THE PROPHET LOST IN THE HILLS AT EVENING

Thereis a wall of which the stonesAre lies and bribes and dead men’s bones.And wrongfully this evil wallDenies what all men made for all,And shamelessly this wall surroundsOur homesteads and our native grounds.But I will gather and I will ride,And I will summon a countryside,And many a man shall hear my halloaWho never had thought the horn to follow;And many a man shall ride with meWho never had thought on earth to seeHigh Justice in her armoury.When we find them where they stand,A mile of men on either hand,I mean to charge from right awayAnd force the flanks of their array,And press them inward from the plains,And drive them clamouring down the lanes,And gallop and harry and have them down,And carry the gates and hold the town.Then shall I rest me from my rideWith my great anger satisfied.Only, before I eat and drink,When I have killed them all, I thinkThat I will batter their carven names,And slit the pictures in their frames,And burn for scent their cedar door,And melt the gold their women wore,And hack their horses at the knees,And hew to death their timber trees,And plough their gardens deep and through—And all these things I mean to doFor fear perhaps my little sonShould break his hands, as I have done.

But I will gather and I will ride,And I will summon a countryside,And many a man shall hear my halloaWho never had thought the horn to follow;And many a man shall ride with meWho never had thought on earth to seeHigh Justice in her armoury.

When we find them where they stand,A mile of men on either hand,I mean to charge from right awayAnd force the flanks of their array,And press them inward from the plains,And drive them clamouring down the lanes,And gallop and harry and have them down,And carry the gates and hold the town.Then shall I rest me from my rideWith my great anger satisfied.

Only, before I eat and drink,When I have killed them all, I thinkThat I will batter their carven names,And slit the pictures in their frames,And burn for scent their cedar door,And melt the gold their women wore,And hack their horses at the knees,And hew to death their timber trees,And plough their gardens deep and through—And all these things I mean to doFor fear perhaps my little sonShould break his hands, as I have done.

StrongGod which made the topmost starsTo circulate and keep their course,Remember me; whom all the barsOf sense and dreadful fate enforce.Above me in your heights and tall,Impassable the summits freeze,Below the haunted waters callImpassable beyond the trees.I hunger and I have no bread.My gourd is empty of the wine.Surely the footsteps of the deadAre shuffling softly close to mine!It darkens. I have lost the ford.There is a change on all things made.The rocks have evil faces, Lord,And I am awfully afraid.Remember me: the Voids of HellExpand enormous all around.Strong friend of souls, Emmanuel,Redeem me from accursed ground.The long descent of wasted days,To these at last have led me down;Remember that I filled with praiseThe meaningless and doubtful waysThat lead to an eternal town.I challenged and I kept the Faith,The bleeding path alone I trod;It darkens. Stand about my wraith,And harbour me—almighty God.

StrongGod which made the topmost starsTo circulate and keep their course,Remember me; whom all the barsOf sense and dreadful fate enforce.

Above me in your heights and tall,Impassable the summits freeze,Below the haunted waters callImpassable beyond the trees.

I hunger and I have no bread.My gourd is empty of the wine.Surely the footsteps of the deadAre shuffling softly close to mine!

It darkens. I have lost the ford.There is a change on all things made.The rocks have evil faces, Lord,And I am awfully afraid.

Remember me: the Voids of HellExpand enormous all around.Strong friend of souls, Emmanuel,Redeem me from accursed ground.

The long descent of wasted days,To these at last have led me down;Remember that I filled with praiseThe meaningless and doubtful waysThat lead to an eternal town.

I challenged and I kept the Faith,The bleeding path alone I trod;It darkens. Stand about my wraith,And harbour me—almighty God.

In these boots and with this staffTwo hundred leaguers and a halfWalked I, went I, paced I, tripped I,Marched I, held I, skelped I, slipped I,Pushed I, panted, swung and dashed I;Picked I, forded, swam and splashed I,Strolled I, climbed I, crawled and scrambled,Dropped and dipped I, ranged and rambled;Plodded I, hobbled I, trudged and tramped I,And in lonely spinnies camped I,And in haunted pinewoods slept I,Lingered, loitered, limped and crept I,Clambered, halted, stepped and leapt I;Slowly sauntered, roundly strode I,And ... (Oh! Patron saints and AngelsThat protect the four Evangels!And you Prophets vel majoresVel incerti, vel minores,Virgines ac confessoresChief of whose peculiar gloriesEst in Aula Regis stareAtque orare et exorareEt clamare et conclamareClamantes cum clamoribusPro Nobis Peccatoribus.)Let me not conceal it....Rode I.(For who but critics could complainOf “riding” in a railway train?)Across the valley and the high-land,With all the world on either handDrinking when I had a mind to,Singing when I felt inclined to;Nor ever turned my face to homeTill I had slaked my heart at Rome.

Matutinusadest ubi Vesper, et accipiens teSaepe recusatum voces intelligit hospesRusticus ignotas notas, ac flumina tellusOccupat—In sancto tum, tum, stans Aede cavetoTonsuram Hirsuti Capitis, via namque pedestremFerrea praeveniens cursum, peregrine, laboremPro pietate tua inceptum frustratur, amoreAntiqui Ritus alto sub Numine Romae.

Translation of the above:—

Whenearly morning seems but eveAnd they that still refuse receive:When speech unknown men understand;And floods are crossed upon dry land.Within the Sacred Walls bewareThe Shaven Head that boasts of Hair,For when the road attains the railThe Pilgrim’s great attempt shall fail.

WhenPeter Wanderwide was youngHe wandered everywhere he would:And all that he approved was sung,And most of what he saw was good.When Peter Wanderwide was thrownBy Death himself beyond Auxerre,He chanted in heroic toneTo priests and people gathered there:“If all that I have loved and seenBe with me on the Judgment Day,I shall be saved the crowd betweenFrom Satan and his foul array.“Almighty God will surely cry,‘St Michael! Who is this that standsWith Ireland in his dubious eye,And Perigord between his hands,“‘And on his arm the stirrup-thongs,And in his gait the narrow seas,And in his mouth Burgundian songs,But in his heart the Pyrenees?’“St Michael then will answer right(And not without angelic shame),‘I seem to know his face by sight:I cannot recollect his name ...?’“St Peter will befriend me then,Because my name is Peter too:‘I know him for the best of menThat ever wallopped barley brew.“‘And though I did not know him wellAnd though his soul were clogged with sin,Ihold the keys of Heaven and Hell.Be welcome, noble Peterkin.’“Then shall I spread my native wingsAnd tread secure the heavenly floor,And tell the Blessed doubtful thingsOf Val d’Aran and Perigord.”———This was the last and solemn jestOf weary Peter Wanderwide.He spoke it with a failing zest,And having spoken it, he died.

WhenPeter Wanderwide was youngHe wandered everywhere he would:And all that he approved was sung,And most of what he saw was good.

When Peter Wanderwide was thrownBy Death himself beyond Auxerre,He chanted in heroic toneTo priests and people gathered there:

“If all that I have loved and seenBe with me on the Judgment Day,I shall be saved the crowd betweenFrom Satan and his foul array.

“Almighty God will surely cry,‘St Michael! Who is this that standsWith Ireland in his dubious eye,And Perigord between his hands,

“‘And on his arm the stirrup-thongs,And in his gait the narrow seas,And in his mouth Burgundian songs,But in his heart the Pyrenees?’

“St Michael then will answer right(And not without angelic shame),‘I seem to know his face by sight:I cannot recollect his name ...?’

“St Peter will befriend me then,Because my name is Peter too:‘I know him for the best of menThat ever wallopped barley brew.

“‘And though I did not know him wellAnd though his soul were clogged with sin,Ihold the keys of Heaven and Hell.Be welcome, noble Peterkin.’

“Then shall I spread my native wingsAnd tread secure the heavenly floor,And tell the Blessed doubtful thingsOf Val d’Aran and Perigord.”———This was the last and solemn jestOf weary Peter Wanderwide.He spoke it with a failing zest,And having spoken it, he died.

I meanto write with all my strength(It lately has been sadly waning),A ballad of enormous length—Some parts of which will need explaining.[A]Because (unlike the bulk of menWho write for fame or public ends),I turn a lax and fluent penTo talking of my private friends.[B]For no one, in our long decline,So dusty, spiteful and divided,Had quite such pleasant friends as mine,Or loved them half as much as I did.———The Freshman ambles down the High,In love with everything he sees,He notes the racing autumn sky.He sniffs a lively autumn breeze.“Can this be Oxford? This the place?”(He cries) “of which my father saidThe tutoring was a damned disgrace,The creed a mummery, stuffed and dead?“Can it be here that Uncle PaulWas driven by excessive gloom,To drink and debt, and, last of all,To smoking opium in his room?“Is it from here the people come,Who talk so loud, and roll their eyes,And stammer? How extremely rum!How curious! What a great surprise.“Some influence of a nobler dayThan theirs (I mean than Uncle Paul’s),Has roused the sleep of their decay,And flecked with life their crumbling walls.“O! dear undaunted boys of old,Would that your names were carven here,For all the world in stamps of gold,That I might read them and revere.“Who wrought and handed down for meThis Oxford of the larger air,Laughing, and full of faith, and free,With youth resplendent everywhere?”Then learn: thou ill-instructed, blind,Young, callow, and untutored man,Their private names were....[C]Their club was called REPUBLICAN.. . . . . .Where on their banks of light they lie,The happy hills of Heaven between,The Gods that rule the morning skyAre not more young, nor more sereneThan were the intrepid Four that stand,The first who dared to live their dream.And on this uncongenial landTo found the Abbey of Theleme.We kept the Rabelaisian plan:[D]We dignified the dainty cloistersWith Natural Law, the Rights of Man,Song, Stoicism, Wine and Oysters.The library was most inviting:The books upon the crowded shelvesWere mainly of our private writing:We kept a school and taught ourselves.We taught the art of writing thingsOn men we still should like to throttle:And where to get the Blood of KingsAt only half a crown a bottle.. . . . . .Eheu Fugaces! Postume!(An old quotation out of mode);My coat of dreams is stolen awayMy youth is passing down the road.. . . . . .The wealth of youth, we spent it wellAnd decently, as very few can.And is it lost? I cannot tell:And what is more, I doubt if you can.The question’s very much too wide,And much too deep, and much too hollow,And learned men on either sideUse arguments I cannot follow.They say that in the unchanging place,Where all we loved is always dear,We meet our morning face to faceAnd find at last our twentieth year....They say (and I am glad they say)It is so; and it may be so:It may be just the other way,I cannot tell. But this I know:From quiet homes and first beginning,Out to the undiscovered ends,There’s nothing worth the wear of winning,But laughter and the love of friends.. . . . . .But something dwindles, oh! my peers,And something cheats the heart and passes,And Tom that meant to shake the yearsHas come to merely rattling glasses.And He, the Father of the Flock,Is keeping Burmesans in order,An exile on a lonely rockThat overlooks the Chinese border.And One (Myself I mean—no less),Ah!—will Posterity believe it—Not only don’t deserve success,But hasn’t managed to achieve it.Not even this peculiar townHas ever fixed a friendship firmer,But—one is married, one’s gone down,And one’s a Don, and one’s in Burmah.. . . . . .And oh! the days, the days, the days,When all the four were off together:The infinite deep of summer haze,The roaring boast of autumn weather!. . . . . .I will not try the reach again,I will not set my sail alone,To moor a boat bereft of menAt Yarnton’s tiny docks of stone.But I will sit beside the fire,And put my hand before my eyes,And trace, to fill my heart’s desire,The last of all our Odysseys.The quiet evening kept her tryst:Beneath an open sky we rode,And passed into a wandering mistAlong the perfect Evenlode.The tender Evenlode that makesHer meadows hush to hear the soundOf waters mingling in the brakes,And binds my heart to English ground.A lovely river, all alone,She lingers in the hills and holdsA hundred little towns of stone,Forgotten in the western wolds.. . . . . .I dare to think (though meaner powersPossess our thrones, and lesser witsAre drinking worser wine than ours,In what’s no longer Austerlitz)That surely a tremendous ghost,The brazen-lunged, the bumper-filler,Still sings to an immortal toast,The Misadventures of the Miller.The unending seas are hardly barTo men with such a prepossession:We were? Why then, by God, weare—Order! I call the Club to session!You do retain the song we set,And how it rises, trips and scans?You keep the sacred memory yet,Republicans? Republicans?You know the way the words were hurled,To break the worst of fortune’s rub?I give the toast across the world,And drink it, “Gentlemen: the Club.”

I meanto write with all my strength(It lately has been sadly waning),A ballad of enormous length—Some parts of which will need explaining.[A]

Because (unlike the bulk of menWho write for fame or public ends),I turn a lax and fluent penTo talking of my private friends.[B]

For no one, in our long decline,So dusty, spiteful and divided,Had quite such pleasant friends as mine,Or loved them half as much as I did.———The Freshman ambles down the High,In love with everything he sees,He notes the racing autumn sky.He sniffs a lively autumn breeze.

“Can this be Oxford? This the place?”(He cries) “of which my father saidThe tutoring was a damned disgrace,The creed a mummery, stuffed and dead?

“Can it be here that Uncle PaulWas driven by excessive gloom,To drink and debt, and, last of all,To smoking opium in his room?

“Is it from here the people come,Who talk so loud, and roll their eyes,And stammer? How extremely rum!How curious! What a great surprise.

“Some influence of a nobler dayThan theirs (I mean than Uncle Paul’s),Has roused the sleep of their decay,And flecked with life their crumbling walls.

“O! dear undaunted boys of old,Would that your names were carven here,For all the world in stamps of gold,That I might read them and revere.

“Who wrought and handed down for meThis Oxford of the larger air,Laughing, and full of faith, and free,With youth resplendent everywhere?”

Then learn: thou ill-instructed, blind,Young, callow, and untutored man,Their private names were....[C]Their club was called REPUBLICAN.. . . . . .Where on their banks of light they lie,The happy hills of Heaven between,The Gods that rule the morning skyAre not more young, nor more serene

Than were the intrepid Four that stand,The first who dared to live their dream.And on this uncongenial landTo found the Abbey of Theleme.

We kept the Rabelaisian plan:[D]We dignified the dainty cloistersWith Natural Law, the Rights of Man,Song, Stoicism, Wine and Oysters.

The library was most inviting:The books upon the crowded shelvesWere mainly of our private writing:We kept a school and taught ourselves.

We taught the art of writing thingsOn men we still should like to throttle:And where to get the Blood of KingsAt only half a crown a bottle.. . . . . .Eheu Fugaces! Postume!(An old quotation out of mode);My coat of dreams is stolen awayMy youth is passing down the road.. . . . . .The wealth of youth, we spent it wellAnd decently, as very few can.And is it lost? I cannot tell:And what is more, I doubt if you can.

The question’s very much too wide,And much too deep, and much too hollow,And learned men on either sideUse arguments I cannot follow.

They say that in the unchanging place,Where all we loved is always dear,We meet our morning face to faceAnd find at last our twentieth year....

They say (and I am glad they say)It is so; and it may be so:It may be just the other way,I cannot tell. But this I know:

From quiet homes and first beginning,Out to the undiscovered ends,There’s nothing worth the wear of winning,But laughter and the love of friends.. . . . . .But something dwindles, oh! my peers,And something cheats the heart and passes,And Tom that meant to shake the yearsHas come to merely rattling glasses.

And He, the Father of the Flock,Is keeping Burmesans in order,An exile on a lonely rockThat overlooks the Chinese border.

And One (Myself I mean—no less),Ah!—will Posterity believe it—Not only don’t deserve success,But hasn’t managed to achieve it.

Not even this peculiar townHas ever fixed a friendship firmer,But—one is married, one’s gone down,And one’s a Don, and one’s in Burmah.. . . . . .And oh! the days, the days, the days,When all the four were off together:The infinite deep of summer haze,The roaring boast of autumn weather!. . . . . .I will not try the reach again,I will not set my sail alone,To moor a boat bereft of menAt Yarnton’s tiny docks of stone.

But I will sit beside the fire,And put my hand before my eyes,And trace, to fill my heart’s desire,The last of all our Odysseys.

The quiet evening kept her tryst:Beneath an open sky we rode,And passed into a wandering mistAlong the perfect Evenlode.

The tender Evenlode that makesHer meadows hush to hear the soundOf waters mingling in the brakes,And binds my heart to English ground.

A lovely river, all alone,She lingers in the hills and holdsA hundred little towns of stone,Forgotten in the western wolds.. . . . . .I dare to think (though meaner powersPossess our thrones, and lesser witsAre drinking worser wine than ours,In what’s no longer Austerlitz)

That surely a tremendous ghost,The brazen-lunged, the bumper-filler,Still sings to an immortal toast,The Misadventures of the Miller.

The unending seas are hardly barTo men with such a prepossession:We were? Why then, by God, weare—Order! I call the Club to session!

You do retain the song we set,And how it rises, trips and scans?You keep the sacred memory yet,Republicans? Republicans?

You know the way the words were hurled,To break the worst of fortune’s rub?I give the toast across the world,And drink it, “Gentlemen: the Club.”

Child! do not throw this book about!Refrain from the unholy pleasureOf cutting all the pictures out!Preserve it as your chiefest treasure.Child, have you never heard it saidThat you are heir to all the ages?Why, then, your hands were never madeTo tear these beautiful thick pages!Your little hands were made to takeThe better things and leave the worse ones:They also may be used to shakeThe Massive Paws of Elder Persons.And when your prayers complete the day,Darling, your little tiny handsWere also made, I think, to prayFor men that lose their fairylands.

Child! do not throw this book about!Refrain from the unholy pleasureOf cutting all the pictures out!Preserve it as your chiefest treasure.

Child, have you never heard it saidThat you are heir to all the ages?Why, then, your hands were never madeTo tear these beautiful thick pages!

Your little hands were made to takeThe better things and leave the worse ones:They also may be used to shakeThe Massive Paws of Elder Persons.

And when your prayers complete the day,Darling, your little tiny handsWere also made, I think, to prayFor men that lose their fairylands.

Andis it true? It is not true!And if it was it wouldn’t doFor people such as me and you,Who very nearly all day longAre doing something rather wrong.

Thereis a light around your headWhich only Saints of God may wear,And all the flowers on which you treadIn pleasaunce more than ours have fed,And supped the essential airWhose summer is a-pulse with music everywhere.

Foryou are younger than the mornings areThat in the mountains break;When upland shepherds see their only starPale on the dawn, and makeIn his surcease the hours,The early hours of all their happy circuit take.

TheMoon is dead. I saw her die.She in a drifting cloud was drest,She lay along the uncertain west,A dream to see.And very low she spake to me:“I go where none may understand,I fade into the nameless land,And there must lie perpetually.”And therefore I,And therefore loudly, loudly IAnd highAnd very piteously make cry:“The Moon is dead. I saw her die.”

Andwill she never rise again?The Holy Moon? Oh, never more!Perhaps along the inhuman shoreWhere pale ghosts areBeyond the low lethean fenShe and some wide infernal star....To us who loved her never more,The Moon will never rise again.Oh! never more in nightly skyHer eye so high shall peep and pryTo see the great world rolling by.For why?The Moon is dead. I saw her die.

I loveto walk about at nightBy nasty lanes and corners foul,All shielded from the unfriendly lightAnd independent as the owl.By dirty grates I love to lurk;I often stoop to take a squintAt printers working at their work.I muse upon the rot they print.The beggars please me, and the mud:The editors beneath their lampsAs—Mr Howl demanding blood,And Lord Retender stealing stamps,And Mr Bing instructing liars,His elder son composing trash;Beaufort (whose real name is Meyers)Refusing anything but cash.I like to think of Mr Meyers,I like to think of Mr Bing.I like to think about the liars:It pleases me, that sort of thing.Policemen speak to me, but I,Remembering my civic rights,Neglect them and do not reply.I love to walk about at nights!At twenty-five to four I bunchAcross a cab I can’t afford.I ring for breakfast after lunch.I am as happy as a lord!

I loveto walk about at nightBy nasty lanes and corners foul,All shielded from the unfriendly lightAnd independent as the owl.

By dirty grates I love to lurk;I often stoop to take a squintAt printers working at their work.I muse upon the rot they print.

The beggars please me, and the mud:The editors beneath their lampsAs—Mr Howl demanding blood,And Lord Retender stealing stamps,

And Mr Bing instructing liars,His elder son composing trash;Beaufort (whose real name is Meyers)Refusing anything but cash.

I like to think of Mr Meyers,I like to think of Mr Bing.I like to think about the liars:It pleases me, that sort of thing.

Policemen speak to me, but I,Remembering my civic rights,Neglect them and do not reply.I love to walk about at nights!

At twenty-five to four I bunchAcross a cab I can’t afford.I ring for breakfast after lunch.I am as happy as a lord!

Remoteand ineffectual DonThat dared attack my Chesterton,With that poor weapon, half-impelled,Unlearnt, unsteady, hardly held,Unworthy for a tilt with men—Your quavering and corroded pen;Don poor at Bed and worse at Table,Don pinched, Don starved, Don miserable;Don stuttering, Don with roving eyes,Don nervous, Don of crudities;Don clerical, Don ordinary,Don self-absorbed and solitary;Don here-and-there, Don epileptic;Don puffed and empty, Don dyspeptic;Don middle-class, Don sycophantic,Don dull, Don brutish, Don pedantic;Don hypocritical, Don bad,Don furtive, Don three-quarters mad;Don (since a man must make an end),Don that shall never be my friend.. . . . . .Don different from those regal Dons!With hearts of gold and lungs of bronze,Who shout and bang and roar and bawlThe Absolute across the hall,Or sail in amply bellowing gownEnormous through the Sacred Town,Bearing from College to their homesDeep cargoes of gigantic tomes;Dons admirable! Dons of Might!Uprising on my inward sightCompact of ancient tales, and portAnd sleep—and learning of a sort.Dons English, worthy of the land;Dons rooted; Dons that understand.Good Dons perpetual that remainA landmark, walling in the plain—The horizon of my memories—Like large and comfortable trees.. . . . . .Don very much apart from these,Thou scapegoat Don, thou Don devoted,Don to thine own damnation quoted,Perplexed to find thy trivial nameReared in my verse to lasting shame.Don dreadful, rasping Don and wearing,Repulsive Don—Don past all bearing.Don of the cold and doubtful breath,Don despicable, Don of death;Don nasty, skimpy, silent, level;Don evil; Don that serves the devil.Don ugly—that makes fifty lines.There is a Canon which confinesA Rhymed Octosyllabic CurseIf written in Iambic VerseTo fifty lines. I never cut;I far prefer to end it—butBelieve me I shall soon return.My fires are banked, but still they burnTo write some more about the DonThat dared attack my Chesterton.

A PRIZE POEM SUBMITTED BY MR LAMBKIN, THEN SCHOLAR AND LATER FELLOW OF BURFORD COLLEGE, TO THE EXAMINERS OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD ON THE PRESCRIBED POETIC THEME SET BY THEM IN1893,“THE BENEFITS OF THE ELECTRIC LIGHT”

Hail, Happy Muse, and touch the tuneful string!The benefits conferred by Science[E]I sing.Under the kind Examiners’ direction[F]I only write about them in connectionWith benefits which the Electric LightConfers on us; especially at night.These are my theme, of these my song shall rise.My lofty head shall swell to strike the skies.[G]And tears of hopeless love bedew the maiden’s eyes.Descend, O Muse, from thy divine abode,To Osney, on the Seven Bridges Road;For under Osney’s solitary shadeThe bulk of the Electric Light is made.Here are the works;—from hence the current flowsWhich (so the Company’s prospectus goes)Can furnish to Subscribers hour by hourNo less than sixteen thousand candle power,[H]All at a thousand volts. (It is essentialTo keep the current at this high potentialIn spite of the considerable expense.)The Energy developed represents,Expressed in foot-tons, the united forcesOf fifteen elephants and forty horses.But shall my scientific detail thusClip the dear wings of Buoyant Pegasus?Shall pure statistics jar upon the earThat pants for Lyric accents loud and clear?Shall I describe the complex DynamoOr write about its Commutator? No!To happier fields I lead my wanton pen,The proper study of mankind is men.Awake, my Muse! Portray the pleasing sightThat meets us where they make Electric Light.Behold the Electrician where he stands:Soot, oil, and verdigris are on his hands;Large spots of grease defile his dirty clothes,The while his conversation drips with oaths.Shall such a being perish in its youth?Alas! it is indeed the fatal truth.In that dull brain, beneath that hair unkempt,Familiarity has bred contempt.We warn him of the gesture all too late:Oh, Heartless Jove! Oh, Adamantine Fate!A random touch—a hand’s imprudent slip—The Terminals—a flash—a sound like “Zip!”A smell of burning fills the started Air—The Electrician is no longer there!But let us turn with true Artistic scornFrom facts funereal and from views forlornOf Erebus and Blackest midnight born.[I]Arouse thee, Muse! and chaunt in accents richThe interesting processes by whichThe Electricity is passed along:These are my theme: to these I bend my song.It runs encased in wood or porous brickThrough copper wires two millimetres thick,And insulated on their dangerous missionBy indiarubber, silk, or composition.Here you may put with critical felicityThe following question: “What is Electricity?”“Molecular Activity,” say some,Others when asked say nothing, and are dumb.Whatever be its nature, this is clear:The rapid current checked in its career,Baulked in its race and halted in its course[J]Transforms to heat and light its latent force:It needs no pedant in the lecturer’s chairTo prove that light and heat are present there.The pear-shaped vacuum globe, I understand,Is far too hot to fondle with the hand.While, as is patent to the meanest sight,The carbon filament is very bright.As for the lights they hang about the town,Some praise them highly, others run them down.This system (technically called the Arc),Makes some passages too light, others too dark.But in the house the soft and constant raysHave always met with universal praise.For instance: if you want to read in bedNo candle burns beside your curtain’s head,Far from some distant corner of the roomThe incandescent lamp dispels the gloom,And with the largest print need hardly tryThe powers of any young and vigorous eye.Aroint thee, Muse! Inspired the poet sings!I cannot help observing future things!Life is a vale, its paths are dark and roughOnly because we do not know enough:When Science has discovered something moreWe shall be happier than we were before.Hail, Britain, Mistress of the Azure Main,Ten thousand Fleets sweep over thee in vain!Hail, Mighty Mother of the Brave and Free,That beat Napoleon, and gave birth to me!Thou that canst wrap in thine emblazoned robeOne quarter of the habitable globe.Thy mountains, wafted by a favouring breeze,Like mighty rocks withstand the stormy seas.Thou art a Christian Commonwealth; and yetBe thou not all unthankful—nor forgetAs thou exultest in Imperial MightThe Benefits of the Electric Light.

Oh! ye that prink it to and fro,In pointed flounce and furbelow,What have ye known, what can ye knowThat have not seen the mustard grow?The yellow mustard is no lessThan God’s good gift to loneliness;And he was sent in gorgeous pressTo jangle keys at my distress.I heard the throstle call again,Come hither, Pain! come hither, Pain!Till all my shameless feet were fainTo wander through the summer rain.And far apart from human place,And flaming like a vast disgrace,There struck me blinding in the faceThe livery of the mustard race.. . . . . .To see the yellow mustard growBeyond the town, above, below;Beyond the purple houses, oh!To see the yellow mustard grow!

Oh! ye that prink it to and fro,In pointed flounce and furbelow,What have ye known, what can ye knowThat have not seen the mustard grow?

The yellow mustard is no lessThan God’s good gift to loneliness;And he was sent in gorgeous pressTo jangle keys at my distress.

I heard the throstle call again,Come hither, Pain! come hither, Pain!Till all my shameless feet were fainTo wander through the summer rain.

And far apart from human place,And flaming like a vast disgrace,There struck me blinding in the faceThe livery of the mustard race.. . . . . .To see the yellow mustard growBeyond the town, above, below;Beyond the purple houses, oh!To see the yellow mustard grow!

A strongand striking Personality,Worth several hundred thousand pounds—Of strict political Morality—Was walking in his park-like Grounds;When, just as these began to pall on him(I mean the Trees, and Things like that),A Person who had come to call on himApproached him, taking off his Hat.He said, with singular veracity:“I serve our Sea-girt Mother-LandIn no conspicuous capacity.I am but an Attorney; andI do a little elementaryNegotiation, now and then,As Agent for a ParliamentaryDivision of the Town of N....“Merely as one of the Electorate—A member of the Commonweal—Before completing my Directorate,I want to know the way you feelOn matters more or less debatable;As—whether our Imperial PrideCan treat as taxable or rateableThe Gardens of....” His host replied:“The Ravages of Inebriety(Alas! increasing day by day!)Are undermining all Society.I do not hesitate to sayMy country squanders her abilities,Observe how Montenegro treatsHer Educational Facilities....... As to the African defeats,“I bitterly deplored their frequency;On Canada we are agreed,The Laws protecting Public DecencyAre very, very lax indeed!The Views of most of the NobilityAre very much the same as mine,On Thingumbob’s eligibility....I trust that you remain to dine?”His Lordship pressed with importunity,As rarely he had pressed before.. . . . . .It gave them both an opportunityTo know each other’s value more.

He said, with singular veracity:“I serve our Sea-girt Mother-LandIn no conspicuous capacity.I am but an Attorney; andI do a little elementaryNegotiation, now and then,As Agent for a ParliamentaryDivision of the Town of N....

“Merely as one of the Electorate—A member of the Commonweal—Before completing my Directorate,I want to know the way you feelOn matters more or less debatable;As—whether our Imperial PrideCan treat as taxable or rateableThe Gardens of....” His host replied:

“The Ravages of Inebriety(Alas! increasing day by day!)Are undermining all Society.I do not hesitate to sayMy country squanders her abilities,Observe how Montenegro treatsHer Educational Facilities....... As to the African defeats,

“I bitterly deplored their frequency;On Canada we are agreed,The Laws protecting Public DecencyAre very, very lax indeed!The Views of most of the NobilityAre very much the same as mine,On Thingumbob’s eligibility....I trust that you remain to dine?”

His Lordship pressed with importunity,As rarely he had pressed before.. . . . . .It gave them both an opportunityTo know each other’s value more.

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