He sees the churchyard slabs beyond,
Where country neighbours lie,
Their brief renown set lowly down;
His name assaults the sky.
He grips the tankard of brown ale
That spills a generous foam:
Oft-times he drinks, they say, and winks
At drunk men lurching home.
No upstart hero may usurp
That honoured swinging seat;
His seasons pass with pipe and glass
Until the tale’s complete.
And paint shall keep his buttons bright
Though all the world’s forgot
Whether he died for England’s pride
By battle, or by pot.
And this is the letter:
“April, 1921.
“My dear Mr. Graves,—
“Friday, I had the pleasure of reading your lines to “The General Elliott” in The Spectator. Yesterday afternoon, about sunset, on returning across fields to Oxford from a visit to Boar’s Hill, to my delight and surprise I found myself suddenly confronted with the General Elliott himself, or rather the duplicate presentment of him—nailed to a tree. But could it be the same, I asked. He did not grip the tankard of brown ale that spills a generous foam—nor did his seasons seem to pass with pipe and glass—and alas, nor did paint keep his tarnished buttons bright. In spite of your assertion, is the general’s tale not already complete? Was he not (like me) but a “temporory officer”? Or have I perhaps seen a spurious General Elliott? He should not die; the post from which he views the world is all too lonely for his eyes to be permitted to close upon that scene, albeit the churchyard slabs do not come within the range.... May I help to restore him?
“Sincerely,
“J—— B——
“Lt. Col. U. S. A.”
To which letter I would reply, if I had his address:—