And where the poetical fancies Our fathers rejoiced in, of yore? The lyric’s melodious expanses, The Epics in cantos a score? They have been and are not: no more Shall the shepherds drive silvery flocks, Nor the ladies their languors deplore,— They are all in the Fourpenny Box!
And the Music! The songs and the dances? The tunes that Time may not restore? And the tomes where Divinity prances? And the pamphlets where Heretics roar? They have ceased to be even a bore,— The Divine, and the Sceptic who mocks,— They are “cropped,” they are “foxed” to the core,— They are all in the Fourpenny Box!
Suns beat on them; tempests downpour, On the chest without cover or locks, Where they lie by the Bookseller’s door,— They are _all_ in the Fourpenny Box!
I WOULD my days had been in other times, A moment in the long unnumbered years That knew the sway of Horus and of hawk, In peaceful lands that border on the Nile.
I would my days had been in other times, Lulled by the sacrifice and mumbled hymn Between the Five great Rivers, or in shade And shelter of the cool Himâlayan hills.
I would my days had been in other times, That I in some old abbey of Touraine Had watched the rounding grapes, and lived my life, Ere ever Luther came or Rabelais!
I would my days had been in other times, When quiet life to death not terrible Drifted, as ashes of the Santhal dead Drift down the sacred Rivers to the Sea!
A SPIRIT came to my sad bed, And weary sad that night was I, Who’d tottered, since the dawn was red, Through miles of Grosvenor Gallery, Yea, leagues of long Academy Awaited me when morn grew white, ’Twas then the Spirit whispered nigh, “Take up the pen, my friend, and write!
“Of many a portrait grey as lead, Of many a mustard-coloured sky, Say much, where little should be said, Lay on thy censure dexterously, With microscopic glances pry At textures, Tadema’s delight, Praise foreign swells they always sky, Take up the pen, my friend, and write!”
I answered, “’Tis for daily bread, A sorry crust, I ween, and dry, That still, with aching feet and head, I push this lawful industry, ’Mid pictures hung or low, or high, But, touching that which I indite, Do artists hold me lovingly? Take up the pen, my friend, and write.”