ENDYMION.
THE shades of night were falling fast
Round Hughenden,—for some time past
A Statesman, working day and night,
A flowery fiction did indite—
Endymion.
His hair was dark, and you could trace
A soupçon of an ancient race;
And still, in quite his early way,
He wrote of Lords and Ladies gay—
Endymion.
"Tempt not the Press," Lord Rowton said.
"Of critics have a timely dread:
They skinned you when you wrote Lothair."
He answered, with his nose in air,
"Endymion!"
"Oh stay," the Tory said, "and make
That wicked GLADSTONE writhe and quake."
A twinkle flash'd from out his eye:
"I'll give him rope," he said, "and try
Endymion!"
"Beware the day they may begin
To break the Treaty of Berlin!"
This was the Tory's last appeal.
He only said, "I will reveal
Endymion!"
And so, when Ireland was aflame,
The Eastern Question just the same,
Conservatives beheld with doubt
Their Leader bring his novel out—
Endymion.
And all who waded through the book,
Met Titles, Tailor, Prince and Dook:
What wonder it is all the rage?
For epigram adorns thy page,
Endymion!
There, in the twilight, cold and grey,
Serene in Curzon Street he lay.
"This cheque from LONGMANS' will go far,"
A voice said. "Now for a cigar!"
Endymion!
Punch, December 4, 1880.