TO A NEW KNIGHT
Momentous sage of Mona’s Isle,
Pride of your fellow-Manx,
Renowned alike upon the Nile
And by the Tiber’s banks—
What though sour critics, whom it irks
To watch your widening reign,
And elders of illiberal kirks
Affect a harsh disdain;
What though fastidious souls declare
Your style distinction lacks
Or sacrilegiously dare
To mimic it, like “Max”;
So long as countless myriads hold
Your lucubrations dear,
And, side by side, the copies sold
Would circumvent the sphere?
Let pert reviewers carp and jibe,
Let jealous pens deride,
The interviewers, noble tribe,
Are solid on your side.
Have you not shown in all its bloom
Rome’s grandeur to mankind,
And, culling “copy” at Khartoum,
Laid bare the Arab mind?
Did not your heroine, Glory Quayle
Our views of life transform;
Did not all modern heroes pale
Beside the great John Storm?
As long as char-à-banc or ’bus
Brings trippers to your shrine,
Shall the new star Cainiculus
High in the welkin shine.
Loud booms the wave in Bradda’s cave,
Yet with a muffled tone
Matched with the sound, immense, profound,
From your great trumpet blown.