In love of thee this lover knew no peer.
Thine eastern or thy western fane had made
Fit habitation for his noble shade.
Mother of mightier, nurse of none more dear,
Not here, in rustic exile, O not here,
Thy Elia like an alien should be laid!
LINES IN A FLYLEAF OF "CHRISTABEL"
Inhospitably hast thou entertained,
O Poet, us the bidden to thy board,
Whom in mid-feast, and while our thousand mouths
Are one laudation of the festal cheer,
Thou from thy table dost dismiss, unfilled.
Yet loudlier thee than many a lavish host
We praise, and oftener thy repast half-served
Than many a stintless banquet, prodigally
Through satiate hours prolonged; nor praise less well
Because with tongues thou hast not cloyed, and lips
That mourn the parsimony of affluent souls,
And mix the lamentation with the laud.
LINES TO OUR NEW CENSOR
[Mr. Oscar Wilde, having discovered that England is unworthy
of him, has announced his resolve to become a naturalised
And wilt thou, Oscar, from us flee,
And must we, henceforth, wholly sever?
Shall thy laborious _jeux-d'esprit_
Sadden our lives no more for ever?
And all thy future wilt thou link
With that brave land to which thou goest?
Unhappy France! we _used_ to think
She touched, at Sedan, fortune's lowest.
And you're made French as easily
As you might change the clothes you're wearing?
Fancy!--and 'tis so hard to be
A man of sense and modest bearing.