ON MR. GLADSTONE'S RETIREMENT
The world grows Lilliput, the great men go;
If greatness be, it wears no outer sign;
No more the signet of the mighty line
Stamps the great brow for all the world to know.
Shrunken the mould of manhood is, and lo!
Fragments and fractions of the old divine,
Men pert of brain, planned on a mean design,
Dapper and undistinguished—such we grow.
No more the leonine heroic head,
The ruling arm, great heart, and kingly eye;
No more th' alchemic tongue that turned poor themes
Of statecraft into golden-glowing dreams;
No more a man for man to deify:
Laurel no more—the heroic age is dead.
OMAR KHAYYÁM
(TO THE OMAR KHAYYÁM CLUB)
Great Omar, here to-night we drain a bowl
Unto thy long-since transmigrated soul,
Ours all unworthy in thy place to sit,
Ours still to read in life's enchanted scroll.
For us like thee a little hour to stay,
For us like thee a little hour of play,
A little hour for wine and love and song,
And we too turn the glass and take our way.
So many years your tomb the roses strew,
Yet not one penny wiser we than you,
The doubts that wearied you are with us still,
And, Heaven be thanked! your wine is with us too.
For, have the years a better message brought
To match the simple wisdom that you taught:
Love, wine and verse, and just a little bread—
For these to live and count the rest as nought?
Therefore, Great Omar, here our homage deep
We drain to thee, though all too fast asleep
In Death's intoxication art thou sunk
To know the solemn revels that we keep.