Lyra Frivola

Excerpt

  What asks the Bard? He prays for nought    But what the truly virtuous crave:  That is, the things he plainly ought        To have.

  'Tis not for wealth, with all the shocks    That vex distracted millionaires,  Plagued by their fluctuating stocks        And shares:

  While plutocrats their millions new    Expend upon each costly whim,  A great deal less than theirs will do        For him;

  The simple incomes of the poor    His meek poetic soul content:  Say, L30,000 at four        Per cent.!

  His taste in residence is plain:    No palaces his heart rejoice:  A cottage in a lane (Park Lane        For choice)—

  Here be his days in quiet spent:    Here let him meditate the Muse:  Baronial Halls were only meant        For Jews,

  And lands that stretch with endless span    From east to west, from south to north,  Are often much more trouble than        They're worth!

  Let epicures who eat too much    Become uncomfortably stout:  Let gourmets feel th' approaching touch        Of gout,—

  The Bard subsists on simpler food:    A dinner, not severely plain,  A pint or so of really good        Champagne—

  Grant him but these, no care he'll take    Though Laureates bask in Fortune's smile,  Though Kiplings and Corellis make        Their pile:

  Contented with a scantier dole    His humble Muse serenely jogs,  Remote from scenes where authors roll        Their logs:

  Far from the madding crowd she lurks,    And really cares no single jot  Whether the public read her works        Or not!

  When Parson, Doctor, Don,—    In short, when all the nation  Goes gaily off upon    Its annual vacation,  Their cares professional    No more avail to bind them:  They go at Pleasure's call    And leave their trades behind them.

  Like them, departs afar    From England's fogs and vapours  The literary star,    The writer for the papers:  But not, like them, at home    Leaves he his calling's fetters:  Nought can release him from    The tyranny of Letters!

  When classic scenes amid    For rest and peace he hankers,  Amari aliquid    His joys aesthetic cankers:  Whate'er he sees, he knows    He has to write upon it  A paragraph of prose    Or possibly a sonnet:

  By mountain lakelets blue,    'Mid wild romantic heath, he's  A martyr always to    Scribendi cacoethes:  The Naiad-haunted stream    Or lonely mountain-top he  Considers as a theme    Available for "copy."

  If on the sunlit main    With ardour rapt he gazes,  He's torturing his brain    For neat pictorial phrases:  When in a ship or boat    He navigates the briny  (And here 'tis his to quote    Examples set by Heine)

  While fellow-passengers    Lie stretched in mere prostration,  He duly registers    Each horrible sensation—  He notes his qualms with care,    And bids the public know 'em  In "Thoughts on Mal de Mer,"    Or "Nausea: a Poem."

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  Such is his earthly lot:    Nor is it wholly certain  If Death for him or not    Rings down the final curtain,  Or if, when hence he's fled    To worlds or worse or better,  He'll send per Mr St—d    A crisp descriptive letter...!