The good knight of La Mancha's here, here is Sir Amyas Leigh, And Eric of the gold hair, pride of Northern chivalry.
There shines the steel of Alan Breck, the sword of Athos shines, Dalgetty on Gustavus rides along the marshalled lines, With many a knight of sunny France the Cid has marched from Spain, And Gotz the Iron-handed leads the lances of Almain.
But who upon the Modern side are champions? With the sleeve Adorned of his false lady-love, rides glorious David Grieve, A bookseller sometime was he, in a provincial town, But now before his iron mace go horse and rider down.
Ho, Robert Elsmere! count thy beads; lo, champion of the fray, With brandished colt, comes Felix Holt, all of the Modern day.
And Silas Lapham's six-shooter is cocked: the Colonel's spry!
There spurs the wary Egoist, defiance in his eye;There Zola's ragged regiment comes, with dynamite in hand, And Flaubert's crew of country doctors devastate the land.
On Robert Elsmere Friar Tuck falls with his quarter-staff, Nom De! to see the clerics fight might make the sourest laugh!
They meet, they shock, full many a knight is smitten on the crown, So keep us good St. Genevieve, Umslopogaas is down!
About the mace of David Grieve his blood is flowing red, Alas for ancient chivalry, le brave Bussy is sped!
Yet where the sombre Templar rides the Modern caitiffs fly, The Mummer (of The Mummer's Wife) has got it in the eye, From Felix Holt his patent Colt hath not averted fate, And Silas Lapham's smitten fair, right through his gallant pate.
There Dan Deronda reels and falls, a hero sore surprised;Ha, Beauseant! still may such fate befall the Circumcised!
The Egoist is flying fast from him of Ivanhoe:
Beneath the axe of Skalagrim fall prigs at every blow:
The ragged Zolaists have fled, screaming 'We are betrayed,'
But loyal Alan Breck is shent, stabbed through the Stuart plaid;In sooth it is a grimly sight, so fast the heroes fall, Three volumes fell could scarcely tell the fortunes of them all.
At length but two are left on ground, and David Grieve is one.
Ma foy, what deeds of derring-do that bookseller hath done!
The other, mark the giant frame, the great portentous fist!
'Tis Porthos! David Grieve may call on Kuenen an he list.
The swords are crossed; Doublez, degagez, vite! great Porthos calls, And David drops, that secret botte hath pierced his overalls!
And goodly Porthos, as of old the famed Orthryades, Raises the trophy of the fight, then falling on his knees, He writes in gore upon his shield, 'Romance, Romance, has won!'
And blood-red on that stricken field goes down the angry sun.
Night falls upon the field of death, night on the darkling lea:
Oh send us such a tournay soon, and send me there to see!
BALLAD OF THE PHILANTHROPIST
Pomona Road and Gardens, N., Were pure as they were fair -In other districts much I fear, That vulgar language shocks the ear, But brawling wives or noisy men Were never heard of THERE.
No burglar fixed his dread abode In that secure retreat, There were no public-houses nigh, But chapels low and churches high, You might have thought Pomona Road A quite ideal beat!
Yet that was not at all the view Taken by B. 13.
That active and intelligent Policeman deemed that he was meant Profound detective deeds to do, And that repose was mean.
Now there was nothing to detect Pomona Road along -None faked a cly, nor cracked a crib, Nor prigged a wipe, nor told a fib,--Minds cultivated and select Slip rarely into wrong!
Thus bored to desolation went The Peeler on his beat;He know not Love, he did not care, If Love be born on mountains bare;Nay, crime to punish, or prevent, Was more than dalliance sweet!
The weary wanderer, day by day, Was marked by Howard Fry -A neighbouring philanthropist, Who saw what that Policeman missed -A sympathetic 'Well-a-day'
He'd moan, and pipe his eye.
'What CAN I do,' asked Howard Fry, 'To soothe that brother's pain?
His glance when first we met was keen, Most martial and erect his mien'
(What mien may mean, I know not I)
'But HE must joy again.'
'I'll start on a career of crime, I will,' said Howard Fry -He spake and acted! Deeds of bale (With which I do not stain my tale)He wrought like mad time after time, Yet wrought them blushfully.
And now when 'buses night by night Were stopped, conductors slain, When youths and men, and maids unwed, Were stabbed or knocked upon the head, Then B. 13 grew sternly bright, And was himself again!
Pomona Road and Gardens, N., Are now a name of fear.
Commercial travellers flee in haste, Revolvers girt about the waist Are worn by city gentlemen Who have their mansions near.
But B. 13 elated goes, Detection in his eye;While Howard Fry does deeds of bale (With which I do not stain my tale)To lighten that Policeman's woes, But does them blushfully.
MORAL
Such is Philanthropy, my friends, Too often such her plan, She shoots, and stabs, and robs, and flings Bombs, and all sorts of horrid things.
Ah, not to serve her private ends, But for the good of Man!
IN ERCILDOUNE
In light of sunrise and sunsetting, The long days lingered, in forgetting That ever passion, keen to hold What may not tarry, was of old Beyond the doubtful stream whose flood Runs red waist-high with slain men's blood.
Was beauty once a thing that died?
Was pleasure never satisfied?
Was rest still broken by the vain Desire of action, bringing pain, To die in vapid rest again?
All this was quite forgotten, there No winter brought us cold and care, Nor spring gave promise unfulfilled, Nor, with the heavy summer killed, The languid days droop autumnwards.
So magical a season guards The constant prime of a green June.
So slumbrous is the river's tune, That knows no thunder of rushing rains, Nor ever in the summer wanes, Like waters of the summer-time In lands far from the fairy clime.
Alas! no words can bring the bloom Of Fairyland, the lost perfume.
The sweet low light, the magic air, To minds of who have not been there:
Alas! no words, nor any spell Can lull the heart that knows too well The towers that by the river stand, The lost fair world of Fairyland.