Royalty's darling and pride, crown of the Salisbury Press?

Now when the negligent Public, in search of a subject for dinner, Asks for the names of your books, Lord! what a boom there will be!

Hoa.r.s.e in Penbryn are the howlings that rise for the hope of the Cymri; Over her Algernon's head Putney composes a dirge; Edwin anathematises politely in various lingos; Davidson ruminates hard over a _Ballad of h.e.l.l_; Fondly Le Gallienne fancies how pretty the Delphian laurels Would have appeared on his own hairy and pa.s.sionate poll; I, imperturbably careless, untainted of jealousy's jaundice, Simply regret the profane contumely done to the Muse; Done to the Muse in the person of Me, her patron, that never Licked Ministerial lips, dusted the boots of the Court!

Surely I hear through the noisy and nauseous clamour of Carlton Sobs of the sensitive Nine heave upon Helicon's hump!

II. TO MR. WILLIAM WATSON.

[On writing the first instalment of _The Purple East_, a 'fine sonnet which it is our privilege to publish.'--_Westminster Gazette_, Dec.

16, 1895.]

Dear Mr. Watson, we have heard with wonder, Not all unmingled with a sad regret, That little penny blast of purple thunder, You issued in the _Westminster Gazette_; The Editor describes it as a sonnet; I wish to make a few remarks upon it.

_Never, O craven England, nevermore Prate thou of generous effort, righteous aim!_ So ran the lines, and left me very sore, For you may guess my heart was hot with shame: Even thus early in your ample song I felt that something must be really wrong.

But when I learned that our ign.o.ble nation Lay sleeping like a log, and lay alone, Propping, according to your information, _Abdul the d.a.m.ned on his infernal throne_, O then I scattered to the wind my fears, And nearly went and joined the Volunteers.

But just in time the thought occurred to me That England commonly commits her course To men as good at heart as even we And possibly much richer in resource; That we had better mind our own affairs And leave these gentlemen to manage theirs.

It further seemed a work uncommon light For one like you, a casual civilian, To order half a hemisphere to fight And slaughter one another by the million, While you yourself, a paper Galahad, Spilt ink for blood upon a blotting-pad.

The days are gone when sword and poet's pen One gallant gifted hand was wont to wield; When Taillefer in face of Harold's men Rode foremost on to Senlac's fatal field, And tossed his sword in air, and sang a spell Of Roland's battle-song, and, singing, fell.

The days are gone when troubadours by dozens Polished their steel and joined the stout crusade, Strumming, in memory of pretty cousins, _The Girl I left behind Me_, on parade; They often used to rattle off a ballad in The intervals of punishing the Saladin.

In later times, of course I know there's Byron, Who by his own report could play the man; I seem to see him with his Lesbian lyre on, And brandishing a useful yataghan; Though never going altogether strong, he Managed at least to die at Missolonghi.

No more the trades of lute and lance are linked, Though doubtless under many martial bonnets Brave heads there be that harbour the distinct Belief that they can manufacture sonnets; But on the other hand a bard is not Supposed to run the risk of being shot.

Then since your courage lacks a crucial test, And politics were never your profession, Dear Mr. Watson, won't you find it best To temper valour with a due discretion?

That so, despite the fond _Spectator's_ booming, Above your brow the bays may yet be blooming.

III. ENGLAND'S ALFRED ABROAD.

[M. Alfred Austin, poete-laureat d'Angleterre, vient d'arriver a Nice, ou il a devance la Reine. Il etait, hier, dans les jardins de Monte-Carlo. Sera-ce sous notre ciel qu'il ecrira son premier poeme?--_Menton-Mondain_.]

Wrong? are they wrong? Of course they are, I venture to reply; For I bore 'my first' (and, I hope, my worst) A month or so gone by; And I can't repeat it under this Or any other sky.

What! has the public never heard In these benighted climes That nascent note of my Laureate throat, That fluty fitte of rhymes Which occupied about a half A column of the _Times_?

They little know what they have lost, Nor what a carnal beano They might have spent in the thick of Lent If only Daniel Leno Had sung them _Jameson's Ride_ and knocked The Monaco Casino.

Some day the croupiers' furtive eyes Will all be wringing wet; Even the Prince will hardly mince The language of regret At entertaining unawares The famed Alhambra Pet.

But still not quite incognito I mark the moving scene, In a tepid zone where (like my own) The palms are ever green, And find myself reported as A herald of the Queen.

Here where aloft the heavens are blue, And blue the seas below, I roll my eye and fondly try To get the rhymes to go, As I pace _The Garden that I love_, Composing all I know.

But when my poet-pinions droop, And all the air is wan, I enter in to the courts of sin And put a louis on, And hold my heart and look again, And lo! the thing is gone!

Wrong? is it wrong? To baser crafts Has England's Alfred pandered, Who once to the sign of Phbus' shrine With awesome gait meandered, And ever wrote in the cause of right According to his _Standard_?

Nay! this is life! to take a turn On Fortune's captious crust; To pluck the day in a human way Like men of common dust; But O! if England's only bard Should absolutely bust!

A laureate never borrows on His coming quarter's pay; And I mean to stop or ever I pop My crown of peerless bay; So I'll take the next _rapide_ to Nice, And the 'bus to Cimiez.

_MENTONE, Feb., 1896._

IV. LILITH LIBIFERA.

Exhumed from out the inner cirque of h.e.l.l By kind permission of the Evil One, Behold her devilish presentment, done By Master Aubrey's weird unearthly spell!

This is that Lady known as Jezebel, Or Lilith, Eden's woman-scorpion, Libifera, that is, that takes the bun, Borgia, Vivien, Cussed Damosel.

Hers are the bulging lips that fairly break The pumpkin's heart; and hers the eyes that shame The wanton ape that culls the cocoa-nuts.

Even such the yellow-bellied toads that slake Nocturnally their amorous-ardent flame In the wan waste of weary water-b.u.t.ts.

V. ARS POSTERA.

[On an advertis.e.m.e.nt of _A Comedy of Sighs_.]

Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers, You're getting quite a high renown; Your Comedy of Leers, you know, Is posted all about the town; This sort of stuff I cannot puff, As Boston says, it makes me 'tired'; Your j.a.panee-Rossetti girl Is not a thing to be desired.

Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers, New English Art (excuse the chaff) Is like the Newest Humour style, It's not a thing at which to laugh; But all the same, you need not maim A beauty reared on Nature's rules; A simple maid _au naturel_ Is worth a dozen spotted ghouls.

Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers, You put strange phantoms on our walls, If not so daring as _To-day's_, Nor quite so Hardy as _St. Paul's_; Her sidelong eyes, her giddy guise,-- _Grande Dame Sans Merci_ she may be; But there is that about her throat Which I myself don't care to see.

Mr. Aubrey Beer de Beers, The Philistines across the way, They say her lips--well, never mind Precisely what it is they say; But I have heard a drastic word That scarce is fit for dainty ears; But then their taste is not the kind Of taste to flatter Beer de Beers.

Bless me, Aubrey Beer de Beers, On fair Elysian lawns apart Burd Helen of the Trojan time Smiles at the latest mode of Art; Howe'er it be, it seems to me, It's not important to be New; New Art would better Nature's best, But Nature knows a thing or two.

Aubrey, Aubrey Beer de Beers, Are there no models at your gate, Live, shapely, possible and clean?

Or won't they do to 'decorate'?

Then by all means bestrew your scenes With half the lotuses that blow, Pothooks and fishing-lines and things, But let the human woman go!