UNDISTINGUISHED Dead!
Whom the bent covers, or the rock-
strewn steep
Shows to the stars, for you I mourn,—I weep,
O undistinguished Dead!
Blacken'd and blurr'd in the wild battle's brunt, Hotly you fell . . . with all your wounds in front:
FOR A COPY OF "THE COMPLEAT
"Le rêve de la vie champêtre a été de tout temps l'idéal
des villes."-GEORGE SAND.
CARE not much how folks prefer
To dress your Chubb or Chavender;
I care no whit for line or hook,
But still I love old IZAAK's book,
Wherein a man may read at ease
Of "gandergrass" and "culverkeys,"
Or with half-pitying wonder, note
What Topsell, what Du Bartas wrote,
Or list the song, by Maudlin sung,
That Marlowe made when he was young :-
These things, in truth, delight me more
Than all old IZAAK'S angling lore.
These were his SECRET. What care I
How men concoct the Hawthorn-fly,
Who could as soon "stroke Syllabub"
As catch your Chavender or Chubb;
And might not, in ten years, arrive
At baiting hooks with frogs, alive!—
But still I love old IZAAK's page,
Old IZAAK's simple Golden Age,
Where blackbirds flute from ev'ry bough,
Where lasses "milk the sand-red cow,"
Where lads are "sturdy foot-ball swains,"
And nought but soft "May-butter" rains;
Where you may breathe untainted air
Either at Hodsden or at Ware;
And sing, or slumber, or look wise
Till Phabus sink adown the skies;
Then, laying rod and tackle by,
Choose out some "cleanly Alehouse" nigh,
With ballads "stuck about the wall,"
Of Joan of France or English Mall—
With sheets that smell of lavender-
There eat your Chubb (or Chavender).
And keep old IZAAK's honest laws
For "mirth that no repenting draws".
To wit, a friendly stave or so,
That goes to Heigh-trolollie-loe,
Or more to make the ale-can pass,
A hunting song of William Basse-
Then talk of fish and fishy diet,
And dream you-"Study to be quiet."
VERSES READ AT THE DINNER OF THE OMAR KHAYYÁM CLUB
"-Medio de fonte leporum
Surgit OMARI aliquid.”
While we the Feast by Fruit and Wine prolong,
A Bard bobs up, and bores us with a Song.
'WAS Swift who said that people "view
In HOMER more than HOMER knew."
I can't pretend to claim the gift
Of playing BENTLEY upon SWIFT;
But I suspect the reading true
Is "OMAR more than OMAR knew,”-
Or why this large assembly met
Lest we this OMAR should forget?
(In a parenthesis I note
Our RUSTUM here, without red coat;
Where SOHRAB sits I'm not aware,
But that's FIRDAUSI in the Chair !)—
say then that we now are met Lest we this OMAR should forget, Who, ages back, remote, obscure, Wrote verses once at Naishápúr,— Verses which, as I understand, Were merely copied out by hand,
And now, without etched plates, or aid
Of India paper, or hand-made,
Bid fair Parnassus' top to climb,
And knock the Classics out of time.
Persicos odi-Horace said,
And therefore is no longer read.
Time, who could simply not endure
Slight to the Bard of Naishápúr,
(Time, by the way, was rather late
For one so often up-to-date!)
Went swiftly to the Roll of Fame
And blotted Q. H. F. his name,
Since when, for every Youth or Miss
That knows Quis multa gracilis,
There are a hundred who can tell
What OMAR thought of Heav'n and Hell;
Who BAHRÁM was; and where (at need)
Lies hid the Beaker of JAMSHYD ;—
In short, without a break can quote
Most of what OMAR ever wrote.
Well, OMAR KHAYYAM wrote of Wine,
And all of us, sometimes, must dine;
And OMAR KHAYYAM wrote of Roses,
And all of us, no doubt, have noses;
And OMAR KHAYYAM wrote of Love,
Which some of us are not above.
Also, he charms to this extent,
We don't know, always, what he meant.
Lastly, the man's so plainly dead
We can heap honours on his head.
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