FORECAST

Previous

Tomkins! when revolving lustres
Thin those shining locks that now
Wreathe their hyacinthine clusters
Round your intellectual brow,—
You who in your nobler station
Still are kind enough to seek
Our political salvation
Rather more than once a week,—

Think you, will your rightful value
Still be duly understood?
Will the British Public hail you
Always great and always good?
When the Peoples fight for Freedom
And the tyrant’s rage confront,
Will they call for you to lead ’em?
—No, my friend: I fear they won’t.

Soon or late are Truth’s apostles
Laid upon their destined shelf;
You, who talk of Ancient Fossils,
Tomkins! will be one yourself:
Dons and Men with gibe and sneer your
Ancient crusted ways will view,
Wondering oft with smile superior
What’s the use of Things like you!

All the schemes that win you glory,
Meant to mend our mortal mess—
These will simply brand you Tory,
Nothing more and nothing less:
You who waked the world from slumber,
You, who shone in Progress’ van,
You’ll be then a mere Back Number,
Obsolete as good Queen Anne!

You I see with zeal excessive
Dying then for causes, which
Now (forsooth) you call Progressive,
In reaction’s Final Ditch:
By Conservatives in caucus
(Ardent youth, reflect on that!)
Sent to stem the horrid raucous
Clamours of the Democrat . . .

No: I do not wish to quarrel
With your high exalted sense;
No: there isn’t any moral—
Not of any consequence:
Only, ’neath your exhortations
Passive while we’re doomed to sit,
Themes like these conduce to patience,—
And I thought I’d mention it.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

Clyx.com


Top of Page
Top of Page