ANTI-MAUD.
I hate the murky pool at the back of the stable yard,
For dear though it be to the ducks and geese, it has an unpleasant smell;
If you gaze therein at your own sweet face, the reflection is broken and marred,
And echo, there, if you ask how she is, replies, "I feel very unwell."
* * * *
Why do they prate of the blessings of peace? Bloody war is a holy thing.
The world is wicked, and base, and vile—shall I show you a new kind of cure?
Smeared with blood and with parents' tears call for Moloch, horrible king!
Let him trample to dust, with a brutal foot, whatever remains of good or of pure!
For I trust, if the low-browed rogue with a ticket-of-leave from the gaol,
Encountered the sergeant recruiting, in rainbow-like ribbons arrayed,
He would clutch the Queen's shilling with glee, and draining the dregs of his ale,
Declare that the sack of Odessa would be quite of a piece with his trade.
Wanted a quarrel to set the world straight, and cure it by letting of blood!
We are sick to the heart of ourselves I think, and so we are sick of each other:
Rapine, and carnage, and rage would do us all manner of good;
Let Christian rise up against Christian, and brother take arms against brother!
Under the shadow of peace something was done that was good,
We tore out a bloody page from the book of our ancient laws;
We struck off a bitter tax from the poor man's scanty food,
And justice bent down from her seat to give ear to the poor man's cause.
Under the shadow of peace thickly began to arise
Many a home for the working poor, many a school and church,
Little it may be, but better than roasting our enemies eyes
With Captain Disney's patent, or sacking the town of Kertch.
Who clamours for war? Is it one who is ready to fight?
Is it one who will grasp the sword, and rush on the foe with a shout?
Far from it; 'tis one of a musing mind, who merely intends to write;
He sits at home by his own snug hearth, and hears the storm howl without.
Who are the friends of the poor? The men who babble and prattle
About the Balance of Power, and the pomp and grandeur of war?
Thousands of miles away from the rush and the roar of battle,
Sipping their Seltzer and Hock, and smoking a mild cigar?
Who are the friends of the poor! The writers without a name,
Who scribble at so much a column, whatever the Editors please,
Working the many-mouthed bellows which blew up the war to a flame,
And pleading for rapine and blood, whilst they lounge in their clubs at their ease!
Methinks we have done enough for that turbaned goat, the Turk,
Who spits when a Christian meets him, and would spit, if he dared, in his face;
Methinks we have done enough, for 'tis but a thankless work
To rivet with care on a beautiful land, the clutch of a barbarous race.
Whether they wag a saucy tongue, or stealthily work with the pen,
There is blood on the heads of those who are fanning the flames of war;
Blood on their heads, and blood at their doors; the blood of our own brave men,
The blood of the wretched serfs who fight for their Faith and their Czar.
I have quoted so much of this parody because it was one of the first to draw attention to the Laureate's love for the pride, pomp and circumstance of glorious war, a bellicose spirit which breathes quite as fiercely in his later writings, as in his early songs. In all cases, where he has attempted any Patriotic poem, the main idea seems to be a bloodthirsty hatred of some other nation; at one time, and for some years, it was France, next it was Russia, and latterly some of his writings have been well calculated to revive our long forgotten animosity to Spain. In so doing Tennyson has narrowed the circle of his admirers, for war is far from being the popular game it once was; and the poet, who would be loved of all, should avoid controversial topics. The Laureate's patriotic muse has certainly sung a few noble songs, but many which have been deservedly ridiculed; in his official capacity he has written some of the most exquisite lines in which adulation of Royalty has ever been expressed; for whilst we know that his laurelled predecessors credited the Stuarts and the Georges with precisely the same virtues which he has ascribed to members of the present Royal Family, their official poems were laughed at at the time, and are now forgotten; whilst his have been greatly admired, especially in high quarters, and the coronet which is to reward his poetical loyalty confers on him, and the latest of his descendants, a perpetual title to rule over the people of Great Britain.
All honour to the Poet, as Poet, as a titled Legislator the choice rather reminds one of the saying of Beaumarchais' hero;—"It fallait un calculateur, ce fut un danseur qui l'obtint," a saying which I may perhaps be allowed to parody thus:—"Il fallait un Legislateur, ce fut un chanteur qui l'obtint"
THE LAST PEER.
"Is not a poet better than a lord?"
Robert Buchanan.
Alfred the Loved, the Laureate of the Court,
The poet of the people, he who sang
Of that great Order of the Table Round,
Had been a sailing; first into the North,
Then Southward, then toward the middle sea;
And with him went the Premier, journeying
Some said for health, and some, to hatch new schemes
With Kings and statesmen. Howsoe'r they came
To Denmark's Court, where princes gathered round
To hear our Alfred read his songs aloud.
And as they voyaged homeward to the shores
Of England, where the Isle our poet loved
Lay sparkling like a gem upon the sea,
They leaned athwart the bulwarks and spake low.
"We are but Commoners, both you and I,"
Said Gladstone; "no adornment to our names,
No sounding titles; simply Mister This
And Mister That. But yet, the other day,
You read your verse to Emperors and Kings;
Princesses smiled upon you. You were great
As they, except in title. It were well
The distance lessened somewhat; Poet, you,
The prince of all the poets of our time,
Be something more, be noble, be a lord."
Then Alfred sate him down, his good grey hairs
Blown o'er his shoulders by the summer wind,
His eyes all dreamy; and he hummed a song,
Like, and yet unlike, that which Enid sang.[1]
"Turn, Gladstone, turn thy followers into lords,
Turn those who wealth has gathered into hoards;
Turn those, and whom thou wilt, but turn not me.
Leave, Gladstone, leave the name I always bore,
One that, mayhap, may live for evermore;
'Tis mine alone, and mine shall always be.
Turn into lords the owners of broad lands,
Turn him who in the path of progress stands,
And he who doeth service to the State.
Leave the name that all the people know.
A prouder title than thou canst bestow,
Made by myself, and not by station, great."
Yet, notwithstanding what he murmured then,
The thought dwelt in his heart; and many a day
Thereafter, as he sat at Haslemere,
Revolving and resolving, till his mind
Could scarce distinguish his resolves from doubts,
He muttered, "Ah! and I might be a lord!"
And so the thought grew on him, and brake down,
And overcame him; and the grand old name
Which the world knows, and reverences, and loves,
Seemed plain and bare and niggard, far too poor
For him who sang of Arthur and his knights,
And Camelot, and that strange, haunted mere.
And one who knew the name, and honour'd it,
Went to him, pleaded, then spake hotly thus:—
"Doubtest thou here so long?" Art thou the one
Whose tongue grew bitter only at the sound
Of titles, and whose satire never leaped
Forth from its hiding-place but when some claim
Of place and privilege provoked thy wrath?
Wherever travels our bold English speech—
Across the broad Atlantic, 'mid the sands
Of scorching Africa, or in the bush
Of the young, strong, far-off Antipodes—
Thy name is greater, more familiar, more
In all men's mouths than that of any lord.
O fair, full name, o'er which I used to dream,
Not thinking; O imperial-spreading fame,
And glory never such as poet bore,
Until they came, a Kingdom's pride, with thee;
I cannot know thee if thou art a lord;
Be Alfred Tennyson until the last;
Not Bonchurch, nor another. Is there none
Can yet persuade thee, ere it be too late?"
But he, the poet, listened, and was dumb,
And yet resolved. Ah, he would be a lord,
And sink the name round which his glory grew.
And so there came a herald with a scroll,
One who makes ancestors and coats of arms,
And gives alike to poet or to peer
A pedigree as long as Piccadilly;
And he brought with him much emblazonry,
A quartered shield, with, on the dexter side,
The grand old gardener, Adam, and his wife,
A-smiling at the claims of long descent.
From The Echo, Dec. 7, 1883.
Nothing yet written about this unpopular title (which jars on the ears of the people), approaches the severity of the following caustic parody which appeared in the Pall Mall Gazette, 12th December, 1883:—