The pow'r of Patmore's placid pen, Or Watson's gift of execration, The sugar of Le Gallienne, Or Algernon's Alliteration. One post there is I'd not be lost in, —Tho' I might find it most ex-austin'!
Some day, if I but study hard, The public, vanquished by my pen'll Acclaim me as a Minor Bard, Like Norman Gale or Mrs. Meynell, And listen to my lyre a-rippling Imperial banjo-spasms like Kipling.
Were I a syndicate like K. Or flippant scholar like Augustine; Had I the style of Pater, say, Which ev'ryone would put their trust in, I'd love (as busy as a squirrel) To pate, to kipple, and to birrel.
So don't ignore me. If you should, 'Twill touch me to the very heart oh! To be as much misunderstood As once was Andrea del Sarto; Unrecognized to toil away, Like Millet—not, of course, Millais.
And, pray, for Morals do not look In this unique agglomeration, —This unpretentious little book Of Infelicitous Quotation. I deem you foolish if you do, (And Mr. Russell thinks so, too).
"Virtue is Its Own Reward"
Virtue its own reward? Alas! And what a poor one as a rule! Be Virtuous and Life will pass Like one long term of Sunday-School. (No prospect, truly, could one find More unalluring to the mind.)
You may imagine that it pays To practise Goodness. Not a bit! You cease receiving any praise When people have got used to it; 'Tis generally understood You find it easy to be good.
The Model Child has got to keep His fingers and his garments white; In church he may not go to sleep, Nor ask to stop up late at night. In fact he must not ever do A single thing he wishes to.
He may not paddle in his boots, Like naughty children, at the Sea; The sweetness of Forbidden Fruits Is not, alas! for such as he. He watches, with pathetic eyes, His weaker brethren make mud-pies.