the turn we approach
So fatal to many a cabinet coach,
When politics Tory and politics Whig,
And we Ministers small and you Ministers big,
And schemes for the good of the land we adore
(To keep us in office a year or two more),
And light-hearted wars for the same noble ends,
Which may make our seats rather shaky, my friends,
Devices for tickling the tax-paying trout,
As Peaces with Honour, and quarrels without—
Things amusing to you, but perplexing to me,
Are brought to the Budget's hard test—(L---) s.d.
It's all very well to be gartered and starred,
With Orders at so many glories a yard,
While the valorous Jingoes are shouting for joy,
And dancing like fools to the tune of Dalroy,
And threatening creation till hoarse in the throat
With “Arrah! who'll tread on the tail of my coat?”
Yet here have we wasted good gallons of breath,
To harry one poor wretched savage to death,
And to find that another—the brute!—dares to stand
In arms for his country, and fight for his hand.
I shall wish myself several miles underground;
And i feel far from well as the turn we approach
So fatal to many a cabinet coach,
When politics Tory and politics Whig,
And we Ministers small and you Ministers big,
And schemes for the good of the land we adore
(To keep us in office a year or two more),
And light-hearted wars for the same noble ends,
Which may make our seats rather shaky, my friends,
Devices for tickling the tax-paying trout,
As Peaces with Honour, and quarrels without—
Things amusing to you, but perplexing to me,
Are brought to the Budget's hard test—(L---) s.d.
It's all very well to be gartered and starred,
With Orders at so many glories a yard,
While the valorous Jingoes are shouting for joy,
And dancing like fools to the tune of Dalroy,
194
With “Arrah! who'll tread on the tail of my coat?”
Yet here have we wasted good gallons of breath,
To harry one poor wretched savage to death,
And to find that another—the brute!—dares to stand
In arms for his country, and fight for his hand.
And just as the Clubs and the drawing-rooms, my Lords,
Keep the talk to themselves, leaving others the swords,
And bragging like Bobadils over their wine,
“D---the tactics of Ch*lmsf*rd! just listen to mine!”
As they eat, sleep, and bluster, and sit at their ease,
While, to win you the votes of such fellows as these,
The Br*mh*ds and Ch*rds throw their lives in the van,
And half-fledged young heroes die game to a man—
Just so, for the glory and good of the Peerage,
Must we niggers of yours go to work in the steerage,
And see you beplastered with all the renown
Of the “Barons of England” who brag for the Crown,
Till, as soon as we come to the reckoning-day,
There's only myself and the D—l to pay.
Keep the talk to themselves, leaving others the swords,
And bragging like Bobadils over their wine,
“D---the tactics of Ch*lmsf*rd! just listen to mine!”
As they eat, sleep, and bluster, and sit at their ease,
While, to win you the votes of such fellows as these,
The Br*mh*ds and Ch*rds throw their lives in the van,
And half-fledged young heroes die game to a man—
Just so, for the glory and good of the Peerage,
Must we niggers of yours go to work in the steerage,
And see you beplastered with all the renown
Of the “Barons of England” who brag for the Crown,
Till, as soon as we come to the reckoning-day,
There's only myself and the D—l to pay.
My Lords B. and S., do not take it amiss,
If I hint that I've grown rather weary of this.
I'm weary of saying—so often I've said it—
That “I think that the C*mm*ns have done themselves credit,”
When I feel from my heart that, for better or worse,
For years they've been doing the very reverse;
I'm weary of plying invisible soap,
Till my graceful ablutions with Gr*nv*lle's might cope!
I'm sick of denying the logic of figures;
I'm sick of O'D*nn*lls, and P*rn*lls, and B*gg*rs!
Most peaceful of men, with mankind I'm at feud,
Though H*rt*ngt*n's gentle, yet H*rc*rt is rude;
From the member for Gr*nw*ch I shrink to my shoe,
He says such unmannerly things—and so true!
And truth, as you know, is not much in your line
(Though I've a dim notion it's really in mine);
In my budget I've nothing to do but confess
That we've spent ten times more and saved ten times less
Than we ever expected to save or to spend;
And I heartily wish the whole thing at an end,
And give you a word of advice. As I guess,
The country's debauch of prolonged B. and S.,
Has given her whole Constitution a shaking;
But she's sleeping it off, and look out for the waking!
From the trail of your chariot fain would I far be
And join Cincinnatus, C*rn*rv*n, and D*rby,
Dig potatoes at P*nes, both your worships henceforth cut,
And be a good man.
Your misled St*ff*rd N*rthc*te.
If I hint that I've grown rather weary of this.
I'm weary of saying—so often I've said it—
That “I think that the C*mm*ns have done themselves credit,”
When I feel from my heart that, for better or worse,
For years they've been doing the very reverse;
195
Till my graceful ablutions with Gr*nv*lle's might cope!
I'm sick of denying the logic of figures;
I'm sick of O'D*nn*lls, and P*rn*lls, and B*gg*rs!
Most peaceful of men, with mankind I'm at feud,
Though H*rt*ngt*n's gentle, yet H*rc*rt is rude;
From the member for Gr*nw*ch I shrink to my shoe,
He says such unmannerly things—and so true!
And truth, as you know, is not much in your line
(Though I've a dim notion it's really in mine);
In my budget I've nothing to do but confess
That we've spent ten times more and saved ten times less
Than we ever expected to save or to spend;
And I heartily wish the whole thing at an end,
And give you a word of advice. As I guess,
The country's debauch of prolonged B. and S.,
Has given her whole Constitution a shaking;
But she's sleeping it off, and look out for the waking!
From the trail of your chariot fain would I far be
And join Cincinnatus, C*rn*rv*n, and D*rby,
Dig potatoes at P*nes, both your worships henceforth cut,
And be a good man.
Your misled St*ff*rd N*rthc*te.
1879.
196
THE ROYAL WEDDING.
I'm a reporter, bound to do
Reporter's duty;
In language beautiful all through
I sing of Beauty.
Reporter's duty;
In language beautiful all through
I sing of Beauty.
And he who thinks these words of mine
Something too many,
Let him reflect—for every line
I get a penny.
Something too many,
Let him reflect—for every line
I get a penny.
I sing of how the Red Prince took
His pretty daughter,
To marry her to Connaught's Dook
Across the water.
His pretty daughter,
To marry her to Connaught's Dook
Across the water.
Oh, bright was Windsor's quaint old town,
Decked out with bravery;
And blessèd Spring had ne'er a frown
Or such-like knavery.
Decked out with bravery;
And blessèd Spring had ne'er a frown
Or such-like knavery.
197
The sea of legs before the gate
And round the steeple,—
In short, the marvellously great
Amount of people,—
And round the steeple,—
In short, the marvellously great
Amount of people,—
Instead of treading upon toes
And dresses tearing,
Was (as a royal marriage goes),
I thought, forbearing.
And dresses tearing,
Was (as a royal marriage goes),
I thought, forbearing.
The church-bells rang, the brass bands played,
The place was quite full,
Before the Quality had made
The scene delightful.
The place was quite full,
Before the Quality had made
The scene delightful.
They came from Paddington by scores,
'Mid rustics ploughing,
And women huddled at the doors,
And infants bowing.
'Mid rustics ploughing,
And women huddled at the doors,
And infants bowing.
While condescension on their part
We quite expected,
On ours, as usual, England's heart
Was much affected.
We quite expected,
On ours, as usual, England's heart
Was much affected.
Whene'er we welcome Rank and Worth
From foreign lands, it
Becomes a wonder how on earth
That organ stands it!
From foreign lands, it
Becomes a wonder how on earth
That organ stands it!
198
The Berkshire Volunteers in gray
(Loyd Lindsay, Colonel),
And the bold Rifles hold the way,
With Captain Burnell.
(Loyd Lindsay, Colonel),
And the bold Rifles hold the way,
With Captain Burnell.
To guard St. George's brilliant nave,
Believe me, no men
Could properly themselves behave
Except the yeomen.
Believe me, no men
Could properly themselves behave
Except the yeomen.
Spring dresses came “like daffodils
Before the swallow,”
On ladies' pretty forms (with bills,
Alas! to follow).
Before the swallow,”
On ladies' pretty forms (with bills,
Alas! to follow).
Their beauty “took the winds of March”
(Which in my rhymes is
A theft Shakesperean and arch:
It is the Times's).
(Which in my rhymes is
A theft Shakesperean and arch:
It is the Times's).
Sir Elvey played a solemn air;
I sent a wish up;
Four Bishops came to join the pair,
And one Archbishop.
I sent a wish up;
Four Bishops came to join the pair,
And one Archbishop.
Nine minor parsons after that
To help them poured in;
One strange-named man among them sate,
The Rev. Tahourdin.
To help them poured in;
One strange-named man among them sate,
The Rev. Tahourdin.
199
But oh! how this “prolific pen”
Of mine must falter,
When I describe the noblemen
Before the altar!
Of mine must falter,
When I describe the noblemen
Before the altar!
There was the Lady Em'ly King-
scote like a tulip;
The Maharajah Duleep Singh,
And Mrs. Duleep.
scote like a tulip;
The Maharajah Duleep Singh,
And Mrs. Duleep.
The gallant Teck might there be seen
With sword and buckler,
His Mary in a dark sage green,
And Countess Puckler.
With sword and buckler,
His Mary in a dark sage green,
And Countess Puckler.
Count Schlippenbach, the Ladies Schlie-
fen and De Grunne,
And other names that seem to me
A little funny.
fen and De Grunne,
And other names that seem to me
A little funny.
Though from his years the child was warm,
Prince Albert Victor
Looked, in his naval uniform,
A perfect pictur.
Prince Albert Victor
Looked, in his naval uniform,
A perfect pictur.
The Marchioness of Salisbury
I wondered at in
Reseda velvet draped with my-
osotis satin.
I wondered at in
Reseda velvet draped with my-
osotis satin.
200
Dark amethyst on jupes of poult
Wore the Princesses;
And ostrich feathers seemed to moult
From half the dresses.
Wore the Princesses;
And ostrich feathers seemed to moult
From half the dresses.
Real diamonds were as thick as peas,
And sham ones thicker—
Till overcome, your special flees
To ask for liquor!
And sham ones thicker—
Till overcome, your special flees
To ask for liquor!
The show is o'er: by twos and twos
I see them fleeting off,
Lord Beaconsfield, the Daily News,
And Major Vietinghoff.
I see them fleeting off,
Lord Beaconsfield, the Daily News,
And Major Vietinghoff.
The happy couple lead the way,
For life embarking;
Then Captain Egerton and La-
dy Adela—Larking.
For life embarking;
Then Captain Egerton and La-
dy Adela—Larking.
Louisa Margaret! to thee
Be grief a stranger,
And may thy husband never be
A Connaught Ranger.
Be grief a stranger,
And may thy husband never be
A Connaught Ranger.
If in the blush of mutual hopes,
And fond devotion,
You're honeymooning on the slopes,
I've not a notion.
And fond devotion,
You're honeymooning on the slopes,
I've not a notion.
201
But this I feel, that for your true
And honest passion,
All sober folks wish well to you
In manly fashion.
And honest passion,
All sober folks wish well to you
In manly fashion.
While, for your chroniclers, I know,
Regnante V.R.,
From east to west 'twere hard to show
Such men as we are!
Regnante V.R.,
From east to west 'twere hard to show
Such men as we are!
202
BEN-BASTES FURIOSO.
I am the Peerless premier,
'Tis mine to speak, and yours to hear.
Intelligent England! now the time has come,
As all must own
And see,
When you must rally round Me and the Throne—
Particularly Me:
Or else the random rage of ruthless Rome,
The fickle falsehood of fair-fawning France,
Bismarckian braggadocio from Berlin,
The mystic Muscovite's most monstrous maw,
Home-rulers hoarsely howling hideous hum—
Bug,
Where smug
They batten on their melancholy isle;
And worse (I smile
At thought of their exuberant verbosity,
Intoxicated with jocosity,
And animosity),
The lagging Liberal leaders, limp and little
(“Loyal” begins with l, and that's a pity),
William, the would-be witty,
And he, that wilier William, the chief curse
Of the utterly unbounded Universe,
Will whittle
The British Constitution, Queen, and Me
(Throwing in N*rthc*te, Cr*ss, and S*l*sb*ry),
Away at once; and, England, you will find
Nothing behind
Except a policy of Decomposition,
Purposing Partition,
Precipitation of Disintegration,
And Holocaust of Humbug.
(Aside.)'Tis mine to speak, and yours to hear.
Intelligent England! now the time has come,
As all must own
And see,
When you must rally round Me and the Throne—
Particularly Me:
Or else the random rage of ruthless Rome,
The fickle falsehood of fair-fawning France,
Bismarckian braggadocio from Berlin,
The mystic Muscovite's most monstrous maw,
Home-rulers hoarsely howling hideous hum—
Bug,
Where smug
They batten on their melancholy isle;
And worse (I smile
At thought of their exuberant verbosity,
Intoxicated with jocosity,
And animosity),
The lagging Liberal leaders, limp and little
(“Loyal” begins with l, and that's a pity),
William, the would-be witty,
And he, that wilier William, the chief curse
Of the utterly unbounded Universe,
Will whittle
203
(Throwing in N*rthc*te, Cr*ss, and S*l*sb*ry),
Away at once; and, England, you will find
Nothing behind
Except a policy of Decomposition,
Purposing Partition,
Precipitation of Disintegration,
And Holocaust of Humbug.
What am I at?
I don't mean that.
I don't mean that.
England! the man is here!
For Benjamin and Beer!
England, go in and win!
For Beer and Benjamin,
Whose mess is five times more
Than Minister's was before,
(As erst in Hebrew writ
A youth foreshadowed it);
Vote down, 'mid Jingo, Jug, and Jollity,
The imps of irresponsible frivolity;
Vote up the Anti-Art-of-Agitation,
The Angelic Author of Augurisation,
Apotheosis of Alliteration,
At once the A, and O, and B
(That's Me);
The Man of Mystery,
The Heart of History,
The Scourge of Savages
(Which rhymes to “ravages”),
The Light of L*tt*n,
(What rhyme to hit on?)
And here I pause,
Because,
As I proceed, I find my power grows small
To rhyme or scan at all.
For Benjamin and Beer!
England, go in and win!
For Beer and Benjamin,
Whose mess is five times more
Than Minister's was before,
(As erst in Hebrew writ
A youth foreshadowed it);
Vote down, 'mid Jingo, Jug, and Jollity,
The imps of irresponsible frivolity;
Vote up the Anti-Art-of-Agitation,
The Angelic Author of Augurisation,
Apotheosis of Alliteration,
At once the A, and O, and B
(That's Me);
The Man of Mystery,
The Heart of History,
The Scourge of Savages
(Which rhymes to “ravages”),
204
(What rhyme to hit on?)
And here I pause,
Because,
As I proceed, I find my power grows small
To rhyme or scan at all.
What's that to Me, whose clarion Caucasian
Has by Tall Truth saved England from invasion,
Remade the world, and given new rope
To exhausted Europe?
(I ever mix my metaphors, for choice;
Mixtures are potent on the popular voice.)
Yet, Tancred, stay; thine earnest eloquence curb;
For here I do perceive my sentences,
By dangerous degrees,
Of sense and syntax all bereft:
I know not where I left
My verb.
So, England, think! I am the Monarch of Men!
And I am ready to come in again:
No matter about the others, for you see
The State—that's Me.
Reject me? Oh, you won't!
Now, don't!
For if you do—oh, perdurable shame
To thy brand-new Imperial name!—
You may be called upon, some early day,
Once more to pay
Your way!
Has by Tall Truth saved England from invasion,
Remade the world, and given new rope
To exhausted Europe?
(I ever mix my metaphors, for choice;
Mixtures are potent on the popular voice.)
Yet, Tancred, stay; thine earnest eloquence curb;
For here I do perceive my sentences,
By dangerous degrees,
Of sense and syntax all bereft:
I know not where I left
My verb.
So, England, think! I am the Monarch of Men!
And I am ready to come in again:
No matter about the others, for you see
The State—that's Me.
Reject me? Oh, you won't!
Now, don't!
For if you do—oh, perdurable shame
To thy brand-new Imperial name!—
You may be called upon, some early day,
Once more to pay
Your way!
March, 1880.
205
THE HEART OF MIDLOTHIAN.
Clearer than the note of trumpet, pealing to the Islands forth,Borne upon the ringing echoes of the strong and steadfast North—
To the folly of the foolish, to the blindness of the blind,
Crushing down with voice of manhood half the childhood of Mankind,
Thou hast spoken well and bravely, though the threescore years and ten,
Which of old the royal Psalmist shadowed to the strength of men,
Have, in true God-fearing courage, o'er thy life of purpose sped,
And have left their mark, as ever, on the loved and honoured head.
If thy strength be toil and sorrow, Prince to us, we turn to thee:
Feed our strength from out thy weakness—joy for us such sorrow be!
206
To the Pole-star set to guide us in the Heaven for evermore—
Fearless of the cry of faction, though the people's puzzled will
For a time be swayed against thee, steady for the people still—
Careless of a Court's disfavour, smiling such disfavour down,
Jealous more than fawning courtiers for the honour of the Crown—
Speed thee in the course thou steerest, speed thee He thou serv'st so well;
Men may think the servant stumbles; such a servant never fell.
Whence, but from a source eternal—whence, but from a power divine,
Ever yet has time-worn statesman gathered such a strength as thine?
Rivals yet in word may spurn thee—ay, and to thy latest hour
Fate may still in seeming grace them with the symbolry of Power:
And, if so the will has willed it, standing as He willed to stand,
With the universal framework in the hollow of His hand,
Thou the first to feel and own it, thou the first to bend and bow;
Thou hast done thy best and manliest, not a rood hast yielded thou.
207
And upon the grave of Story writes its final requiem;
When the glistering sands of Statecraft perish in the whelming tide,
Temples reared to Wrong and Falsehood fall to ruin side by side;
When the idol Self is tumbled from that pedestal of hers,
Laughingstock of men and angels, with her startled worshippers;
When the mists of Doubt are scattered in the sudden Sun of Truth,
And the wearied face of Honour puts on an immortal youth;
Where the laurel waits the patient, where the prize is for the sure,
Where the conscious Rest eternal waits the vexed ones who endure,
Thou at least—or Faiths are fables, and the truth of truths a lie—
Hast thy welcome waiting for thee where the welcomes shall not die.
208
VÆ VICTIS.
In showers of gold and tinsel and enamel,
The storms of Fate knocked down our Gessler's hat;
But, gorged and fat with Ministerial camel,
Say, shall we swallow the Northampton gnat?
Shall we, who did all sorts of things at Berlin
(Though what precisely has been never known),
Yet failed by that to keep our mighty Earl in,
Not rally still around the Church and Throne?
The storms of Fate knocked down our Gessler's hat;
But, gorged and fat with Ministerial camel,
Say, shall we swallow the Northampton gnat?
Shall we, who did all sorts of things at Berlin
(Though what precisely has been never known),
Yet failed by that to keep our mighty Earl in,
Not rally still around the Church and Throne?
O noble army of D*sr---li's martyrs,
Can we not spare our land this crowning shame?
Amid a galaxy of stars and garters
Ye have, alas! departed as ye came;
But, though ye raised, in unison harmonic,
The swelling chorus of “your noble selves,”
And gave us powder for a wholesome tonic,
Which puling Peace had wasted on the shelves;
And though ye freely gave the blood of others,
And store of others' treasure freely spent,
What good were Benjamin and all his brothers,
If Mr. Br*dl---gh sits in Parliament?
Can we not spare our land this crowning shame?
Amid a galaxy of stars and garters
Ye have, alas! departed as ye came;
But, though ye raised, in unison harmonic,
The swelling chorus of “your noble selves,”
And gave us powder for a wholesome tonic,
Which puling Peace had wasted on the shelves;
And though ye freely gave the blood of others,
And store of others' treasure freely spent,
What good were Benjamin and all his brothers,
If Mr. Br*dl---gh sits in Parliament?
209
Was it for this we saw the star of Honour
Shine ever brighter o'er our cherished land,
While every Christian blessing fell upon her,
As if at last Millennium were at hand?
Was it for this, that truthfulness unswerving
Marked every word that dropped from S*l*sb*ry's tongue?
For this, that B—c*nsfi*ld's unselfish serving
Has set a pattern to the Tory young?
Shine ever brighter o'er our cherished land,
While every Christian blessing fell upon her,
As if at last Millennium were at hand?
Was it for this, that truthfulness unswerving
Marked every word that dropped from S*l*sb*ry's tongue?
For this, that B—c*nsfi*ld's unselfish serving
Has set a pattern to the Tory young?
Was it for this we sate, enthralled and moulded
By fiery N*rthc*te's adamantine will?
Or listened, with closed eyes and arms enfolded,
To Cr*ss's silvery speech, seductive still?
Was it for this, that one should sit beside us,
To take an oath or leave it nothing loath?
Think of the difference, whate'er divide us,
Between an affirmation and an oath!
By fiery N*rthc*te's adamantine will?
Or listened, with closed eyes and arms enfolded,
To Cr*ss's silvery speech, seductive still?
Was it for this, that one should sit beside us,
To take an oath or leave it nothing loath?
Think of the difference, whate'er divide us,
Between an affirmation and an oath!
O gentle Cr*nbr---k, and majestic M*nn*rs!
O C---rns, contemptuous of a legal plea!
Clear was our conscience 'neath your stainless banners,
Ye patterns of an olden chivalry.
Not in our rule could Peace dishonour Glory—
We would not back the weak against the strong;
What minister, that boasts the name of Tory,
Ever apologised when he was wrong?
Oh, abject shame! O sole surviving scion
Yet left of H*m*lt*n's historic stock,
Well might'st thou wag thy tail, deserted lion,
And blush all over at so rude a shock!
O C---rns, contemptuous of a legal plea!
Clear was our conscience 'neath your stainless banners,
Ye patterns of an olden chivalry.
Not in our rule could Peace dishonour Glory—
We would not back the weak against the strong;
What minister, that boasts the name of Tory,
Ever apologised when he was wrong?
Oh, abject shame! O sole surviving scion
Yet left of H*m*lt*n's historic stock,
Well might'st thou wag thy tail, deserted lion,
And blush all over at so rude a shock!
210
“Fais ce que je veux, advienne que pourra;” was
The motto of our chief through thick and thin,
And blind obedience to the guiding star was
Our answering principle, to keep him in.
We are not clever, and full well he knew it,
Who led us blithely by the willing nose;
Oh, mystic mantle! if aside he threw it,
Would all his stout Elishas come to blows?
The motto of our chief through thick and thin,
And blind obedience to the guiding star was
Our answering principle, to keep him in.
We are not clever, and full well he knew it,
Who led us blithely by the willing nose;
Oh, mystic mantle! if aside he threw it,
Would all his stout Elishas come to blows?
We gave him all, and chuckled when he sold us,
And broke the Ten Commandments at his nod;
We would have broken twenty, if he told us,
In adoration of our Jingo-God.
For him we left the old and honest highways,
With secret bargains smuggled in the dark,
And wildering strayed in Statecraft's stifled byways,
Till thorns and thistles hid Light's smouldering spark.
And broke the Ten Commandments at his nod;
We would have broken twenty, if he told us,
In adoration of our Jingo-God.
For him we left the old and honest highways,
With secret bargains smuggled in the dark,
And wildering strayed in Statecraft's stifled byways,
Till thorns and thistles hid Light's smouldering spark.
For him we warred, with the light heart of Madness,
And risked the Nemesis of Mercy lost;
Played with Invasion's bitter wanton sadness,
And never counted, but concealed, the cost.
For him we talked of War, and played at Murder,
And offered hecatombs of helpless lives;
And rough-rode England till the rowel spurred her
Into the need that is, when Danger drives.
And risked the Nemesis of Mercy lost;
Played with Invasion's bitter wanton sadness,
And never counted, but concealed, the cost.
For him we talked of War, and played at Murder,
And offered hecatombs of helpless lives;
And rough-rode England till the rowel spurred her
Into the need that is, when Danger drives.
The cry of Conscience gave the note of warning,
The arm of Honour sped the angry bolt;
And Truth and Freedom woke from night to morning,
Into one strong victorious revolt.
Then hip and thigh our startled host was smitten,
Then all our glories crumbled to a fall;
And thus we found our pedigree was written—
“By Jingo out of Office”—after all!
The arm of Honour sped the angry bolt;
And Truth and Freedom woke from night to morning,
Into one strong victorious revolt.
211
Then all our glories crumbled to a fall;
And thus we found our pedigree was written—
“By Jingo out of Office”—after all!
June 12, 1880.
212
THE STORM.
(JANUARY, 1881.)
Dame Nature, perusing the newspaper page,
Jumped out of her bed in a deuce of a rage;
And swore by all Saints to the Calendar known,
She would prove on the spot she'd a will of her own.
“I have waited and waited,” quoth she, “by the Mass,
In the hope things might come to a likelier pass;
When sham ‘Peace and Honour’ were kicked out o' door,
I swore to give England a chance or two more.
In return for that kicking, I gave her a year
To the heart of the Briton I thought might be dear;
With a warm sun above him, a kind earth below,
And seasons as true as the ocean at flow—
When crops might all flourish, and harvest increase,
And Trade lift her head for a worthier peace;
When Zulus and Afghans might rest on their oars,
And B*rtle be fêted on civilised shores;
I drank power to his elbow, though under the sun
B*rtle's elbow had wrought all the harm to be done—
Believing, at least, the small reason of men
Would prevent him from shaking that elbow again.
I bowed out my D*zzy, nor grudged him the while
Of my sister, Dame Fortune, the kindliest smile,
(For though Truth in the end should compel us to flee him
We both of us know a big man when we see him):
I bowed in my Gl*dst*n*, right worthy to share
Once more in the ‘will of the popular air;’
And to warm-hearted Erin I hoped to impart,
To her brains, just a glow from the warmth of her heart.
Jumped out of her bed in a deuce of a rage;
And swore by all Saints to the Calendar known,
She would prove on the spot she'd a will of her own.
“I have waited and waited,” quoth she, “by the Mass,
In the hope things might come to a likelier pass;
When sham ‘Peace and Honour’ were kicked out o' door,
I swore to give England a chance or two more.
In return for that kicking, I gave her a year
To the heart of the Briton I thought might be dear;
With a warm sun above him, a kind earth below,
And seasons as true as the ocean at flow—
When crops might all flourish, and harvest increase,
And Trade lift her head for a worthier peace;
When Zulus and Afghans might rest on their oars,
And B*rtle be fêted on civilised shores;
I drank power to his elbow, though under the sun
B*rtle's elbow had wrought all the harm to be done—
213
Would prevent him from shaking that elbow again.
I bowed out my D*zzy, nor grudged him the while
Of my sister, Dame Fortune, the kindliest smile,
(For though Truth in the end should compel us to flee him
We both of us know a big man when we see him):
I bowed in my Gl*dst*n*, right worthy to share
Once more in the ‘will of the popular air;’
And to warm-hearted Erin I hoped to impart,
To her brains, just a glow from the warmth of her heart.
O frustra! nequidquam! in vain I rehearse
My sinking of heart in my querulous verse,
Be the end of the play in a sock or a buskin,
'Twill drive us at last to the moral of R*sk*n—
That rival ratcatchers as worthily strive
For rule, as the best politicians alive!
For, for good or for ill be their purpose and aim,
The rats that they hunt will be always the same.
Obstructives obstruct who obstructed before,
And Parliament meets to be merely a bore;
By Tories created, by Tories deplored,
In the Queen's House of Commons mere Brass is the lord;
Sleek N*rthc*t* calls angels and saints to his aid,
And like Frankenstein shrinks from the monster he made,
And while his poor hands he in humbleness rubs,
The Tory bear-leader is led by his cubs;
St. Stephen's still echoes the infantine Ch*rch*ll
(Whose pedagogues, surely, used ruler and birch ill,
When they fostered the pea in its juvenile pod,
And ruined the child by avoiding the rod).
While S*l*sbr*y utters his figments serene,
Still Anarchy stalks o'er the desolate scene;
Nor Br*ght, nor M*nd*lla, nor D*lke, has pretence
To infuse in the mixture one tittle of sense.
My sinking of heart in my querulous verse,
Be the end of the play in a sock or a buskin,
'Twill drive us at last to the moral of R*sk*n—
That rival ratcatchers as worthily strive
For rule, as the best politicians alive!
For, for good or for ill be their purpose and aim,
The rats that they hunt will be always the same.
Obstructives obstruct who obstructed before,
And Parliament meets to be merely a bore;
By Tories created, by Tories deplored,
In the Queen's House of Commons mere Brass is the lord;
Sleek N*rthc*t* calls angels and saints to his aid,
And like Frankenstein shrinks from the monster he made,
And while his poor hands he in humbleness rubs,
The Tory bear-leader is led by his cubs;
214
(Whose pedagogues, surely, used ruler and birch ill,
When they fostered the pea in its juvenile pod,
And ruined the child by avoiding the rod).
While S*l*sbr*y utters his figments serene,
Still Anarchy stalks o'er the desolate scene;
Nor Br*ght, nor M*nd*lla, nor D*lke, has pretence
To infuse in the mixture one tittle of sense.
The O'shine, the O'Paque, the O'Brian Boru,
Give the best of bad brains their own land to undo;
O'Tongs and MacHammer keep pounding away,
The first half the night, and the second all day,
With never a glimmer of wit to the fore,
All powerless to speak, and all-powerful to bore—
Till Ireland's dead Currans indignant disclaim
The darkness of dulness now linked with her name.
Give the best of bad brains their own land to undo;
O'Tongs and MacHammer keep pounding away,
The first half the night, and the second all day,
With never a glimmer of wit to the fore,
All powerless to speak, and all-powerful to bore—
Till Ireland's dead Currans indignant disclaim
The darkness of dulness now linked with her name.
Historic McC*rthy, on history nursed,
Tries to make of his ‘own times’ the weakest and worst;
P*rn*ll plays the stalest of demagogue play,
To be called ‘King P*rn*ll’ talks his country away;
And while England, awake to the wrongs of the past,
The mantle of Love over Erin would cast,
Bad landlords would banish, good tenants would bless,
And kiss a loved sister with sister's caress,
These self-seeking weaklings, of Pigmydom born,
Make Ireland a desert, and England a scorn.
Tries to make of his ‘own times’ the weakest and worst;
P*rn*ll plays the stalest of demagogue play,
To be called ‘King P*rn*ll’ talks his country away;
And while England, awake to the wrongs of the past,
The mantle of Love over Erin would cast,
Bad landlords would banish, good tenants would bless,
And kiss a loved sister with sister's caress,
These self-seeking weaklings, of Pigmydom born,
Make Ireland a desert, and England a scorn.
If there's not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that in whose bosom the bright waters meet,
Oh! sad was that valley when luckless she fell
To thee and to thine, cattle-maiming P*rn*ll!
As that in whose bosom the bright waters meet,
215
To thee and to thine, cattle-maiming P*rn*ll!
What differs the past from the present, I pray?
Wherein, please, is yesterday worse than to-day?
The floor of your Commons is held by the men
Who held it before, and now hold it again;
Dishonour the master, and honour trod down,
And N*rthc*t* submissive to S*l*sb*ry's frown,
The country, o'erweary, o'erpatient, o'erworn,
Uprising in murmurs of infinite scorn,
And asking wherein, to those that have eyes,
Between ‘Whig’ and ‘Tory’ the difference lies.
I am weary of all of you—weary and sad—
Where weak beyond weak seems the best to be had;
Since for Right and for Reason no strength ye have got,
By the Lord of Creation, I'll ‘Boycott’ the lot!”
Wherein, please, is yesterday worse than to-day?
The floor of your Commons is held by the men
Who held it before, and now hold it again;
Dishonour the master, and honour trod down,
And N*rthc*t* submissive to S*l*sb*ry's frown,
The country, o'erweary, o'erpatient, o'erworn,
Uprising in murmurs of infinite scorn,
And asking wherein, to those that have eyes,
Between ‘Whig’ and ‘Tory’ the difference lies.
I am weary of all of you—weary and sad—
Where weak beyond weak seems the best to be had;
Since for Right and for Reason no strength ye have got,
By the Lord of Creation, I'll ‘Boycott’ the lot!”
Dame Nature arose, in her infinite strength,
In the depths of her spirit outwearied at length;
The East wind and North wind she summoned to throw
Over Earth, Sea, and Heaven her masterful snow:
She “boycotted” London from Kew to Mile End,
Bade Thames to the tempest his armoury lend,
She locked up two Judges forlorn and alone,
And forced on the House a clôture of her own:
She blocked the steel rails man-invented to prove
That man was the master of force from above;
She laughed at his mission, she mocked at his word,
And through the loud storm-drift her warning was heard:
“Ay! speak from the West, and foretell to a day
When the storm-cloud shall break, and the lightning shall play;
Foretelling is folly, and knowledge for fools,
For the wisest of men keep the oldest of rules:
Ye fret me, ye stir me, ye move me to mirth,
At your Lownesses crawling 'twixt Heaven and Earth.
My tide it shall gather, my storm it shall burst,
In their own thoughts alone, sirs, your last shall be first:
In an hour of the tempest, a frown of the cloud,
I stoop to the humble, I threaten the proud.”
In the depths of her spirit outwearied at length;
The East wind and North wind she summoned to throw
Over Earth, Sea, and Heaven her masterful snow:
She “boycotted” London from Kew to Mile End,
Bade Thames to the tempest his armoury lend,
She locked up two Judges forlorn and alone,
And forced on the House a clôture of her own:
She blocked the steel rails man-invented to prove
That man was the master of force from above;
She laughed at his mission, she mocked at his word,
And through the loud storm-drift her warning was heard:
216
When the storm-cloud shall break, and the lightning shall play;
Foretelling is folly, and knowledge for fools,
For the wisest of men keep the oldest of rules:
Ye fret me, ye stir me, ye move me to mirth,
At your Lownesses crawling 'twixt Heaven and Earth.
My tide it shall gather, my storm it shall burst,
In their own thoughts alone, sirs, your last shall be first:
In an hour of the tempest, a frown of the cloud,
I stoop to the humble, I threaten the proud.”
217
BOOK C, ODE I.
It was t'other day that I chanced to range
Somewhere about the old Exchange,
As worthy old Horace erewhile would stray
By accident down the Sacred Way,
For no worse reason than this—because,
With nothing to do, it his custom was.
Bored with Earnest, and dazed with Light,
I was doing nothing with all my might,
With scarcely a thought in my idle head
But the outside number of hours in bed
Which a man brought up on Solomon's lore
Can spend at a stretch—ten hours, or more—
Blessing, with all my power to bless,
The gift of a random idleness;
Not Hyde Park idleness, blank and bland—
Time-killed, not time-killing, hand o'er hand,
And the listless misery Boredom brings
To the Crutch-and-Toothpick crown of things—
But the happy rest of a grateful brain,
Whose pulse means pleasure, whose rack means pain,
In the calm conclusion that here for us
The truth is the truth of Democritus,
And in mazes of error he least must err
Who strays with the laughing philosopher:
By the old Exchange—but, oh, what a pen this is,
Whose beginning is such a long parenthesis!
Somewhere about the old Exchange,
As worthy old Horace erewhile would stray
By accident down the Sacred Way,
For no worse reason than this—because,
With nothing to do, it his custom was.
Bored with Earnest, and dazed with Light,
I was doing nothing with all my might,
With scarcely a thought in my idle head
But the outside number of hours in bed
Which a man brought up on Solomon's lore
Can spend at a stretch—ten hours, or more—
Blessing, with all my power to bless,
The gift of a random idleness;
Not Hyde Park idleness, blank and bland—
Time-killed, not time-killing, hand o'er hand,
And the listless misery Boredom brings
To the Crutch-and-Toothpick crown of things—
But the happy rest of a grateful brain,
Whose pulse means pleasure, whose rack means pain,
218
The truth is the truth of Democritus,
And in mazes of error he least must err
Who strays with the laughing philosopher:
By the old Exchange—but, oh, what a pen this is,
Whose beginning is such a long parenthesis!
O'er the old Exchange, when you go there next,
You may see up-written an old-world text,
With a claim of property quite outworn,
And a very proper source of scorn
To all who, nursed on the prose of Time,
Hold it food but fit for the trifler's rhyme.
The great first Alpha's day has fled,
And our alphabet starts with the new “Y Z;”
(Good Lord! that a punster should dare to come
Where angels, small blame to them, are dumb!)
For Man is so great, if you rightly take him,
That none but himself ever dared to make him.
How else shall he prove, when his proofs prevail,
That his pointed moral adorned a tail?
When Tories, compact of faith and bad law,
Use God as a boot for kicking Br*dl*gh,
What text more meet for the sage's scoff,
Than “The Earth is the Lord's, and the fulness thereof”?
You may see up-written an old-world text,
With a claim of property quite outworn,
And a very proper source of scorn
To all who, nursed on the prose of Time,
Hold it food but fit for the trifler's rhyme.
The great first Alpha's day has fled,
And our alphabet starts with the new “Y Z;”
(Good Lord! that a punster should dare to come
Where angels, small blame to them, are dumb!)
For Man is so great, if you rightly take him,
That none but himself ever dared to make him.
How else shall he prove, when his proofs prevail,
That his pointed moral adorned a tail?
When Tories, compact of faith and bad law,
Use God as a boot for kicking Br*dl*gh,
What text more meet for the sage's scoff,
Than “The Earth is the Lord's, and the fulness thereof”?
Oh sure, thought I, as I pondered o'er
The wondrous wisdom of D*n*ghm*re
(And no feeling just now the land has on her more
Than merely this—Who the deuce is D*n*ghm*re?),
And searched in vain in my catechism
For the duties we owe to landlordism,
Whose private decalogue's chief defence is
The “fabulæ Salisburienses”—
Oh sure, thought I, we shall learn, ere long,
That here's another good stop gone wrong,
And know, for our proper admonition,
From S*l*sb*ry's own “revised edition,”
That a newer reading must be preferred;
An apostrophe slipped in that same fifth word,
And never a soul need be perplexed
To read the sense of the poor old text:
To our Gessler's pole our caps we doff,
For “The Earth is the Lords', and the fulness thereof.”
The wondrous wisdom of D*n*ghm*re
(And no feeling just now the land has on her more
Than merely this—Who the deuce is D*n*ghm*re?),
219
For the duties we owe to landlordism,
Whose private decalogue's chief defence is
The “fabulæ Salisburienses”—
Oh sure, thought I, we shall learn, ere long,
That here's another good stop gone wrong,
And know, for our proper admonition,
From S*l*sb*ry's own “revised edition,”
That a newer reading must be preferred;
An apostrophe slipped in that same fifth word,
And never a soul need be perplexed
To read the sense of the poor old text:
To our Gessler's pole our caps we doff,
For “The Earth is the Lords', and the fulness thereof.”
| The White Pilgrim and Other Poems | |