Classic Poem

Be seated, pray. " A grave appeal"?
The sufferers by the war, of course;
Ah, what a sight for us who feel, —
This monstrous melodrame of Force!
We, Sir, we connoisseurs, should know,
On whom its heaviest burden falls;
Collections shattered at a blow,
Museums turned to hospitals!

" And worse," you say; " the wide distress!"
Alas, 'tis true distress exists,
Though, let me add, our worthy Press
Have no mean skill as colourists;
Speaking of colour, next your seat
There hangs a sketch from Vernet's hand;
Some Moscow fancy, incomplete,
Yet not indifferently planned;

Note specially the gray old guard,
Who tears his tattered coat to wrap
A closer bandage round the scarred
And frozen comrade in his lap; —
But, as regards the present war, —
Now don"t you think our pride of pence
Goes — may I say it? — somewhat far
For objects of benevolence?

You hesitate. For my part, I —
Though ranking Paris next to Rome,
Aesthetically — still reply
That " Charity begins at Home."
The words remind me. Did you catch
My so-named " Hunt"? The girl's a gem;
And look how those lean rascals snatch
The pile of scraps she brings to them!

" But your appeal's for home," — you say, —
For home, and English poor! Indeed!
I thought Philanthropy to-day
Was blind to mere domestic need —
However sore — Yet though one grants
That home should have the foremost claims,
At least these Continental wants
Assume intelligible names;

While here with us — Ah! who could hope
To verify the varied pleas,
Or from his private means to cope
With all our shrill necessities!
Impossible! One might as well
Attempt comparison of creeds;
Or fill that huge Malayan shell
With these half-dozen Indian beads.

Moreover, add that every one
So well exalts his pet distress,
'Tis — Give to all, or give to none,
If you'd avoid invidiousness.
Your case, I feel, is sad as A.'s,
The same applies to B.'s and C.'s;
By my selection I should raise
An alphabet of rivalries;

And life is short, — I see you look
At yonder dish, a priceless bit;
You'll find it etched in Jacquemart's book,
They say that Raphael painted it; —
And life is short, you understand;
So, if I only hold you out
An open though an empty hand,
Why, you'll forgive me, I've no doubt.

Nay, do not rise. You seem amused;
One can but be consistent, Sir!
'Twas on these grounds I just refused
Some gushing lady-almoner, —
Believe me, on these very grounds.
Good-bye, then. Ah, a rarity!
That cost me quite three hundred pounds, —
That Dürer figure, — " Charity."