 | The White Pilgrim and Other Poems |  |
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.
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