1 I *Otc^ ^r(4< ^f^/Lx * /^i. ''^ /jh^ U^A . ^ ;, uu^ KAV \{c~^ \ *W ^ O^cW- L ' . t^/fc~ z^ A 0~t(". Zj- . I «f o <+- LI5RARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA RIVERSIDE LOST MASTERPIECES AND OTHER VERSES. By the same Author : — MR. PUNCH'S DRAMATIC SEQUELS. With Fourteen Illustrations by C. E. Wheeler. Square 8vo. 5s. nett. London : Bradbury, Agnew, & Co. Ld. LOST MASTERPIECES AND OTHER VERSES. BY v \ ST. JOHN HANKIN. it i I.O\|)()\ : ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE k CO., Ltd. 1904. (Almost all these verses have already appeared either in Mr. Pdnch or in the St. James's Gazette. To their respective proprietors the Author desires to tender all due acknowledgments.) BRADBURY, AGNEW & CO. LD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE. CONTENTS. LOST MASTERPIECES WORDSWORTH BYRON . SCOTT . SHELLEY MOORE . CRABBE . BURNS . TENNYSON BROWNING . MRS. BROWNING ROSSETTI SWINBURNE . WILLIAM MORRIS MATTHEW ARNOLD HI ■• KII'I . WILLIAM WATSON PAGE 3 5 9 io ii 12 13 16 18 20 22 23 26 27 28 30 a VI CONTENTS. OTHER VERSES. JEERS, IDLE JEERS ! 39 THE TRANSMIGRATIONS OF MR. LABOUCHERE . 41 BEATUS ILLE ! 43 CEDANT ARMA TOG/E ...... 46 THE MANDARINS TO THE POWERS . . -49 AFTER READING LORD ROSEBERY's BOOK ON NAPOLEON 51 THE POWER BEHIND THE THRONE . . -53 AN ELEGY ON THE LATE KING OF PATAGONIA . 55 the lordliest life on earth (French Style) 58 the lordliest life on earth {German Style) 61 MORITURI SALUTANT ! 64 HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY . AN UNAPPRECIATED GENIUS DE GUST1BUS AN OLD STORY 66 68 70 72 LOST MASTERPIECES. The passion for making collections — generally of quite useless objects — seems to be almost universal among the men and women of to-day. It is found in all classes of Society. His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales collects postage stamps. Mr. Pierpont Morgan collects objects of art. Mr. Carnegie collects Free Libraries. In the lower classes half the little street boys in London seem to collect the portraits of dazzling young females that are given away with the cheaper brands of cigarettes. The other half collect tram tickets. My friend Mr. Cyrus P. Tuckett, the well-known Chicago millionaire, is no excep- tion to this rule. He is an enthusiastic collector. But with an originality as rare as it is refreshing in his class he has found something to collect which most rich men overlook. He cares nothing for Raphaels or lost Gainsboroughs. A unique postage stamp L.M. b 2 LOST MASTERPIECES. moves him as little as a statue by Phidias. The masterpieces of literature alone attract him, and these only in manuscript. If he can find a hitherto unpublished fragment by Shelley or Scott it puts him in a good temper for a week, and I have heard him say he would give a thousand pounds for a new Keats in good condition. Indeed, like most collectors, in the pursuit of his hobby he is incurably lavish, so that when Mr. Murray recently unearthed his fragment of a seven- teenth canto of " Don Juan " — surely a work of supererogation ? — I was not astonished to hear that Tuckett had bought four of the stanzas at a perfectly preposterous figure. To prove the absolute accuracy of this story the stanzas will be found on page 6 of the present volume. It must not be imagined that the whole of Tuckett's collection is to be found in this book. Printed in its entirety it would fill a substantial quarto. This volume merely contains a selection which he has allowed me to make from his choicest specimens. But though the quantity is small the quality is superb. Nothing has been included in it which is not of the highest literary value, and in all cases where the genuineness of an attribution has been questioned the fact is duly mentioned. LOST MASTERPIECES. 3 With these few lines of preface I turn at once to the Masterpieces themselves. I begin with two hitherto unpublished poems by Wordsworth. Their authenticity, I am happy to say, is indisputable. Everyone who is even slightly acquainted with the work of the master will immediately recog- nise them as his. The title of the first of them is singularly characteristic of the poet. It runs : — Lines Written on a beautiful day in early summer while a friend was putting on his boots preparatory to accompanying the writer. Up ! friend, your work is surely done, And it is glorious weather, So let us out into the sun And take a walk together. Observe the linnet on the bough, His note how clear and ringing ! His voice was mute at dawn, but now, I notice, he is singing. See how my dog comes running up In answer to my whistle; This flower is called a buttercup, And that, I think, a thistle. Birds in the trees are building nests In various directions, And every si^ht and sound suggests Appropriate redactions. ij 2 4 LOST MASTERPIECES. Thus Nature to the poet's eyes Shows more than other men, And every hour a theme supplies To occupy his pen. The homely sentiment and rural charm of this little gem can scarcely be matched among the poet's most famous productions. The other is equally precious in its way. It is called : — Dorothy ; Or, The Pleasures of Youthful Conversation. Each afternoon, from two to four, I take a walk by Rydal's shore — So fair it seems to me, And often, if the sun has dried The path, I turn my steps aside To talk with Dorothy. Her father and her mother dwell A mile away in yonder dell, And all the neighbours own That 'tis not possible to see A fairer child than Dorothy. (Her other name is Brown.) Her eyes are blue, her years are nine, And when she puts her hand in mine And charms me with her talk, Full oft the prattle of this child The poet's sadness hath beguiled Upon his evening walk LOST MASTERPIECES. 5 That these two masterpieces should not have seen the light till now only shows the chances to which the work even of the greatest poets is exposed. It is not too much to say that no future edition of Wordsworth's Works will be considered complete without them. Those persons — and I fear there may be some — who find the exquisite simplicity of Words- worth a little cloying, will gladly pass on to Byron, of whose work Tuckett has secured several noteworthy examples. Among these is a considerable fragment of a long narrative poem with the Oriental background which Byron knew so well how to employ. It is too long to print entire, but I give a couple of excerpts from it. It opens finely thus : — The night is dark. No moonlight shines Along the Moslem's battle-lines ; And jewelled mosque and stern serai Lie darkling 'neath an Eastern sky. The fair Zarcefa in her bower I rembling awaits the fatal hour When Cassim, on his fiery horse, Will carry her away of course. The elopement, which is narrati d in very spirited style, but at too great length to be quuted here, is duly carried out, and the 6 LOST MASTERPIECES. wrath of Zareefa's injured lord when the news reaches him is as easily described as imagined : — Noureddin's eyeballs blazed with ire, His bondmen trembled at their fire. Across the chamber's length he paced And to and fro his steps retraced While, musing o'er Zareefa's guilt, His right hand sought his dagger hilt. At moments too his favourite page Declared his whiskers curled with rage. Fiercely he scowled to left and right. Bismillah ! 'twas a shocking sight. Ultimately poor Zareefa and her lover are captured, and all ends happily — in the Bosphorus. Reference has already been made to Tuckett's four stanzas of " Don Juan," and how they came into his collection. Here they are : — When I have nothing specially to say, No view to urge, anarchic or subversive, No tale to tell fit for romantic lay, My Muse inevitably grows discursive ; I range abroad and let my fancy play Round every theme. And I should do it worse if I hadn't hit upon this ambling metre To clothe my jibes and make the stuff look neater. LOST MASTERPIECES. 7 My Muse, grown garrulous, turns here and there As suits her taste. I don't attempt to stop her. Her methods are peculiar, I'm aware, Her subjects, I am told, not always proper. But if I ever tried to trim or pair Her stanzas I should only come a cropper. Besides, this sort of thing is bought and read By many, so I let her have her head. The moralist declares : — " Nemo repente Fnit turpissimus," and I concur. I wrote much better stuff when I was twenty, But I am lazier now and I prefer To turn out stanzas c alamo carrente On things in general. Many men aver That verse like this, as far as writing goes, Is just as easy to produce as prose ! I know my rhymes are harsh, my measure rou^h, That half my stanzas are not much to boast of, That t'other half are but indifferent stuff Compared, my Muse, with other works thou know'st of ; I Int I ;mi very sure they're good enough To please my readers (whom I have a host of). In fact, they 're widely quoted by the noodles Who spend their lives at Brooks's and at Hoodie's. Lovers of Byron will remember that the poet had a wonderful power of writing 8 LOST MASTERPIECES. extemporary verse. More than one example of this fatal facility is included in Moore's edition, usually with a reverential footnote explaining that the stanzas were composed impromptu by the poet while stepping out of his bath or being upset in a hackney coach. The following lines show internal evidence of having been composed under similar conditions : — Impromptu. Oh not for me the lily's sweetness And not for me the rose's balm Can rob life of its incompleteness Or steep my fevered soul in calm ! Hope from this heart hath long been banished, And love with hope hath taken wing ; The days of my delight have vanished — The last line unhappily is lost, and all Tuckett's efforts to recover it have hitherto failed. Despairing of success in this he approached the Poet Laureate and begged him to finish the poem. Mr. Austin kindly consented, and after a few days supplied the following line : — " So what's the good of bothering ? " Tuckett was greatly pleased with the LOST MASTERPIECES. g addition, but on the whole it has been coldly received by the best judges. I wish I could find space in the present volume for about a hundred yards of a narra- tive poem by Sir Walter Scott which is in the fortunate Tuckett's possession, but this is impossible. I can only publish a charac- teristic excerpt, just to give a taste of its quality : — McTavish gazed along the lake As if a last farewell to take. He watched the fair moon shed her light Refulgent on Ben Lomond's height, And how Loch Sporran's waters gleam Beneath her chaste and silvery beam. Around his foot the heather springs, The bracken too and other things, A river's murmur fills the air (The usual stag is drinking there) And never, stranger, hath it been Thy lot to view so fair a scene ! I would also willingly print the whole of a long and somewhat wandering poem of Shelley's which Tuckett acquired recently at Christie's, but he has only given me per- mission to publish an extract from it, as doubts have been thrown on the genuine- ness of certain passages. The following lines, io LOST MASTERPIECES. however, are unquestionable Shelley. They are part of a lost masterpiece entitled : — Lines written after coming down from the euganaean hllls. Night is come and all things lie 'Neath her spell in ecstasy, Only the pale moon is seen Flooding with her pearly sheen All the solemn secret places In the interstellar spaces Where, all through the summer nights, She paces with her satellites And upon the world like balm Breathes her elemental calm. Where serene among her peers 'Mid crystalline atmospheres Far removed from mortal eyes Silence hath her mysteries. It is one of the weak points about collect- ing unpublished masterpieces that the value of even the choicest specimens fluctuates alarmingly. For example, we will suppose that Keats is at the moment the poet most acclaimed by the critics. Then even the smallest fragment of Keats's work will arouse the keenest attention and, if put up at Christie's, will command a fancy price. Tuckett, as I have said, has for years been endeavouring to secure a Keats, hitherto LOST MASTERPIECES. n without success. Ten years later Keats may be temporarily out of vogue. The fragment will then be comparatively valueless. The work of Thomas Moore, for instance, is just now quite out of fashion. Perhaps he is too sentimental for the present age. Whatever be the reason, the discovery of a new lyric by him possesses at the moment merely an archaeological interest. And yet fifty years ago the following touching " Irish Melody" would have brought delight to thousands and been sung in half the drawing-rooms in the country : — Oh, ask me no more ! Oh, ask me no more for the cause of my sadness, Nor seek to discover the grief that I feel, Enough that this breast hath no room now for gladness, Enough that its wounds thou art pow'rless to heal! As the bright sun at noonday by clouds may be hidden This heart is oppress'd by the waters of grief, Oh, let not its weakness too rashly be chidden ! Oli, check not the tear that alone brings relief ! There is never in Erin a sea-breeze thai ruffles, And oevei a cloud that o'ershadows her skies, But her poet in anguish convulsively snuffles While floods of emotion gush forth from his eyes! 12 LOST MASTERPIECES. But if Moore is no longer in fashion there has been of late, at least among the critical, something of a boom in Crabbe ; and the following beautiful lines will win a host of admirers : — Behold how Nature doth exert her might To keep mankind upon the path of Right. While on the contrary observe how strong Her efforts to repress him when he's wrong. Each petty fault she visits with her wrath And makes him strictly follow virtue's path. The Highest Good she ever keeps in view, But Moderation she enforces too. The slothful man to energy is spurr'd By the example of the early bird, While the too early worm's untimely fate Shows the advantages of being late. Thus all her lessons are beneficent If only we are certain what is meant, And the whole world, correctly understood, Gives every satisfaction to the Good. Tuckett has confessed to me that he bought this fragment as a Pope. But on submitting it to Mr. Edmund Gosse he was assured that it was undoubtedly a Crabbe. In obedience to so high an authority I have ascribed it to Crabbe. No collection of " Lost Masterpieces " can be considered really representative which LOST MASTERPIECES. 13 does not include any specimens of the work of Burns. Tuckett's collection is fortunately very rich in these. Here is one which has been greatly admired : — Oh whaur be a' the clouts an' gear, Clouts an' gear, clouts an' gear, Oh whaur be a' the clouts an' gear That Jamie used to hae ? Ye winna see them ony mair, Ony mair, ony mair, Ye winna see them ony mair, For Jamie lad hath poppit them ! It is true that some people have suspected this to be a forgery and not a genuine work of the Ayrshire poet. And indeed there is no particular reason why Burns rather than another should have written it. The merest Southron, one would think, could turn out this kind of thing in unlimited quantities if there were a demand for it, and indeed writing Scots ballads may be described as the shortest cut to Parnassus yet discovered. But though captious critics may pretend that this is not a genuine work of Burns, Tuckett himself — with tlif z<'h1 of the true collector — is prepared to defend its authen- ticity with his blood. He is equally con- vinced of the genuineness of the following 14 LOST MASTERPIECES. beautiful poem which is in the same genre Oh Willie's ganged to Edinbro', Oh Willie's ganged to Edinbro', Wi' thretty ither braw laddies Oor Willie's ganged to Edinbro'. An' will he na gang hame agen ? An' will he na gang hame agen ? Eh ! mony a waefu' year shall rin Till oor mon Willie's hame agen ! When oor mon Willie's hame agen, When oor mon Willie's hame agen, We'll drink a peck o' maut thegither, When oor mon Willie's hame agen. But though Tuckett is prepared to stake his life on the genuineness of these particular examples, I myself cannot help admitting the unhappy probability of forgery where work of this sort is concerned. For (alas !) it is so desperately easy to do. The amount of labour involved is exiguous. The English lyrist has to bother himself with rhymes and ideas and all manner of tedious parapher- nalia. But in happy Scotland all labour of this kind is reduced to a minimum. No rhymes whatever are required. A single line with judicious repetitions or variations will do the work of three, and the merest ghost of an idea suffices to provide a whole poem. LOST MASTERPIECES. 15 But the absence of rhymes, in Scotland at least, is a negligible matter. For in a country where all vowels apparently sound alike, and where consonants seem to have no sound at all, the shackles of rhyme can scarcely be said to exist. Indeed, a land where " from " and "snow" and "away" all rhyme to- gether must be admitted to be the very paradise of poets. The following exquisite lyric, also attributed by the best judges to Burns, illustrates this peculiarity in its most poignant degree : — When Winter airs are cauld an' raw, Wi' mickle rain an' muckle snaw, At hame, before I gang awa,' I fill my flaskie. There's naught sae gude when winds do blaw A s Hielan' whisky. The sodger wi' his murtherin' steel, The canny folk that buy an' sell, The pawky clerk wha drives a quill Upon his desky, They're a' sae peacefu' when they're full O' Hielan' whisky ! loon the road I gang agley, An' aften canna find my way, A sympathetic hiccough frae My friend McCIoski* Will j^uick; mi: ^afe, athort the brae, To hamf an' whisky. 16 LOST MASTERPIECES. It is instructive to turn from the facile go-as-you-please of Burns to the polished mannered verse of Tennyson. The following cancelled passage from "In Memoriam," the acquisition of which Tuckett has often described to me as the great coup of his life, should attain instant popularity with Tennyson lovers. Efforts have been made to prove that this is not a genuine work of the poet's, but no serious student of " In Memoriam " will be under the slightest doubt as to its authenticity. Indeed, Mr. Churton Collins has assured me that he can point out the actual point in the poem from which this passage somehow dropt out. But as the sections of " In Memoriam " seem generally to follow one another more or less at random this appears doubtful : — LXVI. The Spring is here ; the daffodils Peep thro' the grass beside the roads, The shooting bracken incommodes The cattle on a thousand hills. Once more the thrush with feverish zest Recalls the worm of other days ; Once more the wandering cuckoo lays Her egg in someone else's nest. LOST MASTERPIECES. 17 And, gazing o'er the fruitful plain, My bosom half forgets its woe ; Till something — what, I do not know, — Makes me begin to weep again. LXVII. When pondering much of " how " and " why " And lost in philosophic lore, The thought that two and two are four Consoles me in my agony. The sun sinks ever in the West And ever rises in the East, I feel that this is sure at least, And cannot doubt but it is best. Yet if the sun should change his mind, Or take his course some other way, Till no astronomer could say Where he would turn up next, resigned To any change that I might see — Or seeming change — in Nature's laws, I should be sure it had a cause, And that would be enough for me! By way of corrective to the mellifluous sweetness of Tennyson I pass at once to the rugged muse of Browning. The following lyric of his, hitherto unknown even to Browning Societies, should be greatly appreciated. It is in the poet's most abrupt and tortuous style, with all his well-marked L.M. c 18 LOST MASTERPIECES. eccentricity of rhyme and rhythm, and is called : Yet Another Way of Love. You see this rose, Its calyx, its petals ? Since fair it shows Could you forget, all's Well with your heart to the heart's confusion And the mind's disjointure. What's conclusion ? Look on her blossom, half white, half pinky. Would you choose her, the choice yours, think ye ? Or if, depressed With all this fooling, Rose and the rest, You 'scape your schooling, And, stooping low to her sweet shoe's latchet (Since truth's the truth if you can but catch it!) You risk conjecture " Why yes ? " or " Why no?"— Lord love you, I'm hanged if I know. The genuineness of this admirable poem has never been disputed. That of the following, alas ! is more open to question. The style is Browning's, but the subject appears to be the recent fall of the Campanile at Venice, and this did not occur till some years after the poet's death. LOST MASTERPIECES. 19 Tuckett, however, declares that it is obviously Browning's, and that the reference to the fall of the Campanile was merely prophetic. If so, it is only another proof of the inspiration of this great poet : — I crossed to Paris t'other day, Threaded Mount Cenis, Passed Turin, Milan. No delay ! And so to Venice. ( " ' Cenis ' and ' Venice ' rhyme ? Sublime ! " I see you frowning. Zooks, man, let Shelley pick his rhyme, I'm Robert Browning ! ) My object there ? St. Mark's, you guess, The Doges' Palace. Just so. " I went by Dover ? " Yes, And also Calais. (What's that you say? The metre's rough ? Wincing, old fat-head ? You're out, Sir. Metre's well enough. All's right on that head !) I bought a paper, read, rubbed eyes, I train-pan felt reelly, What was it moved me? You surmise: The Campanile. The famous Campanile down, Tumbled in ruin, Anger and tears through all the town, So the news flew in. c 2 20 LOST MASTERPIECES. Man shouts, brat squeals, dame squeaks, cur barks, In the Piazza Low lies the bell-tower of St. Mark's, Fallen quite flat, Sir ! Oh, what a theme for Epic Muse ! For tragic buskin ! — I wonder who will break the news To Ruskin ? Mrs. Browning is a poet whose work is just now rather unduly neglected, but a hitherto unpublished fragment from her pen should still be welcome. Though it has been shown to many critics, nobody has yet discovered what it is about, Mrs. Browning's habit of dragging in all the gods of Hellas by name on the most inappropriate occa- sions rendering this often a difficult task in her case. But no one has ventured to deny the intrinsic beauty of the stanzas, while the appalling character of the rhymes is fatally characteristic of this writer : — Aphrodite, pale with weeping, Will not hearken to our call, Zeus is either dead or sleeping, Homer nods (as usual!) Deep among the Asphodel Hera is asleep as well, And they heed us not at all. LOST MASTERPIECES. 21 From his sacred shrine in Delos Doth Apollo speak no more, Or his oracles might tell us Things we never heard before. Ototoi, Olympians ! Ye are fallen from your thrones As the old Greek cried of yore. Shall your poet's cries not ruffle Your divine tranquillity, Though the rhymes are simply awful, And the meaning's all my eye ? Bacchus shakes his heavy head ( He is drunk as well as dead! And none other makes reply. It is curious that while Mrs. Browning is temporarily out of favour, and even Robert Mr-owning is not as much read as he was, Rossetti, both as poet and painter, not only retains his hold on his old admirers but every year attracts new ones. Indeed, there seems a danger of his bringing over the Philistines so wholly to his side, that a too pronounced admiration for Rossetti may one day become itself a mark of Philistinism. 1 rtunately when Tuckett acquired the son- net which appears below Rossetti's work had not yet obtained so wide a hearing. Other- wise, as he remarked to me, he would never have picked it up at so low a figure. It is 22 LOST MASTERPIECES. true that at least one good judge has thrown doubts on its authenticity, but surely its sensuous imagery, its jewelled phrases and poignant yet nebulous melancholy, could have come from no other pen. The title too is eminently characteristic of this poet. It is : — Soul-Severance. Because the cithole hath a thousand tones Inwrought with many subtile harmonies Of lute and flute wherein sweet music dies, Yea, all the bitter-sweet that love disowns, Mournful are they and full of heavy moans And tears and interpenetrative sighs, Soul-stirred with ultimate immensities, And incommunicable antiphones ! So is the soul fulfilled of saddest things, Of multitudinous sighs more sad than they Whereof Earth hears no sound, yet nothing may Drown the deep murmur of its echoings : Even so of soul and soul the poet sings And what on earth he means can no man say. Among the most prized of Tuckett's Lost Masterpieces are three examples of the work of Mr. Swinburne. Some people, looking at the amount that Mr. Swinburne has published, will be inclined to question whether anything he has written can ever have been lost. But LOST MASTERPIECES. 23 this is an error. Great poets are invariably fastidious, and delete far more than they print. From this it follows that the amount that Mr. Swinburne has crossed out during the course of a long life must be simply prodigious. Much of it no doubt was wisely sacrificed, but there is reason to fear that occasionally the poet has pruned too ruth- lessly. Everyone, for example, who admires Mr. Swinburne's work (and who does not ?) must regret that the following verses were cancelled when the dedication to the first series of " Poems and Ballads " was going through the press : — In the uttermost regions of ocean, Out of sight of all seasons and lands, Where the stars and the sea-winds have motion, My desire and the soul of me stands. As a flame that relumes ere it dwindles, With the dawn and the darkness made one, So the fire of its passion rekindles Before it is done. Is there noise of its wings as they llutter ? Hath the sea taken heed of their flight ? Shall the infinite silences utter What the day hath not uttered to night ? I '.y the sands of the seas of old ages, On the shore of the measureless years, Where the storm-wind of centuries rages And nobody hears ! 24 LOST MASTERPIECES. Again, the following fine, if somewhat breathless, passage of blank verse should cer- tainly not have been deleted from the pub- lished version of " Atalanta in Calydon " : — Kings and all ye that sit at meat and wear Fair fillets on your heads and set your hands With joy towards the banquet, and all ye, Women and maidens, like fair stars that shine In summer heaven when the long day wanes And night is bright o'er all the fields and all The seas and skies of Hellas, bleached and burned With sunlight and the fiercest fire of storms And wan winds whitening o'er the waves and clear With sounding foam and murmur of tempests blown From Athos and the Euboean mountain-lands, Green, gracious places, groves where gods may lie All spring-time and the white feet of the nymphs Fail not nor Pan nor all the Muses' quire With flame of flowers and beauty of blossoming tree And glory of green corn, a boon to men, It is possible that Mr. Swinburne would never have made up his mind to sacrifice this beautiful passage had he not unfortunately lost the full stop. If "Atalanta " is ever per- formed on the stage I hope that these lines will be restored in the acting version. LOST MASTERPIECES. 25 Lastly, here is an example of the poet's later and more exuberant maimer. The metre alone would be sufficient proof of this, for all attentive readers must have noticed that as Mr. Swinburne grows older his lines grow longer, and I hear that his forthcoming volume is to be printed on a specially wide page in order to accommodate them. The poem is of course a mere fragment. If it had ever been finished it would have covered reams. Several suggestions have been hazarded as to the person to whom it was addressed. Some have held that this was Victor Hugo, others Walter Savage Landor. Perhaps Professor Saintsbury's view is the most probable, namely, that it it was written to Walt Whitman and that Mr. Swinburne had changed his opinion of that distinguished writer before he finished it. This would account for the somewhat petulant tone of the concluding line : — Soul whose light is fulfilled of night with glow and glamour and pulse of things, Star whose rays are on all men's ways with pomp of purple and pride of Kings, Thou whose tears are unheard of cars and whose sighs are heard not of men that be, Turn thine eye to us now and fly to thy People's help when they call to thee! 26 LOST MASTERPIECES. Thine the deep of the dews of sleep and the songless stupor of days and dreams, Thine the height of the soul's delight and the bliss and blight of the glad sun's beams, Thine the fire of the soul's desire that rises higher than all men born, Thine the heat of the feet that beat through fields whose wheat is as no man's corn ! Come thou near when the People fear and the hearts of Kings wax wan and white, Come thou nigh when the clouds roll by from skies that glow not in all men's sight, Come thou still that the People's will may have the strength thou alone canst send, Come oh come with a turn ti turn and bring this dreadful stuff to an end ! Lovers of the poems of William Morris will rejoice to hear that Tuckett's collec- tion of Lost Masterpieces includes one really choice fragment of his work which has hitherto never appeared in print. It is couched in the agreeable jargon peculiar to what may be called Kelmscot Verse, and the completed poem was intended to form part of a volume to be called " A Defence of Wardour Street, and other Poems " : — So from the castle gate, wherethrough The autumn mist full coldly blew, They 'gan to ride and no word said. She mused, " 'Twere better I were dead LOST MASTERPIECES. 27 Than thus my lord should frown on me." " Gramercy, sweet my lord," quoth she, " Meseems our steeds go prickingly." No word Sir Ablamour replied, But with a groan he left her side, Spurring his horse as though in pain The while. And silence fell again. Whereat she let her wimple fall, And fastened well her snood withal, While down her poor wan cheek perdie The big tears rolled incessantly, And " Ah," she sighed, " and welladay, Alack I know not what to say." So they two rode across the plain, Nor ever stayed nor yet drew rein Till, travel-stained and cross, God wot, They clattered into Camelot. Another interesting specimen in the collec- tion is from the pen of Matthew Arnold, one of those mild and meditative poems, unfet- tered by the tiresome exigencies of rhyme, which must have been so agreeable to write. It is called : — On Margate Sands. Still is the sea to-day, Slow up the beach the tide Creeps with scarcely a sound, While through the languorous air, Heavy, unstirred by the breeze, 28 LOST MASTERPIECES Silence broods o'er the scene. And I, too, brood. I pace Here on the sands and muse On the probable meaning of Life, And a question throbs in my brain, Incessant, ever renewed, What are you ? What am I ? After all, what is the sea ? And what, after all, is the land ? I know not. Neither do you. And the souls of us as they strive To answer questions like these Stand perplexed and in doubt, And lose the outlook serene, The grand detachment, the calm, Which they should strive to attain. Curiously enough an unpublished poem on the same subject by the late Mr. Henley is also in Tuckett's possession. It is written in a rhymeless measure not wholly unlike Matthew Arnold's, but the difference in feeling is extremely marked : — Margate Sands ! Dotted with feasters, Young men and maidens, Elate, uproarious, Exultant, drunk With the joy of life And with various liquors. Look on it there, Behold it and wonder, LOST MASTERPIECES. 29 Many-hued, various, Ecstatic, strepitant Life! Life with its fruitfulness, Its fierce encounters, Its strenuous onsets. Life the spendthrift, The palpitant wastrel, The bounding maenad, Up there in London, Down here at Margate, Life! The two fragments which follow are from the talented pen of Mr. Rudyard Kipling. The history of how they came into Tuckett's possession is so interesting that I venture to relate it here. It will be remembered that when " Reces- sional," perhaps the most widely known poem that Mr. Kipling has written, was first printed and achieved instantaneous popularity, a story went the round of the Press that Mr. Kipling himself had so entirely failed to gauge its merit that he had actually thrown it into the waste-paper basket. From this it was rescued by chance by a member of the poet's family, who at once recognised its merit and urged its publication. But for that rescuing hand 3 o LOST MASTERPIECES. " Recessional " would have been lost to the world for ever. Spurred to energetic action by this story, and determined to prevent the possible loss of further masterpieces to mankind, Tuckett employed a trusty agent to ferret from time to time in Mr. Kipling's waste-paper basket. He has not, alas, been fortunate enough to salvage another " Recessional," but he has secured two interesting and very charac- teristic fragments which might well have been intended to appear in " The Five Nations." One of them is a part of a barrack-room ballad in Mr. Kipling's most rollicking vein. The chorus is written in italics, why, it is impossible to say, but Mr. Kipling's verse often does start off into italics for no very clear reason. Here is the fragment : — Marchin' Orders. 'Ere's luck to the bloomin' reg'ment ! 'Ere's luck to the 'ole brigade ! 'Ere's luck to the British Army ! Fix bay'nits. 'Oo's afraid ? We're goin' on active service, wotever the papers say, So give us a cheer an' toss off your beer. We're off to the front to-day. LOST MASTERPIECES. 31 Up boys, off boys, Fourteen thousan' strong, Fourteen thousan', 'orse an' foot, singiri this ghastly song ! 'Tisn't a bloomin' anthim. 'Taint what you'd call refined . But Tommy's all right. 'E's tipsy to-night. An' 'e don't mind ! Why Mr. Kipling decided against including this spirited stave in his last volume will never be known. Perhaps it did not fit in with the generally sombre character of its contents. The second fragment is more serious in tone, and from internal evidence I am in- clined to think it was originally intended to be cabled to The Times. It may be about Mr. Brodrick's Army scheme, but it may be only a plea for Preferential Tariffs with the Colonies. It is always difficult to be quite sure what Mr. Kipling's Muse is really driving at : — None shall arise to help you, none shall come to your aid, When your Princes pale for terror and the People are sore afraid. Ye shall be slaves and bondmen, ye shall be bought and sold, Yea in the open market they shall buy your sons for gold. 32 LOST MASTERPIECES. Tempests shall sink your shipping, founder it far and wide, From Land's End to the Orkneys, from Portland Bill to the Clyde. Ye shall hide your bloodless faces, ye shall tremble and turn to flight, When the Star of War, like a comet, flares full on your fields by night, When the face of the sun is hidden and the stars wax weak and wan, When the thunder's voice is upon you, and I keep bellowing on ! Riddled with all disaster, wrecked past hope shall ye be, Ruined beyond redemption— unless ye listen to ME! Those persons who have read Mr. William Watson's lean volume of verse, entitled " For England," will have judged from its dimensions that a great many poems which ought to have figured in it have somehow been left out. Fortunately the omitted poems will not be lost altogether to posterity, for the indefatigable Tuckett bought up the MS. of them to add to his collection, and, in response to an earnest request from the Spectator, he has allowed me to publish one or two of them. The contents of "For England" are LOST MASTERPIECES. 33 described in a sub-title by their Author as " Poems written during estrangement," and consist almost wholly of sonnets and other verses contributed to Radical newspapers during the past four years denouncing the action of England in the Boer War. In a prefatory letter to Mr. Courtney Mr. Watson complains that this political attitude of his has been misunderstood. People there are so deaf to all the niceties of patriotic feeling that they have taken his denunciations of his country and his enthusiasm for her enemies as indicating a certain lack of affection for her. But this is a mistake. Mr. Watson was merely dissembling his love, and when he was kicking his country downstairs it was invariably in the most loyal and devoted spirit. Mr. Watson's particular brand of patriotic fervour is well illustrated in the following sequence of sonnets : — The Shrill, Small Voice. England, how noble are thine enemies And how unutterably base art thou I Put sackcloth therefore on thy loins and bow Thine head before the lightnings of mine eyes. Round the orbed world the tale of rapine flies Of how thou slew'st the peasant at his plough, Rased'st his farm and dravest off his cow, With many similar enormities. L.M. I) 34 LOST MASTERPIECES. But while the ignoble mob, with senseless cheer, Applaud thy tardy victories and bless The bloody men who taught thy foes to fear And crowned thy recreant banners with success, Listen attentively and thou shalt hear My shrill voice crying in the wilderness ! In Sorrow, not in Anger. There is no country, England, 'neath the sky So abject as thyself ! Thou hast been led By voice of baneful counsellors to shed Thine enemy's blood. What wonder then if I Stand not, as other singers, tamely by, But am by patriotic impulse sped To hurl denunciations on thine head With what might almost seem acerbity ? But though my deep and burning love for thee, The passionate attachment that I feel, At times are somewhat acidly expressed, 'Tis sorrow wrings these bitter words from me Which, to the heedful eye, more clear reveal The genuine affection in my breast. The Remedy. Watson, thou should'st be Laureate at this hour ! England hath need of thee. She is a wen Upon Earth's epidermis .... Unhappily the third sonnet is a mere fragment, a splendid burst of patriotic LOST MASTERPIECES. 35 fervour blazing out upon the page, but, alas ! extinguished before its full majesty could be revealed. Its loss is an irreparable gain to literature. Besides these imperishable sonnets I feel I must quote the following exquisite little poem, which might almost seem to have been written as a dedication to Mr. Watson's volume. Why the poet decided to omit it, and to put in its place the letter to Mr. Courtney, will never now be known. Like the whole volume, it is called For England. England, my well-loved native land, How strange it seems that we Who might be walking hand in hand Should thus estranged be ! 'Tis true I've called thee every name Invective's armoury lends, But still I love thee all the same, So why can't we be friends ? Forgive the words I used, forget The wrath I could not check, Come to my arms, dear land, and let Me snivel on thy neck ! d 2 OTHER VERSES. ( 39 ) JEERS, IDLE JEERS! Mine is, alas ! a flippant muse, If she's a heart she does not show it, So she and I have different views ; I want to be a real poet ! I want my verses to be read With tears by men of lofty station, I want a statue, when I'm dead, Erected by a grateful nation ! I'm sick of writing ribald rhymes, I 'm tired of cutting humorous capers, I want my poems in The Times And all the other daily papers. Like Lewis Morris I will sing — At quite unusual length — of Hades. The critics say that sort of thing Is very much admired by ladies. With William Watson I '11 declaim Armenia's woes and make you shudder, Or rival Edwin Arnold's fame \>y writing further reams on Buddha. I feel a playwright's fire in me, I do not hesitate to say it ; I'll write a I 'lank verse tragedy And Mr. Beerbohm Tree shall play it. 4 o OTHER VERSES. I'll turn out patriotic lays, And make the music-halls recite them They'll win me universal praise — And almost any fool can write them. My lyrics shall surpass belief, I'll shine alike in song and sonnet ; And when my country comes to grief I'll write a threnody upon it. Till Austin, weary of the way Those wicked critics daily twit him, Will lay aside his wreath of bay — Which really never seems to fit him. Then all the other bards who try To seize the crown will be rejected, For nobody can doubt that I Shall be the gentleman selected. The papers will be charmed to hear That one fine morning I 've been knighted, And later, when I 'm made a peer, They will be equally delighted. And when my day of death is come I shall, I hope, like Master Horner, Pluck from life's pie one final plum Serenely in the Poet's Corner. OTHER VERSES. 41 THE TRANSMIGRATIONS OF MR. LABOUCHERE. ["Had I been a Greek three thousand years ago, I should have been opposed to the siege of Troy." Mr. Labouchere on the South African War.] It was three thousand years ago The Greeks went forth with ships and men To lay the pride of Priam low, And very few came back again ! / thought the war a sad mistake — A fact well known to every boy ; Thersites was the name I bore, And I opposed the siege of Troy. In later times historians tell That Rome and Carthage came to blows And ultimately Carthage fell — Again, as every schoolboy knows. / mocked the Roman Senate's schemes, / mocked the Roman soldier's scars ; I was a Roman citizen, And I opposed the Punic wars. Then, coming to more modern days, When Drake was on the Spanish Main, I was I alone declined to praise I he man who broke the power of Spain. 42 OTHER VERSES. And when from Elba Nap returned, And Belgium saw the final coup, I said hard things of Wellington And disapproved of Waterloo. And, therefore, now, when Mr. K. Has left his capital and fled, And Milner, I regret to say, Seems to be reigning in his stead, When England has avenged her sons Who died on Amajuba's hill, A pattern of consistency, You see me disapproving still. OTHER VERSES. 43 BEATUS ILLE! ["Mr. Kruger has taken a villa at Mentone . . . Mr. Reitz and his two sons talk of settling in Mada- gascar." — Daily Paper.] My friends, let not your grief be loud : Indeed, dear friends, 'tis not so ill ; Behold the upright head unbowed, The righteous unforsaken still ! Here in this highly favoured spot, By this blue sea, in this mild air, I have secured a modest cot, And I propose to winter there. From hence I can survey the land From which I fled and feel no pain ; The rolling veld, the roaring Rand, Will never call me back again. League upon league of spume and foam, Of barren sea and shrieking sky, Divide me from my ancient home. Would I retraverse them ? Not I ! The heaving ocean has for me No charm to lure me from this shore, I am (like Nelson) sick at sea, And 1 shall never tempt it more. 44 OTHER VERSES. My wants are few. I do not pray For wealth and all the wrong it breeds ; My income, I am glad to say, Amply suffices for my needs. I saved a very decent sum In those fat years when I controlled My country's fortunes. None shall come To rob me of my hoarded gold. My high position in the past, And my adventurous finance, Permit me to retire at last In comfort to the South of France. Here will I sit me down and bask At ease upon this heavenly coast. What more could anybody ask ? Yes, I am luckier than most. Poor Joubert's dead and under ground, The doctors shake their heads at Steyn, And worthy Botha fusses round Asking for money — quite in vain. Reitz and his sons fare to and fro, Seeking some fertile patch of ground In Madagascar. Let them go ; / shall not miss them, I '11 be bound. De Wet makes speeches far and wide ; No one attends to what he says ; The rest no doubt are occupied In similarly futile ways. OTHER VERSES. 45 So they go on. And only I Fling old ambitions quite aside, And with sublime philosophy Accept the goods the gods provide. And when the south wind softly blows I creep towards my favourite seat, Lay back my head and dream and doze Serenely in the noonday heat, And feel while Milner, night and morn, Cudgels his brains and tasks his wit, And Chamberlain exalts his horn, The exile has the best of it ! 46 OTHER VERSES. CEDANT ARMA TOG^. [It is understood that Dr. Leyds has taken up an irreconcilable attitude with regard to the surrender of the Boer Generals, and looks upon the peace merely as in the nature of an armistice. — Daily Paper. .] Let others leave the tented field, Lay down the sword and tamely yield ; Let recreant burghers bow the knee And own an alien sovereignty ; Leyds shall be to his ancient foes Unconquerably bellicose ! His is the heart that nought can tame, His are the deeds that all acclaim ; Botha, De Wet, and De la Rey And General Cronje, who are they ? Their deeds are dim, their glory fades Beside the loud repute of Leyds. The Hague has seen his prowess shown And Europe heard his trumpet blown ; His knightly figure, all confess, Did great achievements in the Press, And — from his Belgian retreat — This great man never owned defeat I Choosing a comfortable spot Where bayonet and shell were not, OTHER VERSES. 47 He plied a very valiant pen, Bidding the fighters come again. And no one ever heard him whine When bullets thinned the fighting line. While others bore the battle's brunt He showed a calm unruffled front ; The wounded Dopper on the veld His steadfast spirit could not melt ; Still from the land where he had gone He stoutly cried, " Fight on ! Fight on ! " When others, clad in war's array, Though beaten, still renewed the fray, He urged them on into the breach, Himself securely out of reach, And when they finally gave in, He still was sure that they would win. Thus unperturbed and unsubdued He kept his dauntless attitude, Nothing could bend his stubborn will, And quite unbent he keeps it still ; Botha and Co. may sheathe their blades, But never, never Dr. Leyds ! In Europe, lapped in utter peace, And amply guarded by police, Where never bullet whistles near To shake a brave man's heart with fear, He nails his colours to the mast, And breather deliance to the last ! 48 OTHER VERSES. And I imagine no one knows The end of this preposterous pose ; Year after year will pass from sight, But Leyds will not give up the fight, Still consecrating every day To an imaginary fray, In which in the last ditch he lies And — metaphorically — dies. OTHER VERSES. 49 THE MANDARINS TO THE POWERS. " Contra vim Mortis non est medicamen in hortis" [" Recent edicts indicate a desire to institute immediate reforms on the part of the Emperor of China, who is calling for the return of those reformers who were active two or three years ago. Unfortunately, most of these have been beheaded since." — Renter.] Never believe that We oppose reform. The " Boxers " put us in a false position. We merely bowed before the recent storm, But so would any prudent politician. The Emperor is anxious to recall The councillors by whom reforms were mooted. Unfortunately very nearly all Those gentlemen have since been executed! Should you induce the Empress to retire — Between ourselves, she is a perfect ogress — His Majesty would show a keen desire To tread once more the primrose path of progress. L.M. E 5 o OTHER VERSES. 'Tis she alone prevents the carrying out Of those reforms to which his heart is wedded, And Kwang and Chung would help him, there's no doubt — But they, unluckily, have been beheaded ! We will maintain, as long as we have breath, He'd rally the Reformers to his banner, Had they not, most of them, been put to death In some uncomfortable Chinese manner. Aided by these he would establish peace, Redressing all the grievances you mention. Unhappily their premature decease Compels him to abandon the intention ! OTHER VERSES. 51 AFTER READING LORD ROSEBERY'S BOOK ON NAPOLEON. ["En fait, il est facile, a quatre-vingt-cinq ans de distance, d'afficher les sentiments gen£reux dont fait montre Lord Rosebery. L'orage est loin. Mais jamais il ne nous fera croire que, chef du gouvernement de son pays en 1815, il aurait agi autrement que Castlereagh." — Le Matin. ] The Shade of Sir Hudson Lowe speaks ; — " Here in the green Elysian fields, by the babble of Lethe's brook, With many a slope that fronts the sun and many a shaded nook, I stretch my length on the asphodel and read Lord Rosebery's book. Over my head in the oak tree boughs that the sunshine filters through The green leaves dance in the summer breeze and laugh in the cloudless blue ; They dance as I read Lord Rosebery's book ; they laugh — and 1 laugh too ! For I read of the island compassed round by the far Atlantic main, Where Bonaparte was my prisoner, the island of Ste. Hclcne, Where the Corsican Ogre paced his cage and beat on its bars in vain I e 2 52 OTHER VERSES. Once they had shut him in Elba's Isle, in the azure inland sea, But 'twas easy to break his prison there ; he fled to France and was free ; So at last they gave him to me to guard, and he could not escape from me ! He claimed to rank as an emperor yet ; I brushed the claim aside ; I bent the tyrant's neck to the yoke, I humbled the upstart's pride, And he fretted against my steadfast will till his courage failed and he died ! And here in the green Elysian fields, by the babble of Lethe's brook, I read the comments Lord Rosebery makes in his recently published book On the claims of General Bonaparte and the attitude I took. It seems he's shocked at the things I did, and he sheds a pitying tear At the Corsican's terrible times with me — and, indeed, his whole career. Well, England must judge between Hudson Lowe and this dilettante peer ! But if this is the stuff of which England makes Prime Ministers to-day, When a new Napoleon rises up there'll be the deuce to pay ; And before it's over I rather think she'll sigh for Castlereagh ! OTHER VERSES. 53 THE POWER BEHIND THE THRONE. [Being the letter of a distracted Liberal leader to a distinguished colleague on the occasion of a Party banquet in the troubled days of 1901.] Dear Friend, how gladly I would come, To dine with you and Grey, Leaving my Little England drum Behind me for the day. I'm sure my country's in the right, I'm longing to avow it, I want to cheer with all my might, — But Lloud Jawge won't allow it ! I loathe the Little England lot, I do, upon my word ; I thought the Queen's Hall meeting rot, And all it said absurd. When I peruse the Daily News, Its leaders quite upset me, I'd like to combat all its views, — But Lloud Jawge wouldn't let me! Of course I wish the war to cease, I kit it would be a sin For us to even think of peace Until the Boers give in. 54 OTHER VERSES. I think their Generals wicked men, De Wet a perfect bandit ; I'd gladly say so now and then, — But Lloud Jawge wouldn't stand it ! I'm sure you recognise how hard The Party is to lead ; And how its prospects would be marred If you and Grey secede. I think that Pro-Boer eloquence Is silly and injurious ; I'd love to come down from the fence, — But Lloud Jawge would be furious ! And so, I fear, I mustn't dine With Edward Grey and you, I'm really sorry to decline — But what am I to do ? I know you've got more brains than I, And Grey's a clever fellow, But if I backed your policy, Think how Lloud Jawge would bellow OTHER VERSES. 55 AN ELEGY ON THE LATE KING OF PATAGONIA. ["Gustave Laviarde, otherwise known as Achilles I. King of Auracania and Patagonia, was sadly interfered with by the Government of Chili, so he retired to Europe and started an office for the sale of Auracanian and Pata- gonian Orders, his Lord Chamberlain being a publican in the quarter of Paris in which he lived. "—Daily Telegraph.] The generous man will not deny Few monarch's paths in life were stonier Than that one which was trodden by Achilles, King of Patagonia. When he was crowned his subjects cheered, The bells were rung in every steeple, From which it certainly appeared He was the Father of his People. But envy of his peaceful sway And of his just administration Inflamed in a disastrous way The rulers of the Chilian nation. They drove Achilles from his throne To Paris, where his days were ended, And all impartial men will own Their action cannot be defended. 56 OTHER VERSES. A credible informant says This conduct on the part of Chili Was much discussed for several days Both in Pall Mall and Piccadilly. It shocked the virtuous English breast From Clapham Common to Belgravia, And moved all classes to protest At such unprincipled behaviour. For when the strong oppress the weak On either side of the Pacific, You hear the British conscience speak, And then its language is terrific ! So votes of sympathy were sent (As happened to Armenia lately), But, though exceedingly well meant, They didn't help Achilles greatly. He therefore made the best of things In Paris, where he lived contented — Like many other exiled Kings — In an appavtement that he rented. Lulled by the siren city's hum, Far from his former kingdom's borders, He made a modest annual sum By selling Patagonian Orders. The prices for the various ranks Suited alike the rich and thrifty ; A knighthood fetched a hundred francs, And other decorations fifty. OTHER VERSES. 57 New Peers he made of every class, Counts, Barons, Viscounts, he created ; His Order of the Golden Ass Was very much appreciated. And so Achilles died in peace, Chastened by Fate but not dejected, His neighbours wept at his decease, For he was very much respected. Grief-stricken thousands came to gaze Upon his corpse with lamentations, Their manly breasts were all ablaze With Patagonian decorations. And many a king I have in mind Will wait a longish time until he's As much regretted by mankind As Patagonia's Achilles ! 58 OTHER VERSES. THE LORDLIEST LIFE ON EARTH.* (French Style.) [" In a recent circular General Andr6 pointed out that it is undesirable that soldiers of the artizan class in the French Army should be habitually taken away from their duties in order to act gratuitously as carpenters, painters, &c, for officers and their wives. He notes, moreover, that in Algeria and Tunis the infant children of officers are nursed by their orderlies, who also do the cooking for the family. Some officers have as many as three orderlies. The leader of the regimental band has two, because the musicians refuse to carry the stands or distribute the music ! " — Daily Paper.] How happy is the Conscript's life! He waits upon the General's wife, Runs errands, cooks if he is able, And, if he isn't, waits at table. He stands respectful in the hall Whenever people come to call, And ushers everybody in With military discipline. He puts the baby in its crib, Gives it its meals, adjusts its bib, And if it should begin to cry He soothes it with a lullaby. * Mr. Kipling, it will be remembered, used this phrase to describe the joy and pride of compulsory military service. OTHER VERSES. 59 If he should be an artizan He is indeed a lucky man ! Whenever anything is broken You find his services bespoken. He mends the windows and the locks And even regulates the clocks. He makes the most ingenious toys To gratify the Colonel's boys. His plumbing is beyond reproof, He puts new slates upon the roof, And when the vernal months begin He paints the house outside and in. Nor must you think no use is made Of those who have no special trade ; There's always something you can find For men to do if you've a mind. Thus, horticultural pursuits Have great attractions for recruits, And many of them rise at dawn To go and mow the General's lawn. Two men at least, I understand, Wait on the regimental band, Where their obliging dispositions Are greatly prized by the musicians. Unhappily, this life of peace, I grieve to say, must shortly cease, I or General Andre, odious man, Is going to stop it — if he can ! I [e holds that officers do ill Who keep the Conscript from his drill 60 OTHER VERSES. And make him concentrate his mind On work of a domestic kind. Such menial tasks, he thinks, should yield To practice in the tented field, To handling guns of various size And other warlike enterprise. The system, therefore, will be changed (Or so the General has arranged) And none will be allowed to shirk His share of military work. Farewell, the old delightful days When, innocent of martial ways, The soldier laid aside his sabre And gave his time to household labour, When Conscripts, if they knew a trade, Were not expected on parade, And when the swords of skilful cooks Were beaten into pruning hooks ! OTHER VERSES. 61 THE LORDLIEST LIFE ON EARTH. (German Style.) ["Lieut. Schilling and Sergeant Franzky, both of the German army, have been sentenced to fifteen months and five years respectively for maltreating their men. Franzky was in the habit of enforcing discipline with a cudgel or a riding whip. On this Reuter notes as ' interesting ' that Count zu Limburg-Stirum, in a recent debate in the Reichstag, ' expressed the view that ser- geants could hardly get their men into shape, especially Socialists, without a certain number of blows.' " ! ] Count Zu Humbug Stir-em -up speaks : — My countrymen, be calm, I pray, And hear what I have got to say About Lieutenant Schocking's case And Sergeant Woppenheim's disgrace. Weigh well the views that I express, And you will readily confess That they are gallant fellows and A credit to the Fatherland. Lieutenant Schocking, I maintain, Should certainly be tried again; The sentence which the Court decreed Is far too long. It is indeed. 62 OTHER VERSES. Shall Prussian officers be sent To actual imprisonment For having knocked about the head Some private (subsequently dead) ? Granted that there are safer regions On which to whack our German legions, Still 'twas but an excess of zeal Directed to the common weal, And, far from being reprehended, Ought to be tacitly commended. To Sergeant Woppenheim I doubt If justice has been meted out. Some sentimental people here Pretend that he was too severe When visiting with castigations The soldier's breach — of regulations. If any private made a slip He caught it with a riding-whip, And generally caught it hot ! To which my answer is, " Why not ? ' 'Tis simply folly to suppose A " certain quantity of blows " Is not a necessary thing For teaching people soldiering. And people who pretend to say Drill can be taught some other way Completely fail to understand The army of the Fatherland. So let's agree Lieutenant S., (And Sergeant Woppenheim no less) OTHER VERSES. 63 Have both been wrongfully accused, And very very badly used. A stick is always useful in The maintenance of discipline, And sergeants handy with their fists Are much the best with Socialists ! The sergeants tell me this is so, And surely sergeants ought to know ? 64 OTHER VERSES. MORITURI SALUTANT! ["We anticipate that within the life period of the majority of those who will read these lines America will dominate the world in literature, art, science, finance, commerce and Christianity ! " — Harper's Weekly.'] We are the People, and wisdom shall die with us, Ours shall be ever the conqueror's part, No other nation can possibly vie with us Either in Letters, or Science, or Art ! Twenty years hence, 'tis the general opinion, (Think, only think, how the whole world will gain !) All will acknowledge Columbia's dominion, Both in the moral and physical plane. None of the Peoples who flourished before us Showed from the first such remarkable powers, So let us sing in unanimous chorus, " We are the people ! The Future is Ours ! " We are, in fact, the fine flower of Humanity. Where — save with us — can true Progress be found ? Morals and even, I fear, Christianity, Scarcely exist in the nations around. Art doesn't thrive in the Peoples about us, But for our help it would probably die, Painting would certainly perish without us, Painters would starve if New York didn't buy. OTHER VERSES. 65 Whether in poetry, drama or fiction, Or in Philosophy, still we excel, Note our remarkably elegant diction, Notice the masterly way that we spell. Mark our advance in the physical sciences, Note the inventions we give to mankind, Think of the many ingenious appliances Due to the nimble American mind ! Europe, poor thing, can you wonder we scorn her, Passed in the race and left lagging behind ? When we invented the Trust and the Corner, Oh what a boon we bestowed on mankind ! Picture how Commerce was sunk in dejection, Striving in vain to dispose of its wares, Till these devices were brought to perfection By the resource of our millionaires. What is the hope, then, for civilisation ? What is the cure for a century's tears ? What — save the mighty American nation ? That is the obvious answer. Three cheers ! L.M. 66 OTHER VERSES. HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY. [Henry Hamlet writes to the Daily Mail: — "For the last three years I have taken but two meals a day, 12 noon and 6 p.m. Result : clear brain, active body, in short, physical regeneration."] Long years ago in Denmark I Was sick and sad and peaked and pined, At length I know the reason why I suffered this distress of mind. I cried, " To be or not to be ? " — Because my daily meals were three ! Methought I saw my father's ghost Stalking the battlements by night, Even the sentry at his post Declared he saw the self-same sight. The reason will be clear to you — Our meals were three instead of two. Poor Uncle Claudius ! I believed That you my honoured sire had slain, But now I know I was deceived, And wish you were alive again. This thirst for vengeance that one feels Arises from too many meals. OTHER VERSES. 67 Ophelia perished in despair When my digestion would not mend ; My dietetic errors were The cause of poor Polonius' end. I ran that harmless dotard through Because my meals were more than two ! How happy, therefore, they who fix Their minds on hygienic laws ! Two meals a day — at twelve and six — Of every virtue are the cause. This regimen, begun in time, Will save you from a life of crime ! 68 OTHER VERSES. AN UNAPPRECIATED GENIUS. ["The nightingales are in full song. They can be heard to perfection now east, west, north, or south of London, wherever soft caterpillars abound " — Westminster Gazette. ] A Soft Caterpillar speaks : — Once more the nightingale is heard Each evening when the moon is rising, But don't imagine that the bird Is merely sentimentalising ; Do not suppose it is the Rose Who fills her liquid strains with passion, 'Tis I who cause the nightingale To sing in that ecstatic fashion. The poet loves to hear her song, Now soft and hushed, now clear and ringing, Nor can I deem the poet wrong In thinking highly of her singing. But when he takes a pen and makes A very moving poem on it, It is to me the poet writes (Or ought to write) his glowing sonnet. I watch him pouring out his soul, The rhymes are carefully selected, And the performance on the whole Is quite as good as I expected. OTHER VERSES. 69 But when with tears some maiden hears The poet's melancholy numbers, It is for me the maiden weeps (Or ought to weep) before she slumbers. I — or my half-digested corse — Called forth the fair Bianca's* curses, And I was the authentic source Of Keats's misdirected verses. The poets tell how Philomel Still weeps for the decease of Itys, But if the poor bird weeps at all It must be me she really pities ! To me belongs the loud applause That greets her voice from all the Muses, For I am the efficient cause Of every blessed note she uses. And had the poets dreamed of this, Shelley and Hugo, Scott and Schiller Would all have kept their eulogies For the nutritious caterpillar ! * See " liianca among the Nightingales," by Mr Browning. 7o OTHER VERSES. DE GUSTIBUS- I am an unadventurous man, And always go upon the plan Of shunning danger where I can. And so I fail to understand Why every year a stalwart band Of tourists go to Switzerland, And spend their time for several weeks, With quaking hearts and pallid cheeks, Scaling abrupt and windy peaks. In fact, I'm old enough to find Climbing of almost any kind Is very little to my mind. A mountain summit white with snow Is an attractive sight, I know, But why not see it from below ? Why leave the hospitable plain And scale Mont Blanc with toil and pain Merely to scramble down again ? Some men pretend they think it bliss To clamber up a precipice Or dangle over an abyss OTHER VERSES. 71 To crawl along a mountain side, Supported by a rope that's tied — Not too securely — to a guide ; But such pretences, it is clear, In the aspiring mountaineer Are usually insincere. And many a climber, I'll be bound, Whom scarped and icy crags surround, Wishes himself on level ground. So I, for one, do not propose To cool my comfortable toes In regions of perpetual snows, As long as I can take my ease, Fanned by a soothing southern breeze, Under the shade of English trees. And anyone who leaves my share Of English fields and English air May take the Alps for aught I care ! 7 2 OTHER VERSES. AN OLD STORY. This is the house that Jack took. This is the rain That came through the roof And flooded the house that Jack took. This is the drain That blocked the rain That came through the roof And flooded the house that Jack took. This is the builder, a local man, Who came with five ladders, a horse and van, To clear the drain That blocked the rain That came through the roof And flooded the house that Jack took. These are the days — a dozen or so — In which the water continued to flow In spite of the builder, a local man, Who came with five ladders, a horse and van, To clear the drain That blocked the rain That came through the roof And flooded the house that Jack took. OTHER VERSES. 73 This is the drawing-room ceiling white That dripped with moisture day and night Throughout the days — a dozen or so — In which the water continued to flow Unchecked by the builder, a local man, Who came with five ladders, a horse and van, To clear the drain That blocked the rain That came through the roof And flooded the house that Jack took. And this is the bill which, I'm afraid, Will some day or other have to be paid For mending the drawing-room ceiling white Which fell to the ground one sorrowful night Because of the days — a dozen or so — In which the water continued to flow Unchecked by the builder, a local man, Who came with five ladders, a horse and van, To clear the drain That blocked the rain That came through the roof And flooded the house that Jack took. THE LNI>. »*ADBLRY, AONBW, & CO. LD„ IRINTP.RS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE. L.M. r. DATE DUE CAYLORD PRINTED INU.S.A. UC SOUTHERN RFnm BRARY FACILITY AA 000 651 231 3 '.»'',! rr OF i vf i M W4 f i,iO»Mfl> ^ 101A A1 "»-,~ I