8.YET.

428.YET.(AFTER F. E. W.)

Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!Sing by the sunset’s glow;Now while the shadows are long, darling;Now while the lights are low;Something so chaste and so coy, darling!Something that melts the chest;Milder than even Molloy, darling!Better than Bingham’s best.Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!Sing as you sang of yore,Lisping of love that is strong, darling!Strong as a big barn-door;Let the true knight be bold, darling!Let him arrive too late;Stick in a bower of gold, darling!Stick in a golden gate.43Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!Bear on the angels’ wingsChildren that know no wrong, darling!Little cherubic things!Sing of their sunny hair, darling!Get them to die in June;Wake, if you can, on the stair, darling!Echoes of tiny shoon.Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!Sentiment may be false,Yet it will worry along, darling!Set to a tum-tum valse;See that the verses are few, darling!Keep to the rule of three;That will be better for you, darling!Certainly better for me.

Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!

Sing by the sunset’s glow;

Now while the shadows are long, darling;

Now while the lights are low;

Something so chaste and so coy, darling!

Something that melts the chest;

Milder than even Molloy, darling!

Better than Bingham’s best.

Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!Sing as you sang of yore,Lisping of love that is strong, darling!Strong as a big barn-door;Let the true knight be bold, darling!Let him arrive too late;Stick in a bower of gold, darling!Stick in a golden gate.

Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!

Sing as you sang of yore,

Lisping of love that is strong, darling!

Strong as a big barn-door;

Let the true knight be bold, darling!

Let him arrive too late;

Stick in a bower of gold, darling!

Stick in a golden gate.

43Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!Bear on the angels’ wingsChildren that know no wrong, darling!Little cherubic things!Sing of their sunny hair, darling!Get them to die in June;Wake, if you can, on the stair, darling!Echoes of tiny shoon.

Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!

Bear on the angels’ wings

Children that know no wrong, darling!

Little cherubic things!

Sing of their sunny hair, darling!

Get them to die in June;

Wake, if you can, on the stair, darling!

Echoes of tiny shoon.

Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!Sentiment may be false,Yet it will worry along, darling!Set to a tum-tum valse;See that the verses are few, darling!Keep to the rule of three;That will be better for you, darling!Certainly better for me.

Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!

Sentiment may be false,

Yet it will worry along, darling!

Set to a tum-tum valse;

See that the verses are few, darling!

Keep to the rule of three;

That will be better for you, darling!

Certainly better for me.

449.ELEGI MUSARUM.(AFTER W. W.)

[To Mr. St. Loe Strachey.]

Dawn of the year that emerges, a fine and ebullient Phœnix,Forth from the cinders of Self, out of the ash of the Past;Year that discovers my Muse in the thick of purpureal sonnets,Slating diplomacy’s sloth, blushing for ‘Abdul the d----d’;Year that in guise of a herald declaring the close of the tourneyClears the redoubtable lists hot with the Battle of Bays;Binds on the brows of the Tory, the highly respectable Austin,Laurels that Phœbus of old wore on the top of his tuft;45Leaving the locks of the hydra, of Bodley the numerous-headed,Clean as the chin of a boy, bare as a babe in a bath;Year that––I see in the vista the principal verb of the sentenceLoom as a deeply-desired bride that is late at the post––Year that has painfully tickled thelachrymalnerves of the Muses,Giving Another the gift due to Respectfully Theirs;––Hinc illæ lacrimæ!Ah, reader! I grossly misled you;See, it was false; there is no principal verb after all!His likewise is the anguish, who followed with soft serenadingMe as the tremulous tide tracks the meandering moon;Climbing as Romeo clomb, peradventure by help of a flower-pot,46Where in her balconied bower lay, inexpressibly coy,Juliet, not as the others, supinely, insanely erotic,Pallid and yellow of hue, very degenerate souls,Rioting round with the rapture of palpitant ichorous ardour,But an immaculate maid, ‘one,’ you may say, ‘of the best’!His, I repeat, is the anguish––my journalist, eulogist critic,Strachey, the generous judge, Saintly unlimited Loe!Vainly the stolidSpectator, bewildered with fabulous bow-wows,Sick with a surfeit of dog, ran me for all it was worth!Vainly––if I may recur to a metaphor drawn from the ocean,Long (in a figure of speech) tied to the tail of the moon––Vainly, O excellent organ! with ample and aqueous unction47Once, as a rule, in a week, ‘cleansing the Earth of her stain’;(Here you will possibly pardon the natural scion of poets,Proud with humility’s pride, spoiling a passage from Keats)––Vainly your voice on the ears of impregnable Laureate-makers,Rang as the sinuous sea rings on a petrified coast;Vainly your voice with a subtle and slightly indelicate largess,Broke on an obdurate world hymning the advent of Me;When from the ‘commune of air,’ from ‘the exquisite fabric of Silence,’I, a superior orb, burst into exquisite print!What shall we say for your greeting, O good horticultural Alfred!Royalty’s darling and pride, crown of the Salisbury Press?Now when the negligent Public, in search of a subject for dinner,48Asks for the names of your books, Lord! what a boom there will be!Hoarse in Penbryn are the howlings that rise for the hope of the Cymri;Over her Algernon’s head Putney composes a dirge;Edwin anathematises politely in various lingos;Davidson ruminates hard over aBallad of Hell;Fondly Le Gallienne fancies how pretty the Delphian laurelsWould have appeared on his own hairy and passionate poll;I, imperturbably careless, untainted of jealousy’s jaundice,Simply regret the profane contumely done to the Muse;Done to the Muse in the person of Me, her patron, that neverLicked Ministerial lips, dusted the boots of the Court!Surely I hear through the noisy and nauseous clamour of CarltonSobs of the sensitive Nine heave upon Helicon’s hump!

Dawn of the year that emerges, a fine and ebullient Phœnix,

Forth from the cinders of Self, out of the ash of the Past;

Year that discovers my Muse in the thick of purpureal sonnets,

Slating diplomacy’s sloth, blushing for ‘Abdul the d----d’;

Year that in guise of a herald declaring the close of the tourney

Clears the redoubtable lists hot with the Battle of Bays;

Binds on the brows of the Tory, the highly respectable Austin,

Laurels that Phœbus of old wore on the top of his tuft;

45Leaving the locks of the hydra, of Bodley the numerous-headed,Clean as the chin of a boy, bare as a babe in a bath;Year that––I see in the vista the principal verb of the sentenceLoom as a deeply-desired bride that is late at the post––Year that has painfully tickled thelachrymalnerves of the Muses,Giving Another the gift due to Respectfully Theirs;––Hinc illæ lacrimæ!Ah, reader! I grossly misled you;See, it was false; there is no principal verb after all!

Leaving the locks of the hydra, of Bodley the numerous-headed,

Clean as the chin of a boy, bare as a babe in a bath;

Year that––I see in the vista the principal verb of the sentence

Loom as a deeply-desired bride that is late at the post––

Year that has painfully tickled thelachrymalnerves of the Muses,

Giving Another the gift due to Respectfully Theirs;––

Hinc illæ lacrimæ!Ah, reader! I grossly misled you;

See, it was false; there is no principal verb after all!

His likewise is the anguish, who followed with soft serenadingMe as the tremulous tide tracks the meandering moon;Climbing as Romeo clomb, peradventure by help of a flower-pot,46Where in her balconied bower lay, inexpressibly coy,Juliet, not as the others, supinely, insanely erotic,Pallid and yellow of hue, very degenerate souls,Rioting round with the rapture of palpitant ichorous ardour,But an immaculate maid, ‘one,’ you may say, ‘of the best’!His, I repeat, is the anguish––my journalist, eulogist critic,Strachey, the generous judge, Saintly unlimited Loe!

His likewise is the anguish, who followed with soft serenading

Me as the tremulous tide tracks the meandering moon;

Climbing as Romeo clomb, peradventure by help of a flower-pot,

Where in her balconied bower lay, inexpressibly coy,

Juliet, not as the others, supinely, insanely erotic,

Pallid and yellow of hue, very degenerate souls,

Rioting round with the rapture of palpitant ichorous ardour,

But an immaculate maid, ‘one,’ you may say, ‘of the best’!

His, I repeat, is the anguish––my journalist, eulogist critic,

Strachey, the generous judge, Saintly unlimited Loe!

Vainly the stolidSpectator, bewildered with fabulous bow-wows,Sick with a surfeit of dog, ran me for all it was worth!Vainly––if I may recur to a metaphor drawn from the ocean,Long (in a figure of speech) tied to the tail of the moon––Vainly, O excellent organ! with ample and aqueous unction47Once, as a rule, in a week, ‘cleansing the Earth of her stain’;(Here you will possibly pardon the natural scion of poets,Proud with humility’s pride, spoiling a passage from Keats)––Vainly your voice on the ears of impregnable Laureate-makers,Rang as the sinuous sea rings on a petrified coast;Vainly your voice with a subtle and slightly indelicate largess,Broke on an obdurate world hymning the advent of Me;When from the ‘commune of air,’ from ‘the exquisite fabric of Silence,’I, a superior orb, burst into exquisite print!

Vainly the stolidSpectator, bewildered with fabulous bow-wows,

Sick with a surfeit of dog, ran me for all it was worth!

Vainly––if I may recur to a metaphor drawn from the ocean,

Long (in a figure of speech) tied to the tail of the moon––

Vainly, O excellent organ! with ample and aqueous unction

Once, as a rule, in a week, ‘cleansing the Earth of her stain’;

(Here you will possibly pardon the natural scion of poets,

Proud with humility’s pride, spoiling a passage from Keats)––

Vainly your voice on the ears of impregnable Laureate-makers,

Rang as the sinuous sea rings on a petrified coast;

Vainly your voice with a subtle and slightly indelicate largess,

Broke on an obdurate world hymning the advent of Me;

When from the ‘commune of air,’ from ‘the exquisite fabric of Silence,’

I, a superior orb, burst into exquisite print!

What shall we say for your greeting, O good horticultural Alfred!Royalty’s darling and pride, crown of the Salisbury Press?Now when the negligent Public, in search of a subject for dinner,48Asks for the names of your books, Lord! what a boom there will be!Hoarse in Penbryn are the howlings that rise for the hope of the Cymri;Over her Algernon’s head Putney composes a dirge;Edwin anathematises politely in various lingos;Davidson ruminates hard over aBallad of Hell;Fondly Le Gallienne fancies how pretty the Delphian laurelsWould have appeared on his own hairy and passionate poll;I, imperturbably careless, untainted of jealousy’s jaundice,Simply regret the profane contumely done to the Muse;Done to the Muse in the person of Me, her patron, that neverLicked Ministerial lips, dusted the boots of the Court!Surely I hear through the noisy and nauseous clamour of CarltonSobs of the sensitive Nine heave upon Helicon’s hump!

What shall we say for your greeting, O good horticultural Alfred!

Royalty’s darling and pride, crown of the Salisbury Press?

Now when the negligent Public, in search of a subject for dinner,

Asks for the names of your books, Lord! what a boom there will be!

Hoarse in Penbryn are the howlings that rise for the hope of the Cymri;

Over her Algernon’s head Putney composes a dirge;

Edwin anathematises politely in various lingos;

Davidson ruminates hard over aBallad of Hell;

Fondly Le Gallienne fancies how pretty the Delphian laurels

Would have appeared on his own hairy and passionate poll;

I, imperturbably careless, untainted of jealousy’s jaundice,

Simply regret the profane contumely done to the Muse;

Done to the Muse in the person of Me, her patron, that never

Licked Ministerial lips, dusted the boots of the Court!

Surely I hear through the noisy and nauseous clamour of Carlton

Sobs of the sensitive Nine heave upon Helicon’s hump!

49II. TO MR. WILLIAM WATSON.

[On writing the first instalment ofThe Purple East, a ‘fine sonnet which it is our privilege to publish.’––Westminster Gazette, Dec. 16, 1895.]

Dear Mr. Watson, we have heard with wonder,Not all unmingled with a sad regret,That little penny blast of purple thunder,You issued in theWestminster Gazette;The Editor describes it as a sonnet;I wish to make a few remarks upon it.Never, O craven England, nevermorePrate thou of generous effort, righteous aim!So ran the lines, and left me very sore,For you may guess my heart was hot with shame:Even thus early in your ample songI felt that something must be really wrong.50But when I learned that our ignoble nationLay sleeping like a log, and lay alone,Propping, according to your information,Abdul the Damned on his infernal throne,O then I scattered to the wind my fears,And nearly went and joined the Volunteers.But just in time the thought occurred to meThat England commonly commits her courseTo men as good at heart as even weAnd possibly much richer in resource;That we had better mind our own affairsAnd leave these gentlemen to manage theirs.It further seemed a work uncommon lightFor one like you, a casual civilian,To order half a hemisphere to fightAnd slaughter one another by the million,While you yourself, a paper Galahad,Spilt ink for blood upon a blotting-pad.51The days are gone when sword and poet’s penOne gallant gifted hand was wont to wield;When Taillefer in face of Harold’s menRode foremost on to Senlac’s fatal field,And tossed his sword in air, and sang a spellOf Roland’s battle-song, and, singing, fell.The days are gone when troubadours by dozensPolished their steel and joined the stout crusade,Strumming, in memory of pretty cousins,The Girl I left behind Me, on parade;They often used to rattle off a ballad inThe intervals of punishing the Saladin.In later times, of course I know there’s Byron,Who by his own report could play the man;I seem to see him with his Lesbian lyre on,And brandishing a useful yataghan;Though never going altogether strong, heManaged at least to die at Missolonghi.52No more the trades of lute and lance are linked,Though doubtless under many martial bonnetsBrave heads there be that harbour the distinctBelief that they can manufacture sonnets;But on the other hand a bard is notSupposed to run the risk of being shot.Then since your courage lacks a crucial test,And politics were never your profession,Dear Mr. Watson, won’t you find it bestTo temper valour with a due discretion?That so, despite the fondSpectator’sbooming,Above your brow the bays may yet be blooming.

Dear Mr. Watson, we have heard with wonder,

Not all unmingled with a sad regret,

That little penny blast of purple thunder,

You issued in theWestminster Gazette;

The Editor describes it as a sonnet;

I wish to make a few remarks upon it.

Never, O craven England, nevermorePrate thou of generous effort, righteous aim!So ran the lines, and left me very sore,For you may guess my heart was hot with shame:Even thus early in your ample songI felt that something must be really wrong.

Never, O craven England, nevermore

Prate thou of generous effort, righteous aim!

So ran the lines, and left me very sore,

For you may guess my heart was hot with shame:

Even thus early in your ample song

I felt that something must be really wrong.

50But when I learned that our ignoble nationLay sleeping like a log, and lay alone,Propping, according to your information,Abdul the Damned on his infernal throne,O then I scattered to the wind my fears,And nearly went and joined the Volunteers.

But when I learned that our ignoble nation

Lay sleeping like a log, and lay alone,

Propping, according to your information,

Abdul the Damned on his infernal throne,

O then I scattered to the wind my fears,

And nearly went and joined the Volunteers.

But just in time the thought occurred to meThat England commonly commits her courseTo men as good at heart as even weAnd possibly much richer in resource;That we had better mind our own affairsAnd leave these gentlemen to manage theirs.

But just in time the thought occurred to me

That England commonly commits her course

To men as good at heart as even we

And possibly much richer in resource;

That we had better mind our own affairs

And leave these gentlemen to manage theirs.

It further seemed a work uncommon lightFor one like you, a casual civilian,To order half a hemisphere to fightAnd slaughter one another by the million,While you yourself, a paper Galahad,Spilt ink for blood upon a blotting-pad.

It further seemed a work uncommon light

For one like you, a casual civilian,

To order half a hemisphere to fight

And slaughter one another by the million,

While you yourself, a paper Galahad,

Spilt ink for blood upon a blotting-pad.

51The days are gone when sword and poet’s penOne gallant gifted hand was wont to wield;When Taillefer in face of Harold’s menRode foremost on to Senlac’s fatal field,And tossed his sword in air, and sang a spellOf Roland’s battle-song, and, singing, fell.

The days are gone when sword and poet’s pen

One gallant gifted hand was wont to wield;

When Taillefer in face of Harold’s men

Rode foremost on to Senlac’s fatal field,

And tossed his sword in air, and sang a spell

Of Roland’s battle-song, and, singing, fell.

The days are gone when troubadours by dozensPolished their steel and joined the stout crusade,Strumming, in memory of pretty cousins,The Girl I left behind Me, on parade;They often used to rattle off a ballad inThe intervals of punishing the Saladin.

The days are gone when troubadours by dozens

Polished their steel and joined the stout crusade,

Strumming, in memory of pretty cousins,

The Girl I left behind Me, on parade;

They often used to rattle off a ballad in

The intervals of punishing the Saladin.

In later times, of course I know there’s Byron,Who by his own report could play the man;I seem to see him with his Lesbian lyre on,And brandishing a useful yataghan;Though never going altogether strong, heManaged at least to die at Missolonghi.

In later times, of course I know there’s Byron,

Who by his own report could play the man;

I seem to see him with his Lesbian lyre on,

And brandishing a useful yataghan;

Though never going altogether strong, he

Managed at least to die at Missolonghi.

52No more the trades of lute and lance are linked,Though doubtless under many martial bonnetsBrave heads there be that harbour the distinctBelief that they can manufacture sonnets;But on the other hand a bard is notSupposed to run the risk of being shot.

No more the trades of lute and lance are linked,

Though doubtless under many martial bonnets

Brave heads there be that harbour the distinct

Belief that they can manufacture sonnets;

But on the other hand a bard is not

Supposed to run the risk of being shot.

Then since your courage lacks a crucial test,And politics were never your profession,Dear Mr. Watson, won’t you find it bestTo temper valour with a due discretion?That so, despite the fondSpectator’sbooming,Above your brow the bays may yet be blooming.

Then since your courage lacks a crucial test,

And politics were never your profession,

Dear Mr. Watson, won’t you find it best

To temper valour with a due discretion?

That so, despite the fondSpectator’sbooming,

Above your brow the bays may yet be blooming.

53III. ENGLAND’S ALFRED ABROAD.

[M. Alfred Austin, poète-lauréat d’Angleterre, vient d’arriver à Nice, où il a devancé la Reine. Il était, hier, dans les jardins de Monte-Carlo. Sera-ce sous notre ciel qu’il écrira son premier poème?––Menton-Mondain.]

Wrong? are they wrong? Of course they are,I venture to reply;For I bore ‘my first’ (and, I hope, my worst)A month or so gone by;And I can’t repeat it under thisOr any other sky.What! has the public never heardIn these benighted climesThat nascent note of my Laureate throat,That fluty fitte of rhymesWhich occupied about a halfA column of theTimes?54They little know what they have lost,Nor what a carnal beanoThey might have spent in the thick of LentIf only Daniel LenoHad sung themJameson’s Rideand knockedThe Monaco Casino.Some day the croupiers’ furtive eyesWill all be wringing wet;Even the Prince will hardly minceThe language of regretAt entertaining unawaresThe famed Alhambra Pet.But still not quite incognitoI mark the moving scene,In a tepid zone where (like my own)The palms are ever green,And find myself reported asA herald of the Queen.55Here where aloft the heavens are blue,And blue the seas below,I roll my eye and fondly tryTo get the rhymes to go,As I paceThe Garden that I love,Composing all I know.But when my poet-pinions droop,And all the air is wan,I enter in to the courts of sinAnd put a louis on,And hold my heart and look again,And lo! the thing is gone!Wrong? is it wrong? To baser craftsHas England’s Alfred pandered,Who once to the sign of Phœbus’ shrineWith awesome gait meandered,And ever wrote in the cause of rightAccording to hisStandard?56Nay! this is life! to take a turnOn Fortune’s captious crust;To pluck the day in a human wayLike men of common dust;But O! if England’s only bardShould absolutely bust!A laureate never borrows onHis coming quarter’s pay;And I mean to stop or ever I popMy crown of peerless bay;So I’ll take the nextrapideto Nice,And the ’bus to Cimiez.Mentone, Feb., 1896.

Wrong? are they wrong? Of course they are,I venture to reply;For I bore ‘my first’ (and, I hope, my worst)A month or so gone by;And I can’t repeat it under thisOr any other sky.

Wrong? are they wrong? Of course they are,

I venture to reply;

For I bore ‘my first’ (and, I hope, my worst)

A month or so gone by;

And I can’t repeat it under this

Or any other sky.

What! has the public never heardIn these benighted climesThat nascent note of my Laureate throat,That fluty fitte of rhymesWhich occupied about a halfA column of theTimes?

What! has the public never heard

In these benighted climes

That nascent note of my Laureate throat,

That fluty fitte of rhymes

Which occupied about a half

A column of theTimes?

54They little know what they have lost,Nor what a carnal beanoThey might have spent in the thick of LentIf only Daniel LenoHad sung themJameson’s Rideand knockedThe Monaco Casino.

They little know what they have lost,

Nor what a carnal beano

They might have spent in the thick of Lent

If only Daniel Leno

Had sung themJameson’s Rideand knocked

The Monaco Casino.

Some day the croupiers’ furtive eyesWill all be wringing wet;Even the Prince will hardly minceThe language of regretAt entertaining unawaresThe famed Alhambra Pet.

Some day the croupiers’ furtive eyes

Will all be wringing wet;

Even the Prince will hardly mince

The language of regret

At entertaining unawares

The famed Alhambra Pet.

But still not quite incognitoI mark the moving scene,In a tepid zone where (like my own)The palms are ever green,And find myself reported asA herald of the Queen.

But still not quite incognito

I mark the moving scene,

In a tepid zone where (like my own)

The palms are ever green,

And find myself reported as

A herald of the Queen.

55Here where aloft the heavens are blue,And blue the seas below,I roll my eye and fondly tryTo get the rhymes to go,As I paceThe Garden that I love,Composing all I know.

Here where aloft the heavens are blue,

And blue the seas below,

I roll my eye and fondly try

To get the rhymes to go,

As I paceThe Garden that I love,

Composing all I know.

But when my poet-pinions droop,And all the air is wan,I enter in to the courts of sinAnd put a louis on,And hold my heart and look again,And lo! the thing is gone!

But when my poet-pinions droop,

And all the air is wan,

I enter in to the courts of sin

And put a louis on,

And hold my heart and look again,

And lo! the thing is gone!

Wrong? is it wrong? To baser craftsHas England’s Alfred pandered,Who once to the sign of Phœbus’ shrineWith awesome gait meandered,And ever wrote in the cause of rightAccording to hisStandard?

Wrong? is it wrong? To baser crafts

Has England’s Alfred pandered,

Who once to the sign of Phœbus’ shrine

With awesome gait meandered,

And ever wrote in the cause of right

According to hisStandard?

56Nay! this is life! to take a turnOn Fortune’s captious crust;To pluck the day in a human wayLike men of common dust;But O! if England’s only bardShould absolutely bust!

Nay! this is life! to take a turn

On Fortune’s captious crust;

To pluck the day in a human way

Like men of common dust;

But O! if England’s only bard

Should absolutely bust!

A laureate never borrows onHis coming quarter’s pay;And I mean to stop or ever I popMy crown of peerless bay;So I’ll take the nextrapideto Nice,And the ’bus to Cimiez.

A laureate never borrows on

His coming quarter’s pay;

And I mean to stop or ever I pop

My crown of peerless bay;

So I’ll take the nextrapideto Nice,

And the ’bus to Cimiez.

Mentone, Feb., 1896.

57IV. LILITH LIBIFERA.

Exhumed from out the inner cirque of HellBy kind permission of the Evil One,Behold her devilish presentment, doneBy Master Aubrey’s weird unearthly spell!This is that Lady known as Jezebel,Or Lilith, Eden’s woman-scorpion,Libifera, that is, that takes the bun,Borgia, Vivien, Cussed Damosel.Hers are the bulging lips that fairly breakThe pumpkin’s heart; and hers the eyes that shameThe wanton ape that culls the cocoa-nuts.Even such the yellow-bellied toads that slakeNocturnally their amorous-ardent flameIn the wan waste of weary water-butts.

Exhumed from out the inner cirque of Hell

By kind permission of the Evil One,

Behold her devilish presentment, done

By Master Aubrey’s weird unearthly spell!

This is that Lady known as Jezebel,

Or Lilith, Eden’s woman-scorpion,

Libifera, that is, that takes the bun,

Borgia, Vivien, Cussed Damosel.

Hers are the bulging lips that fairly breakThe pumpkin’s heart; and hers the eyes that shameThe wanton ape that culls the cocoa-nuts.Even such the yellow-bellied toads that slakeNocturnally their amorous-ardent flameIn the wan waste of weary water-butts.

Hers are the bulging lips that fairly break

The pumpkin’s heart; and hers the eyes that shame

The wanton ape that culls the cocoa-nuts.

Even such the yellow-bellied toads that slake

Nocturnally their amorous-ardent flame

In the wan waste of weary water-butts.

58V. ARS POSTERA.

[On an advertisement ofA Comedy of Sighs.]

Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,You’re getting quite a high renown;Your Comedy of Leers, you know,Is posted all about the town;This sort of stuff I cannot puff,As Boston says, it makes me ‘tired’;Your Japanee-Rossetti girlIs not a thing to be desired.Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,New English Art (excuse the chaff)Is like the Newest Humour style,It’s not a thing at which to laugh;But all the same, you need not maimA beauty reared on Nature’s rules;A simple maidau naturelIs worth a dozen spotted ghouls.59Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,You put strange phantoms on our walls,If not so daring asTo-day’s,Nor quite so Hardy asSt. Paul’s;Her sidelong eyes, her giddy guise,––Grande Dame Sans Mercishe may be;But there is that about her throatWhich I myself don’t care to see.Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,The Philistines across the way,They say her lips––well, never mindPrecisely what it is they say;But I have heard a drastic wordThat scarce is fit for dainty ears;But then their taste is not the kindOf taste to flatter Beer de Beers.Bless me, Aubrey Beer de Beers,On fair Elysian lawns apartBurd Helen of the Trojan timeSmiles at the latest mode of Art;60Howe’er it be, it seems to me,It’s not important to be New;New Art would better Nature’s best,But Nature knows a thing or two.Aubrey, Aubrey Beer de Beers,Are there no models at your gate,Live, shapely, possible and clean?Or won’t they do to ‘decorate’?Then by all means bestrew your scenesWith half the lotuses that blow,Pothooks and fishing-lines and things,But let the human woman go!

Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,

You’re getting quite a high renown;

Your Comedy of Leers, you know,

Is posted all about the town;

This sort of stuff I cannot puff,

As Boston says, it makes me ‘tired’;

Your Japanee-Rossetti girl

Is not a thing to be desired.

Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,New English Art (excuse the chaff)Is like the Newest Humour style,It’s not a thing at which to laugh;But all the same, you need not maimA beauty reared on Nature’s rules;A simple maidau naturelIs worth a dozen spotted ghouls.

Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,

New English Art (excuse the chaff)

Is like the Newest Humour style,

It’s not a thing at which to laugh;

But all the same, you need not maim

A beauty reared on Nature’s rules;

A simple maidau naturel

Is worth a dozen spotted ghouls.

59Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,You put strange phantoms on our walls,If not so daring asTo-day’s,Nor quite so Hardy asSt. Paul’s;Her sidelong eyes, her giddy guise,––Grande Dame Sans Mercishe may be;But there is that about her throatWhich I myself don’t care to see.

Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,

You put strange phantoms on our walls,

If not so daring asTo-day’s,

Nor quite so Hardy asSt. Paul’s;

Her sidelong eyes, her giddy guise,––

Grande Dame Sans Mercishe may be;

But there is that about her throat

Which I myself don’t care to see.

Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,The Philistines across the way,They say her lips––well, never mindPrecisely what it is they say;But I have heard a drastic wordThat scarce is fit for dainty ears;But then their taste is not the kindOf taste to flatter Beer de Beers.

Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers,

The Philistines across the way,

They say her lips––well, never mind

Precisely what it is they say;

But I have heard a drastic word

That scarce is fit for dainty ears;

But then their taste is not the kind

Of taste to flatter Beer de Beers.

Bless me, Aubrey Beer de Beers,On fair Elysian lawns apartBurd Helen of the Trojan timeSmiles at the latest mode of Art;60Howe’er it be, it seems to me,It’s not important to be New;New Art would better Nature’s best,But Nature knows a thing or two.

Bless me, Aubrey Beer de Beers,

On fair Elysian lawns apart

Burd Helen of the Trojan time

Smiles at the latest mode of Art;

Howe’er it be, it seems to me,

It’s not important to be New;

New Art would better Nature’s best,

But Nature knows a thing or two.

Aubrey, Aubrey Beer de Beers,Are there no models at your gate,Live, shapely, possible and clean?Or won’t they do to ‘decorate’?Then by all means bestrew your scenesWith half the lotuses that blow,Pothooks and fishing-lines and things,But let the human woman go!

Aubrey, Aubrey Beer de Beers,

Are there no models at your gate,

Live, shapely, possible and clean?

Or won’t they do to ‘decorate’?

Then by all means bestrew your scenes

With half the lotuses that blow,

Pothooks and fishing-lines and things,

But let the human woman go!

61VI. A NEW BLUE BOOK.

[It was hardly to be supposed that the young decadents who once rioted ... in theYellow Bookwould be content to remain in obscurity after the metamorphosis of that periodical and the consequent exclusion of themselves. TheSavoy, we learn, to be edited by Mr. Arthur Symons and Mr. Aubrey Beardsley, will appear early in December.––Globe.]

‘The world’s great age begins anew,’Cold virtue’s weeds are cast;Our heads are light, our tales are blue,And things are moving fast;And no one any longer quarrelsWith anybody else’s morals.A racier journal stamps its pagesWith Beardsleys braver far;A bolder Editor engagesTo shame the morning star,OnLondon Nights, not near so chilly,Sampling a shadier Piccadilly.62Satyr and Faun their late reposeNow burst like anything;New Mænads, turning sprightlier toes,Enjoy a jauntier fling;With lustier lips old Pan shall playDrain-pipes along the sewer’s way.Priapus, wrongly left for dead,Is dead no more than Pan;Silenus rises from his bedAnd hiccups like a man;There’s something rather chaste (between us)About Priapus and Silenus.O cease to brew your Bodley papWhence all the spice is spent!The splendour of its primal tapWas gone when Aubrey went;Behold that subtle Sphinx prepareFresh liquors fit to lift your hair.63Another Magazine shall riseAnd paint the palsied town,Of humbler hue, of simpler size,And sold at half a crown;Please note the pregnant brand––Savoy,And don’t confuse withsaveloy.[*]

‘The world’s great age begins anew,’Cold virtue’s weeds are cast;Our heads are light, our tales are blue,And things are moving fast;And no one any longer quarrelsWith anybody else’s morals.

‘The world’s great age begins anew,’

Cold virtue’s weeds are cast;

Our heads are light, our tales are blue,

And things are moving fast;

And no one any longer quarrels

With anybody else’s morals.

A racier journal stamps its pagesWith Beardsleys braver far;A bolder Editor engagesTo shame the morning star,OnLondon Nights, not near so chilly,Sampling a shadier Piccadilly.

A racier journal stamps its pages

With Beardsleys braver far;

A bolder Editor engages

To shame the morning star,

OnLondon Nights, not near so chilly,

Sampling a shadier Piccadilly.

62Satyr and Faun their late reposeNow burst like anything;New Mænads, turning sprightlier toes,Enjoy a jauntier fling;With lustier lips old Pan shall playDrain-pipes along the sewer’s way.

Satyr and Faun their late repose

Now burst like anything;

New Mænads, turning sprightlier toes,

Enjoy a jauntier fling;

With lustier lips old Pan shall play

Drain-pipes along the sewer’s way.

Priapus, wrongly left for dead,Is dead no more than Pan;Silenus rises from his bedAnd hiccups like a man;There’s something rather chaste (between us)About Priapus and Silenus.

Priapus, wrongly left for dead,

Is dead no more than Pan;

Silenus rises from his bed

And hiccups like a man;

There’s something rather chaste (between us)

About Priapus and Silenus.

O cease to brew your Bodley papWhence all the spice is spent!The splendour of its primal tapWas gone when Aubrey went;Behold that subtle Sphinx prepareFresh liquors fit to lift your hair.

O cease to brew your Bodley pap

Whence all the spice is spent!

The splendour of its primal tap

Was gone when Aubrey went;

Behold that subtle Sphinx prepare

Fresh liquors fit to lift your hair.

63Another Magazine shall riseAnd paint the palsied town,Of humbler hue, of simpler size,And sold at half a crown;Please note the pregnant brand––Savoy,And don’t confuse withsaveloy.[*]

Another Magazine shall rise

And paint the palsied town,

Of humbler hue, of simpler size,

And sold at half a crown;

Please note the pregnant brand––Savoy,

And don’t confuse withsaveloy.[*]

FOOTNOTES:

[*]Saveloy, a kind of sausage; Frenchcervelas, from its containing brains.––Skeat.

Saveloy, a kind of sausage; Frenchcervelas, from its containing brains.––Skeat.

64VII. TO A BOY-POET OF THE DECADENCE.

[Showing curious reversal of epigram––‘La nature l’a fait sanglier; la civilisation l’a réduit à l’état de cochon.’]

But my good little man, you have made a mistakeIf you really are pleased to supposeThat the Thames is alight with the lyrics you make;We could all do the same if we chose.From Solomon down, we may read, as we run,Of the ways of a man and a maid;There is nothing that’s new to us under the sun,And certainly not in the shade.The erotic affairs that you fiddle aloudAre as vulgar as coin of the mint;And you merely distinguish yourself from the crowdBy the fact that you put ’em in print.65You’re a ’prentice, my boy, in the primitive stage,And you itch, like a boy, to confess:When you know a bit more of the arts of the ageYou will probably talk a bit less.For your dull little vices we don’t care a fig,It isthisthat we deeply deplore;You were cast for a common or usual pig,But you play the invincible bore.

But my good little man, you have made a mistakeIf you really are pleased to supposeThat the Thames is alight with the lyrics you make;We could all do the same if we chose.

But my good little man, you have made a mistake

If you really are pleased to suppose

That the Thames is alight with the lyrics you make;

We could all do the same if we chose.

From Solomon down, we may read, as we run,Of the ways of a man and a maid;There is nothing that’s new to us under the sun,And certainly not in the shade.

From Solomon down, we may read, as we run,

Of the ways of a man and a maid;

There is nothing that’s new to us under the sun,

And certainly not in the shade.

The erotic affairs that you fiddle aloudAre as vulgar as coin of the mint;And you merely distinguish yourself from the crowdBy the fact that you put ’em in print.

The erotic affairs that you fiddle aloud

Are as vulgar as coin of the mint;

And you merely distinguish yourself from the crowd

By the fact that you put ’em in print.

65You’re a ’prentice, my boy, in the primitive stage,And you itch, like a boy, to confess:When you know a bit more of the arts of the ageYou will probably talk a bit less.

You’re a ’prentice, my boy, in the primitive stage,

And you itch, like a boy, to confess:

When you know a bit more of the arts of the age

You will probably talk a bit less.

For your dull little vices we don’t care a fig,It isthisthat we deeply deplore;You were cast for a common or usual pig,But you play the invincible bore.

For your dull little vices we don’t care a fig,

It isthisthat we deeply deplore;

You were cast for a common or usual pig,

But you play the invincible bore.

66VIII. TO JULIA IN SHOOTING TOGSand a Herrickose vein.

Whenas to shoot my Julia goes,Then, then, (methinks) how bravely showsThat rare arrangement of her clothes!So shod as when the Huntress MaidWith thumping buskin bruised the glade,She moveth, making earth afraid.Against the sting of random chaffHer leathern gaiters circle halfThe arduous crescent of her calf.Unto th’ occasion timely fit,My love’s attire doth show her wit,And of her legs a little bit.67Sorely it sticketh in my throat,She having nowhere to bestow’t,To name the absent petticoat.In lieu whereof a wanton pairOf knickerbockers she doth wear,Full windy and with space to spare.Enlargéd by the bellying breeze,Lord! how they playfully do easeThe urgent knocking of her knees!Lengthways curtailéd to her tasteA tunic circumvents her waist,And soothly it is passing chaste.Upon her head she hath a gearEven such as wights of ruddy cheerDo use in stalking of the deer.Haply her truant tresses mockSome coronal of shapelier block,To wit, the bounding billy-cock.68Withal she hath a loaded gun,Whereat the pheasants, as they run,Do make a fair diversión.For very awe, if so she shoots,My hair upriseth from the roots,And lo! I tremble in my boots!

Whenas to shoot my Julia goes,Then, then, (methinks) how bravely showsThat rare arrangement of her clothes!

Whenas to shoot my Julia goes,

Then, then, (methinks) how bravely shows

That rare arrangement of her clothes!

So shod as when the Huntress MaidWith thumping buskin bruised the glade,She moveth, making earth afraid.

So shod as when the Huntress Maid

With thumping buskin bruised the glade,

She moveth, making earth afraid.

Against the sting of random chaffHer leathern gaiters circle halfThe arduous crescent of her calf.

Against the sting of random chaff

Her leathern gaiters circle half

The arduous crescent of her calf.

Unto th’ occasion timely fit,My love’s attire doth show her wit,And of her legs a little bit.

Unto th’ occasion timely fit,

My love’s attire doth show her wit,

And of her legs a little bit.

67Sorely it sticketh in my throat,She having nowhere to bestow’t,To name the absent petticoat.

Sorely it sticketh in my throat,

She having nowhere to bestow’t,

To name the absent petticoat.

In lieu whereof a wanton pairOf knickerbockers she doth wear,Full windy and with space to spare.

In lieu whereof a wanton pair

Of knickerbockers she doth wear,

Full windy and with space to spare.

Enlargéd by the bellying breeze,Lord! how they playfully do easeThe urgent knocking of her knees!

Enlargéd by the bellying breeze,

Lord! how they playfully do ease

The urgent knocking of her knees!

Lengthways curtailéd to her tasteA tunic circumvents her waist,And soothly it is passing chaste.

Lengthways curtailéd to her taste

A tunic circumvents her waist,

And soothly it is passing chaste.

Upon her head she hath a gearEven such as wights of ruddy cheerDo use in stalking of the deer.

Upon her head she hath a gear

Even such as wights of ruddy cheer

Do use in stalking of the deer.

Haply her truant tresses mockSome coronal of shapelier block,To wit, the bounding billy-cock.

Haply her truant tresses mock

Some coronal of shapelier block,

To wit, the bounding billy-cock.

68Withal she hath a loaded gun,Whereat the pheasants, as they run,Do make a fair diversión.

Withal she hath a loaded gun,

Whereat the pheasants, as they run,

Do make a fair diversión.

For very awe, if so she shoots,My hair upriseth from the roots,And lo! I tremble in my boots!

For very awe, if so she shoots,

My hair upriseth from the roots,

And lo! I tremble in my boots!

69IX. THE LINKS OF LOVE.

My heart is like a driver-club,That heaves the pellet hard and straight,That carries every let and rub,The whole performance really great;My heart is like a bulger-head,That whiffles on the wily tee,Because my love has kindly saidShe’ll halve the round of life with me.My heart is also like a cleek,Resembling most the mashie sort,That spanks the object, so to speak,Across the sandy bar to port;And hers is like a putting-green,The haven where I boast to be,For she assures me she is keenTo halve the round of life with me.70Raise me a bunker, if you can,That beetles o’er a deadly ditch,Where any but the bogey-manIs practically bound to pitch;Plant me beneath a hedge of thorn,Or up a figurative tree,What matter, when my love has swornTo halve the round of life with me?

My heart is like a driver-club,

That heaves the pellet hard and straight,

That carries every let and rub,

The whole performance really great;

My heart is like a bulger-head,

That whiffles on the wily tee,

Because my love has kindly said

She’ll halve the round of life with me.

My heart is also like a cleek,Resembling most the mashie sort,That spanks the object, so to speak,Across the sandy bar to port;And hers is like a putting-green,The haven where I boast to be,For she assures me she is keenTo halve the round of life with me.

My heart is also like a cleek,

Resembling most the mashie sort,

That spanks the object, so to speak,

Across the sandy bar to port;

And hers is like a putting-green,

The haven where I boast to be,

For she assures me she is keen

To halve the round of life with me.

70Raise me a bunker, if you can,That beetles o’er a deadly ditch,Where any but the bogey-manIs practically bound to pitch;Plant me beneath a hedge of thorn,Or up a figurative tree,What matter, when my love has swornTo halve the round of life with me?

Raise me a bunker, if you can,

That beetles o’er a deadly ditch,

Where any but the bogey-man

Is practically bound to pitch;

Plant me beneath a hedge of thorn,

Or up a figurative tree,

What matter, when my love has sworn

To halve the round of life with me?

71X. SWORDS AND PLOUGHSHARES.Part I. Presto Furioso.

Spontaneous Us!O my Camarados! I have no delicatesse as a diplomat, but I go blind on Libertad!Give me the flap-flap of the soaring Eagle’s pinions!Give me the tail of the British lion tied in a knot inextricable, not to be solved anyhow!Give me a standing army (I say ‘give me,’ because just at present we want one badly, armies being often useful in time of war).I see our superb fleet (I take it that we are to have a superb fleet built almost immediately);I observe the crews prospectively; they are constituted of various nationalities, not necessarily American;I see them sling the slug and chew the plug;I hear the drum begin to hum;72Both the above rhymes are purely accidental and contrary to my principles.We shall wipe the floor of the mill-pond with the scalps of able-bodied British tars!I see Professor Edison about to arrange for us a torpedo-hose on wheels, likewise an infernal electro-semaphore;I see Henry Irving dead-sick and declining to play Corporal Brewster;Cornell, I yell! I yell Cornell!I note the Manhattan boss leaving his dry-goods store and investing in a small Gatling-gun and a ten-cent banner;I further note the Identity evolved out of forty-four spacious and thoughtful States;I note Canada as shortly to be merged in that Identity; similarly Van Diemen’s Land, Gibraltar and Stratford-on-Avon;Briefly, I see Creation whipped!O ye Colonels! I am with you (I too am a Colonel and on the pension-list);73I drink to the lot of you; to Colonels Cleveland, Hitt, Vanderbilt, Chauncey M. Depew, O’Donovan Rossa and the late Colonel Monroe;I drink an egg-flip, a morning-caress, an eye-opener, a maiden-bosom, a vermuth-cocktail, three sherry-cobblers and a gin-sling!Good old Eagle!

Spontaneous Us!

O my Camarados! I have no delicatesse as a diplomat, but I go blind on Libertad!

Give me the flap-flap of the soaring Eagle’s pinions!

Give me the tail of the British lion tied in a knot inextricable, not to be solved anyhow!

Give me a standing army (I say ‘give me,’ because just at present we want one badly, armies being often useful in time of war).

I see our superb fleet (I take it that we are to have a superb fleet built almost immediately);I observe the crews prospectively; they are constituted of various nationalities, not necessarily American;I see them sling the slug and chew the plug;I hear the drum begin to hum;

I see our superb fleet (I take it that we are to have a superb fleet built almost immediately);

I observe the crews prospectively; they are constituted of various nationalities, not necessarily American;

I see them sling the slug and chew the plug;

I hear the drum begin to hum;

72Both the above rhymes are purely accidental and contrary to my principles.We shall wipe the floor of the mill-pond with the scalps of able-bodied British tars!I see Professor Edison about to arrange for us a torpedo-hose on wheels, likewise an infernal electro-semaphore;I see Henry Irving dead-sick and declining to play Corporal Brewster;Cornell, I yell! I yell Cornell!

Both the above rhymes are purely accidental and contrary to my principles.

We shall wipe the floor of the mill-pond with the scalps of able-bodied British tars!

I see Professor Edison about to arrange for us a torpedo-hose on wheels, likewise an infernal electro-semaphore;

I see Henry Irving dead-sick and declining to play Corporal Brewster;

Cornell, I yell! I yell Cornell!

I note the Manhattan boss leaving his dry-goods store and investing in a small Gatling-gun and a ten-cent banner;I further note the Identity evolved out of forty-four spacious and thoughtful States;I note Canada as shortly to be merged in that Identity; similarly Van Diemen’s Land, Gibraltar and Stratford-on-Avon;Briefly, I see Creation whipped!

I note the Manhattan boss leaving his dry-goods store and investing in a small Gatling-gun and a ten-cent banner;

I further note the Identity evolved out of forty-four spacious and thoughtful States;

I note Canada as shortly to be merged in that Identity; similarly Van Diemen’s Land, Gibraltar and Stratford-on-Avon;

Briefly, I see Creation whipped!

O ye Colonels! I am with you (I too am a Colonel and on the pension-list);73I drink to the lot of you; to Colonels Cleveland, Hitt, Vanderbilt, Chauncey M. Depew, O’Donovan Rossa and the late Colonel Monroe;I drink an egg-flip, a morning-caress, an eye-opener, a maiden-bosom, a vermuth-cocktail, three sherry-cobblers and a gin-sling!Good old Eagle!

O ye Colonels! I am with you (I too am a Colonel and on the pension-list);

I drink to the lot of you; to Colonels Cleveland, Hitt, Vanderbilt, Chauncey M. Depew, O’Donovan Rossa and the late Colonel Monroe;

I drink an egg-flip, a morning-caress, an eye-opener, a maiden-bosom, a vermuth-cocktail, three sherry-cobblers and a gin-sling!

Good old Eagle!

Part II. Intermezzo Doloroso.

[Allowing time for the fall of American securities to the extent of some odd hundred millions sterling; also for the Day of Rest.]

Part III. Andante Amabile.

Who breathed a word of war?Why, surely we are men and Plymouth brothers!Pray, what in thunder should we cut each other’sCarotids for?Merciful powers forefend!For we by gold-edged bonds are bound alway,Besides a lot of things that never payA dividend!74Christmas! we cry theeAve!At such a time, when hearts with love are filled,It seems inopportune for us to buildThe needful navy.In fact in many a churchUprise the prayer and supplicating psalmThat Heaven would keep our spreading Eagle calmUpon his perch.Goodwill and peace and plenty!Our leading congregations here agreeTo vote for this arrangement,nemineContradicente.Greatly be they extollédWho occupied the tabernacle-chairAnd put it to the meeting then and thereAnd passed it solid!That print has also playedA useful part that sent an invitationTo Redmond to relieve the situation(Answer prepaid).75Say, Sirs, and shall we sever?And mar the fair exchange of fatted steers,Chicago pig, and eligible peers?No! never, never!Shall gore be made to flow?Like kindred Sohrabs shall we knock our Rustums,And blast our beautiful McKinley customs?Lord love us! no!Then, burst the sundering bar!Our punctured pockets yearn across the ocean;Till now we never had the faintest notionHow dear you are!O love of other years!Wall Street, aweary for her broken bliss,Waits like a loving crocodile to kissAgain with tears!

Who breathed a word of war?Why, surely we are men and Plymouth brothers!Pray, what in thunder should we cut each other’sCarotids for?

Who breathed a word of war?

Why, surely we are men and Plymouth brothers!

Pray, what in thunder should we cut each other’s

Carotids for?

Merciful powers forefend!For we by gold-edged bonds are bound alway,Besides a lot of things that never payA dividend!

Merciful powers forefend!

For we by gold-edged bonds are bound alway,

Besides a lot of things that never pay

A dividend!

74Christmas! we cry theeAve!At such a time, when hearts with love are filled,It seems inopportune for us to buildThe needful navy.

Christmas! we cry theeAve!

At such a time, when hearts with love are filled,

It seems inopportune for us to build

The needful navy.

In fact in many a churchUprise the prayer and supplicating psalmThat Heaven would keep our spreading Eagle calmUpon his perch.

In fact in many a church

Uprise the prayer and supplicating psalm

That Heaven would keep our spreading Eagle calm

Upon his perch.

Goodwill and peace and plenty!Our leading congregations here agreeTo vote for this arrangement,nemineContradicente.

Goodwill and peace and plenty!

Our leading congregations here agree

To vote for this arrangement,nemine

Contradicente.

Greatly be they extollédWho occupied the tabernacle-chairAnd put it to the meeting then and thereAnd passed it solid!

Greatly be they extolléd

Who occupied the tabernacle-chair

And put it to the meeting then and there

And passed it solid!

That print has also playedA useful part that sent an invitationTo Redmond to relieve the situation(Answer prepaid).

That print has also played

A useful part that sent an invitation

To Redmond to relieve the situation

(Answer prepaid).

75Say, Sirs, and shall we sever?And mar the fair exchange of fatted steers,Chicago pig, and eligible peers?No! never, never!

Say, Sirs, and shall we sever?

And mar the fair exchange of fatted steers,

Chicago pig, and eligible peers?

No! never, never!

Shall gore be made to flow?Like kindred Sohrabs shall we knock our Rustums,And blast our beautiful McKinley customs?Lord love us! no!

Shall gore be made to flow?

Like kindred Sohrabs shall we knock our Rustums,

And blast our beautiful McKinley customs?

Lord love us! no!

Then, burst the sundering bar!Our punctured pockets yearn across the ocean;Till now we never had the faintest notionHow dear you are!

Then, burst the sundering bar!

Our punctured pockets yearn across the ocean;

Till now we never had the faintest notion

How dear you are!

O love of other years!Wall Street, aweary for her broken bliss,Waits like a loving crocodile to kissAgain with tears!

O love of other years!

Wall Street, aweary for her broken bliss,

Waits like a loving crocodile to kiss

Again with tears!

76XI. TO THE LORD OF POTSDAM.

[On sending a certain telegram.]

Majestic Monarch! whom the other gods,For fear of their immediate removal,Consulting hourly, seek your awful nod’sApproval;Lift but your little finger up to strike,And lo! ‘the massy earth is riven’ (Shelley),The habitable globe is shaken likeA jelly.By your express permission for the lastEight years the sun has regularly risen;And editors, that questioned this, have passedTo prison.In Art you simply have to say, “I shall!”Beethoven’s fame is rendered transitory;And Titian cloys beside your clever all--egory.77We hailed you Admiral: your eagle sightForesaw Her Majesty’s benign intentions;A uniform was ready of the rightDimensions.Your wardrobe shines with all the shapes and shades,That genius can fix in fancy suitings;Forlevées, false alarums, full paradesAnd shootings.But save the habit marks the man of goreYour spurs are yet to win, my callow Kaiser!Of fighting in the field you know no moreThan I, Sir!When Grandpapa was thanking God with hymnsFor gallant Frenchmen dying in the ditches,Your nurse had barely braced your little limbsIn breeches.78And doubtless, where he roosts beside his bock,The Game Old Bird that played the leading fiddleSmiles grimly as he hears your perky cock--a-diddle.Be well advised, my youthful friend, abjureThese tricks that smack of Cleon and the tanners;And let the Dutch instruct a German BoorIn manners.Nor were you meant to solve the nations’ knots,Or be the Earth’s Protector, willy-nilly;You only make yourself and royal Pots--dam silly.Our racing yachts are not at present dressedIn bravery of bunting to amuse you,Nor can the licence of an honoured guestExcuse you.79But if your words are more than wanton playAnd you would like to meet the old sea-rover,Name any course from Delagoa BayTo Dover.Meanwhile observe a proper reticence;We ask no more; there never was a rumourOf asking Hohenzollerns for a senseOf humour!

Majestic Monarch! whom the other gods,For fear of their immediate removal,Consulting hourly, seek your awful nod’sApproval;

Majestic Monarch! whom the other gods,

For fear of their immediate removal,

Consulting hourly, seek your awful nod’s

Approval;

Lift but your little finger up to strike,And lo! ‘the massy earth is riven’ (Shelley),The habitable globe is shaken likeA jelly.

Lift but your little finger up to strike,

And lo! ‘the massy earth is riven’ (Shelley),

The habitable globe is shaken like

A jelly.

By your express permission for the lastEight years the sun has regularly risen;And editors, that questioned this, have passedTo prison.

By your express permission for the last

Eight years the sun has regularly risen;

And editors, that questioned this, have passed

To prison.

In Art you simply have to say, “I shall!”Beethoven’s fame is rendered transitory;And Titian cloys beside your clever all--egory.

In Art you simply have to say, “I shall!”

Beethoven’s fame is rendered transitory;

And Titian cloys beside your clever all-

-egory.

77We hailed you Admiral: your eagle sightForesaw Her Majesty’s benign intentions;A uniform was ready of the rightDimensions.

We hailed you Admiral: your eagle sight

Foresaw Her Majesty’s benign intentions;

A uniform was ready of the right

Dimensions.

Your wardrobe shines with all the shapes and shades,That genius can fix in fancy suitings;Forlevées, false alarums, full paradesAnd shootings.

Your wardrobe shines with all the shapes and shades,

That genius can fix in fancy suitings;

Forlevées, false alarums, full parades

And shootings.

But save the habit marks the man of goreYour spurs are yet to win, my callow Kaiser!Of fighting in the field you know no moreThan I, Sir!

But save the habit marks the man of gore

Your spurs are yet to win, my callow Kaiser!

Of fighting in the field you know no more

Than I, Sir!

When Grandpapa was thanking God with hymnsFor gallant Frenchmen dying in the ditches,Your nurse had barely braced your little limbsIn breeches.

When Grandpapa was thanking God with hymns

For gallant Frenchmen dying in the ditches,

Your nurse had barely braced your little limbs

In breeches.

78And doubtless, where he roosts beside his bock,The Game Old Bird that played the leading fiddleSmiles grimly as he hears your perky cock--a-diddle.

And doubtless, where he roosts beside his bock,

The Game Old Bird that played the leading fiddle

Smiles grimly as he hears your perky cock-

-a-diddle.

Be well advised, my youthful friend, abjureThese tricks that smack of Cleon and the tanners;And let the Dutch instruct a German BoorIn manners.

Be well advised, my youthful friend, abjure

These tricks that smack of Cleon and the tanners;

And let the Dutch instruct a German Boor

In manners.

Nor were you meant to solve the nations’ knots,Or be the Earth’s Protector, willy-nilly;You only make yourself and royal Pots--dam silly.

Nor were you meant to solve the nations’ knots,

Or be the Earth’s Protector, willy-nilly;

You only make yourself and royal Pots-

-dam silly.

Our racing yachts are not at present dressedIn bravery of bunting to amuse you,Nor can the licence of an honoured guestExcuse you.

Our racing yachts are not at present dressed

In bravery of bunting to amuse you,

Nor can the licence of an honoured guest

Excuse you.

79But if your words are more than wanton playAnd you would like to meet the old sea-rover,Name any course from Delagoa BayTo Dover.

But if your words are more than wanton play

And you would like to meet the old sea-rover,

Name any course from Delagoa Bay

To Dover.

Meanwhile observe a proper reticence;We ask no more; there never was a rumourOf asking Hohenzollerns for a senseOf humour!

Meanwhile observe a proper reticence;

We ask no more; there never was a rumour

Of asking Hohenzollerns for a sense

Of humour!

80XII. FROM THE LORD OF POTSDAM.

We, William, Kaiser, planted on Our throneBy heaven’s grace, but chiefly by Our own,Do deign to speak. Then let the earth be dumb,And other nations cease their senseless hum!Seldom, if ever, does a chance ariseFor Us to pose before Our people’s eyes;But this is one of them, this natal dayWhereon Our Ancient and Imperial sway,Which to the battle’s death-defying trumpWelded the States in one confounded lump,(As many tasty meats are blent withinThe German sausage’s encircling skin)By Our decree is twenty-five precisely,And, under Us (and God) still doing nicely.Therefore ye Princelings, Plenipotentates,And Representatives of various States,A cool Imperial pint your Kaiser drains,Both to Our ‘more immediate’ domains,And to Our lands, Our isles beyond the sea,Our World-embracing Greater Germany!81Let loose the breathings of Our Royal Band,We give a rouse––hoch! hoch!––toHelgoland!

We, William, Kaiser, planted on Our throne

By heaven’s grace, but chiefly by Our own,

Do deign to speak. Then let the earth be dumb,

And other nations cease their senseless hum!

Seldom, if ever, does a chance arise

For Us to pose before Our people’s eyes;

But this is one of them, this natal day

Whereon Our Ancient and Imperial sway,

Which to the battle’s death-defying trump

Welded the States in one confounded lump,

(As many tasty meats are blent within

The German sausage’s encircling skin)

By Our decree is twenty-five precisely,

And, under Us (and God) still doing nicely.

Therefore ye Princelings, Plenipotentates,

And Representatives of various States,

A cool Imperial pint your Kaiser drains,

Both to Our ‘more immediate’ domains,

And to Our lands, Our isles beyond the sea,

Our World-embracing Greater Germany!

Let loose the breathings of Our Royal Band,

We give a rouse––hoch! hoch!––toHelgoland!

[Kaiserliche Kapelleplays:O Helgoland! mein Helgoland!Air––Die Wacht am Rhein.]

William, Kaiser, continues:––

There are that languish on this festal dayDamned and impounded forlèse-majesté;We, William, in Our plentitude of grace,Propose to pardon every hundredth case;And though their sentence was no more than justWe offer each a copy of Our bust,With option of a fine; but, be it known,Whoso again shall deem his life his own,Or find in Ours the faintest flaw or fleck,God helping, We will hang him by the neck.Yea, he shall surely curse his impious starThat dares to question Who or where We are!Worship your Cæsar, and (C.V.) your God;Who spares the child may haply spoil the rod.Many Our uniforms, but We are one,And one Our empire over which the sun,Careering on his cloud-compulsive way,Sets once, but never more than once, a day.82The seas are Ours: world-wide upon the oceansOur fleet commands the liveliest emotions;Go where you will, you find Our German mannersPrevailing under other people’s banners;Go where you will, you cannot but remarkThe cheap, but never nasty, German clerk;Observe Our exports; do you ever seeThings made as they are made in Germany?Always at home on Earth’s remotest shoresE.g., among Our loved, low-German Boers,Freely Our folk expectorate, and thereOur German bands inflame the balmy air;Likewise again Our passionate bassoonsTickle the niggers of the Cameroons;Or others over whom Our Eagle flapsIn places not at present on the maps.One more Imperial pint! your Kaiser drinksTo German intercourse with missing links!Let loose the breathings of Our Royal Band,We give––hoch! hoch!––Our gloriousHinterland!

There are that languish on this festal day

Damned and impounded forlèse-majesté;

We, William, in Our plentitude of grace,

Propose to pardon every hundredth case;

And though their sentence was no more than just

We offer each a copy of Our bust,

With option of a fine; but, be it known,

Whoso again shall deem his life his own,

Or find in Ours the faintest flaw or fleck,

God helping, We will hang him by the neck.

Yea, he shall surely curse his impious star

That dares to question Who or where We are!

Worship your Cæsar, and (C.V.) your God;

Who spares the child may haply spoil the rod.

Many Our uniforms, but We are one,

And one Our empire over which the sun,

Careering on his cloud-compulsive way,

Sets once, but never more than once, a day.

The seas are Ours: world-wide upon the oceans

Our fleet commands the liveliest emotions;

Go where you will, you find Our German manners

Prevailing under other people’s banners;

Go where you will, you cannot but remark

The cheap, but never nasty, German clerk;

Observe Our exports; do you ever see

Things made as they are made in Germany?

Always at home on Earth’s remotest shores

E.g., among Our loved, low-German Boers,

Freely Our folk expectorate, and there

Our German bands inflame the balmy air;

Likewise again Our passionate bassoons

Tickle the niggers of the Cameroons;

Or others over whom Our Eagle flaps

In places not at present on the maps.

One more Imperial pint! your Kaiser drinks

To German intercourse with missing links!

Let loose the breathings of Our Royal Band,

We give––hoch! hoch!––Our gloriousHinterland!

[Kaiserliche Kapelleplays:O Hinterland! mein Hinterland!(Air as before); during whichWilliam, Kaiser, resumes his throne.]

83XIII. ‘THE SPACIOUS TIMES.’

[On Drake’s return from his filibustering expedition of 1580 the Queen went on board his ship at Deptford, and after partaking of a banquet conferred on him the honour of knighthood, at the same time declaring herself mightily pleased with all that he had done.]

I wish that I had flourished then,When ruffs and raids were in the fashion,When Shakespeare’s art and Raleigh’s penEncouraged patriotic passion;For though I draw my happy breathBeneath a Queen as good and gracious,The times of Great ElizabethWere more conveniently spacious.Large-hearted age of cakes and ale!When, undeterred by nice conditions,Good Master Drake would lightly sailOn little privateer commissions;Careering round with sword and flameAnd no pretence of polished manners,He planted out in England’s nameA most refreshing lot of banners.84Blest era, when the reckless tar,Elated by a sense of duty,Feared not to face his country’s BarBut freely helped himself to booty;Returning home with bulging holdThe Queen would meet him, much excited,Pronounce him worth his weight in goldAnd promptly have the hero knighted.No Extra Special, piping hot,Broke out in unexpectedPyrrhics;No Poet Laureate on the spotComposed apologetic lyrics;Transpiring slowly by-and-by,The act was voted one of loyalty;The nation winked the other eye,And pocketed the usual royalty.Ere Reuter yet had found his range,These trifles done across the oceanProduced upon the Stock ExchangeNo preternatural emotion;85Not yet the Kaiserlich I AMMade wingéd words and then repented;He wrote as yet no telegram,Nor was, in fact, himself invented.No Justice Hawkins gauged the faultOf irresponsible incursions;The early Hawkins, gallant salt,Knew well the charm of such diversions;Men never saw that moving sightWhen legal luminaries muster,And very solemnly indictA well-conducted filibuster.No Member had the hardy nerveTo criticise our depredationsAs unadapted to preserveThe perfect comity of nations;No High Commissioner would doubtIf brigandage was quite judicial;Indeed we mostly did withoutThis rather eminent Official.86No Ministry would care a rapFor theoretic arbitration;They simply modified the mapTo meet the latest annexation;And so without appeal to law,Or other needless waste of tissue,The Lion, where he put his paw,Remained and propagated issue.To-day we wax exceeding fatOn lands our roving fathers raided;And blush with holy horror atTheir lawless sons who do as they did;No doubt the age improves a lot,It grows more honest, more veracious;But, as I said, the times are notQuite so conveniently spacious.

I wish that I had flourished then,

When ruffs and raids were in the fashion,

When Shakespeare’s art and Raleigh’s pen

Encouraged patriotic passion;

For though I draw my happy breath

Beneath a Queen as good and gracious,

The times of Great Elizabeth

Were more conveniently spacious.

Large-hearted age of cakes and ale!When, undeterred by nice conditions,Good Master Drake would lightly sailOn little privateer commissions;Careering round with sword and flameAnd no pretence of polished manners,He planted out in England’s nameA most refreshing lot of banners.

Large-hearted age of cakes and ale!

When, undeterred by nice conditions,

Good Master Drake would lightly sail

On little privateer commissions;

Careering round with sword and flame

And no pretence of polished manners,

He planted out in England’s name

A most refreshing lot of banners.

84Blest era, when the reckless tar,Elated by a sense of duty,Feared not to face his country’s BarBut freely helped himself to booty;Returning home with bulging holdThe Queen would meet him, much excited,Pronounce him worth his weight in goldAnd promptly have the hero knighted.

Blest era, when the reckless tar,

Elated by a sense of duty,

Feared not to face his country’s Bar

But freely helped himself to booty;

Returning home with bulging hold

The Queen would meet him, much excited,

Pronounce him worth his weight in gold

And promptly have the hero knighted.

No Extra Special, piping hot,Broke out in unexpectedPyrrhics;No Poet Laureate on the spotComposed apologetic lyrics;Transpiring slowly by-and-by,The act was voted one of loyalty;The nation winked the other eye,And pocketed the usual royalty.

No Extra Special, piping hot,

Broke out in unexpectedPyrrhics;

No Poet Laureate on the spot

Composed apologetic lyrics;

Transpiring slowly by-and-by,

The act was voted one of loyalty;

The nation winked the other eye,

And pocketed the usual royalty.

Ere Reuter yet had found his range,These trifles done across the oceanProduced upon the Stock ExchangeNo preternatural emotion;85Not yet the Kaiserlich I AMMade wingéd words and then repented;He wrote as yet no telegram,Nor was, in fact, himself invented.

Ere Reuter yet had found his range,

These trifles done across the ocean

Produced upon the Stock Exchange

No preternatural emotion;

Not yet the Kaiserlich I AM

Made wingéd words and then repented;

He wrote as yet no telegram,

Nor was, in fact, himself invented.

No Justice Hawkins gauged the faultOf irresponsible incursions;The early Hawkins, gallant salt,Knew well the charm of such diversions;Men never saw that moving sightWhen legal luminaries muster,And very solemnly indictA well-conducted filibuster.

No Justice Hawkins gauged the fault

Of irresponsible incursions;

The early Hawkins, gallant salt,

Knew well the charm of such diversions;

Men never saw that moving sight

When legal luminaries muster,

And very solemnly indict

A well-conducted filibuster.

No Member had the hardy nerveTo criticise our depredationsAs unadapted to preserveThe perfect comity of nations;No High Commissioner would doubtIf brigandage was quite judicial;Indeed we mostly did withoutThis rather eminent Official.

No Member had the hardy nerve

To criticise our depredations

As unadapted to preserve

The perfect comity of nations;

No High Commissioner would doubt

If brigandage was quite judicial;

Indeed we mostly did without

This rather eminent Official.

86No Ministry would care a rapFor theoretic arbitration;They simply modified the mapTo meet the latest annexation;And so without appeal to law,Or other needless waste of tissue,The Lion, where he put his paw,Remained and propagated issue.

No Ministry would care a rap

For theoretic arbitration;

They simply modified the map

To meet the latest annexation;

And so without appeal to law,

Or other needless waste of tissue,

The Lion, where he put his paw,

Remained and propagated issue.

To-day we wax exceeding fatOn lands our roving fathers raided;And blush with holy horror atTheir lawless sons who do as they did;No doubt the age improves a lot,It grows more honest, more veracious;But, as I said, the times are notQuite so conveniently spacious.

To-day we wax exceeding fat

On lands our roving fathers raided;

And blush with holy horror at

Their lawless sons who do as they did;

No doubt the age improves a lot,

It grows more honest, more veracious;

But, as I said, the times are not

Quite so conveniently spacious.

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