 | Collected poems |  |
518
FOR “AN APPENDIX TO THE ROWFANT LIBRARY”
(F. L. L.: IN MEMORIAM)
“His Books.” Oh yes, his Books I know,—
Each worth a monarch's ransom;
But now, beside their row on row,
I see, erect and handsome,
Each worth a monarch's ransom;
But now, beside their row on row,
I see, erect and handsome,
The courtly Owner, glass in eye,
With half-sad smile, forerunning
Some triumph of an apt reply,—
Some master-stroke of punning.
With half-sad smile, forerunning
Some triumph of an apt reply,—
Some master-stroke of punning.
Where shall we meet his like again?
Where hear, in such perfection,
Such genial talk of gods and men,—
Such store of recollection;
Where hear, in such perfection,
Such genial talk of gods and men,—
Such store of recollection;
Or where discern a verse so neat,
So well-bred and so witty,—
So finished in its least conceit,
So mixed of mirth and pity?
So well-bred and so witty,—
So finished in its least conceit,
So mixed of mirth and pity?
519
Pope taught him rhythm, Prior ease,
Praed buoyancy and banter;
What modern bard would learn from these?
Ah, tempora mutantur!
Praed buoyancy and banter;
What modern bard would learn from these?
Ah, tempora mutantur!
The old régime departs,—departs;
Our days of mime and mocker,
For all their imitative arts,
Produce no Frederick Locker.
Our days of mime and mocker,
For all their imitative arts,
Produce no Frederick Locker.
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