THE HOUSE OF PUNCH.
[He "married a princess of the House of Punch."—Excerpt front an account of the life of a former King of Kashmir.]
Hail, Master, and accept the news I bring.
I come to make a solemn mystery clear,
One that affects you deeply; for I sing
Of a most ancient king
Nine hundred years ago in fair Kashmir,
Who yearned towards a bride, and—hear, oh hear,
Lord of the reboant nose and classic hunch—
"Married a princess of the House of Punch."
Yes, you are royal, as one might have seen.
The loftiness of your despotic sway,
Your strange aloofness and unearthly mien
(Yet regal) might have been
A full assurance of monarchic clay.
Had but the fates run kindly, at this day
Yourself should be a king of orient fame,
Chief of the princely house that bears your name.
Methinks I see you at it. I can see
A shamiana[1] loftily upreared
Beneath a banyan (or banana) tree,
Whichever it may be,
Where, with bright turban and vermilion beard
(A not unfrequent sight, and very weird),
You sit at peace; a small boy, doubly bowed,
Acts as your footstool and, though stiff, is proud.
Fragrant with Champak scents the warm wind sighs
Heavily, faintly, languorously fanned
By drowsy peacock-plumes—to keep the flies
From your full nose and eyes—
Waved from behind you, where on either hand
Two silent slaves of Nubian polish stand,
Whose patent-leather visages reflect
The convex day, with mirror-like effect.
Robed in a garment of the choicest spoil
Of Persian looms, you sit apart to deal
Grace to the suppliant and reward for toil,
T'abase the proud, and boil
The malefactor, till upon you steal
Mild qualms suggestive of the mid-day meal;
And, then, what plump, what luscious fruits are those?
What goblets of what vintage? Goodness knows.
Gladly would I pursue this glowing dream,
To sing of deeds of chivalry and sport,
Of cushioned dalliance in the soft hareem
(A really splendid theme),
The pundits and tame poets at your court,
And all such pride, but I must keep it short.
Once let me off upon a thing so bright,
And I should hardly stop without a fight.
But now you stand plain Mister; and, no doubt,
Would have for choice this visioned pomp untold.
Yet, Sire, I beg you, cast such musings out;
Put not yourself about
For a vain dream. If I may make so bold,
Your present lot should keep you well consoled.
You still are great, and have, when all is done,
A fine old Eastern smack, majestic One.
The vassals of your fathers were but few
Compared with yours, who move the whole world wide;
You still can splash an oriental hue,
Red, yellow, green or blue,
Upon a fresh and various outside;
While you support—perhaps your greatest pride
High pundits for your intellectual feast,
And some tame bards, of whom I am the least.
DUM-DUM.
Footnote 1: [(return)]
Tent