APPENDIX
Of books, men, and things was the bards' conversation,—
Some praised Ecce Homo, some deemed it so-so,—
And then there was talk of the state of the nation,
And when the Unwashed would devour Mister Lowe.
iii.
Genteelly, his Rhine wine deliciously iced,—
With puddingish England serenely disgusted,
And looking in vain (in the mirror) for "Geist";
He hearked to the Chairman, with "Surely!" and "Really?"
Aghast at both collar and cutty of clay,—
Then felt in his pocket, and breathed again freely,
On touching the leaves of his own classic play.
iv.
Had often betrayed him in regions of rhyme,—
How glittered the eye underneath his gray ringlets,
A hunger within it unlessened by time!
Remoter sat Bailey,—satirical, surly,—
Who studied the language of Goethe too soon.
And sang himself hoarse to the stars very early,
And cracked a weak voice with too lofty a tune.
v.
Prim Patmore, mild Alford,—and Kingsley alsoe?
Among the small sparks, who was realler than Lover?
Among Misses, who sweeter than Miss Ingelow?
There sat, looking moony, conceited, and narrow,
Buchanan,—who, finding, when foolish and young,
Apollo asleep on a coster-girl's barrow,
Straight dragged him away to see somebody hung.
90
