9.
ELEGI MUSARUM.

(AFTER W. W.)

[To Mr. St. Loe Strachey.]

Dawn of the year that emerges, a fine and ebullient Phœnix, Forth from the cinders of Self, out of the ash of the Past; Year that discovers my Muse in the thick of purpureal sonnets, Slating diplomacy’s sloth, blushing for ‘Abdul the d----d’; Year that in guise of a herald declaring the close of the tourney Clears the redoubtable lists hot with the Battle of Bays; Binds on the brows of the Tory, the highly respectable Austin, Laurels that Phœbus of old wore on the top of his tuft; 45 Leaving the locks of the hydra, of Bodley the numerous-headed, Clean as the chin of a boy, bare as a babe in a bath; Year that––I see in the vista the principal verb of the sentence Loom as a deeply-desired bride that is late at the post–– Year that has painfully tickled the lachrymal nerves of the Muses, Giving Another the gift due to Respectfully Theirs;–– Hinc illæ lacrimæ! Ah, reader! I grossly misled you; See, it was false; there is no principal verb after all! His likewise is the anguish, who followed with soft serenading Me as the tremulous tide tracks the meandering moon; Climbing as Romeo clomb, peradventure by help of a flower-pot, 46 Where in her balconied bower lay, inexpressibly coy, Juliet, not as the others, supinely, insanely erotic, Pallid and yellow of hue, very degenerate souls, Rioting round with the rapture of palpitant ichorous ardour, But an immaculate maid, ‘one,’ you may say, ‘of the best’! His, I repeat, is the anguish––my journalist, eulogist critic, Strachey, the generous judge, Saintly unlimited Loe! Vainly the stolid Spectator, bewildered with fabulous bow-wows, Sick with a surfeit of dog, ran me for all it was worth! Vainly––if I may recur to a metaphor drawn from the ocean, Long (in a figure of speech) tied to the tail of the moon–– Vainly, O excellent organ! with ample and aqueous unction 47 Once, as a rule, in a week, ‘cleansing the Earth of her stain’; (Here you will possibly pardon the natural scion of poets, Proud with humility’s pride, spoiling a passage from Keats)–– Vainly your voice on the ears of impregnable Laureate-makers, Rang as the sinuous sea rings on a petrified coast; Vainly your voice with a subtle and slightly indelicate largess, Broke on an obdurate world hymning the advent of Me; When from the ‘commune of air,’ from ‘the exquisite fabric of Silence,’ I, a superior orb, burst into exquisite print! What shall we say for your greeting, O good horticultural Alfred! Royalty’s darling and pride, crown of the Salisbury Press? Now when the negligent Public, in search of a subject for dinner, 48 Asks for the names of your books, Lord! what a boom there will be! Hoarse in Penbryn are the howlings that rise for the hope of the Cymri; Over her Algernon’s head Putney composes a dirge; Edwin anathematises politely in various lingos; Davidson ruminates hard over a Ballad of Hell; Fondly Le Gallienne fancies how pretty the Delphian laurels Would have appeared on his own hairy and passionate poll; I, imperturbably careless, untainted of jealousy’s jaundice, Simply regret the profane contumely done to the Muse; Done to the Muse in the person of Me, her patron, that never Licked Ministerial lips, dusted the boots of the Court! Surely I hear through the noisy and nauseous clamour of Carlton Sobs of the sensitive Nine heave upon Helicon’s hump!

49

II. TO MR. WILLIAM WATSON.

[On writing the first instalment of The Purple East, a ‘fine sonnet which it is our privilege to publish.’––Westminster Gazette, Dec. 16, 1895.]

Dear Mr. Watson, we have heard with wonder, Not all unmingled with a sad regret, That little penny blast of purple thunder, You issued in the Westminster Gazette; The Editor describes it as a sonnet; I wish to make a few remarks upon it. Never, O craven England, nevermore Prate thou of generous effort, righteous aim! So ran the lines, and left me very sore, For you may guess my heart was hot with shame: Even thus early in your ample song I felt that something must be really wrong. 50 But when I learned that our ignoble nation Lay sleeping like a log, and lay alone, Propping, according to your information, Abdul the Damned on his infernal throne, O then I scattered to the wind my fears, And nearly went and joined the Volunteers. But just in time the thought occurred to me That England commonly commits her course To men as good at heart as even we And possibly much richer in resource; That we had better mind our own affairs And leave these gentlemen to manage theirs. It further seemed a work uncommon light For one like you, a casual civilian, To order half a hemisphere to fight And slaughter one another by the million, While you yourself, a paper Galahad, Spilt ink for blood upon a blotting-pad. 51 The days are gone when sword and poet’s pen One gallant gifted hand was wont to wield; When Taillefer in face of Harold’s men Rode foremost on to Senlac’s fatal field, And tossed his sword in air, and sang a spell Of Roland’s battle-song, and, singing, fell. The days are gone when troubadours by dozens Polished their steel and joined the stout crusade, Strumming, in memory of pretty cousins, The Girl I left behind Me, on parade; They often used to rattle off a ballad in The intervals of punishing the Saladin. In later times, of course I know there’s Byron, Who by his own report could play the man; I seem to see him with his Lesbian lyre on, And brandishing a useful yataghan; Though never going altogether strong, he Managed at least to die at Missolonghi. 52 No more the trades of lute and lance are linked, Though doubtless under many martial bonnets Brave heads there be that harbour the distinct Belief that they can manufacture sonnets; But on the other hand a bard is not Supposed to run the risk of being shot. Then since your courage lacks a crucial test, And politics were never your profession, Dear Mr. Watson, won’t you find it best To temper valour with a due discretion? That so, despite the fond Spectator’s booming, Above your brow the bays may yet be blooming.