LAISSEZ FAIRE.

(INSCRIPTION FOR A FREE PUBLIC LIBRARY.)

[Illustration]

  Here is an Institution doomed to scare
  The furious devotees of Laissez Faire. 
  What mental shock, indeed, could prove immenser
  To Mumbo Jumbo—­or to Herbert Spencer? 
  Free Books?  Reading provided from the Rates? 
  Oh, that means Freedom’s ruin, and the State’s! 
  Self-help’s all right,—­e’en if you rob a brother—­
  But human creatures must not help each other! 
  The “Self-made Man,” whom Samuel smiles so praises,
  Who on his fellows’ necks his footing raises,
  The systematic “Sweater,” who sucks wealth
  From toiling crowds by cunning and by stealth,—­
  He is all right, he has no maudlin twist,
  He does not shock the Individualist! 
  But rate yourselves to give the poor free reading? 
  The Pelican to warm her nestlings bleeding,
  Was no such monument of feeble folly.
  Let folks alone, and all will then be jolly. 
  Let the poor perish, let the ignorant sink,
  The tempted tumble, and the drunkard drink! 
  Let—­no, don’t let the low-born robber rob,
  Because,—­well, that would rather spoil the job. 
  If footpad-freedom brooked no interference,
  Of Capital there might be a great clearance;
  But, Wealth well-guarded, let all else alone. 
  ’Tis thus our race hath to true manhood grown: 
  To make the general good the common care,
  Breaks through the sacred law of Laissez Faire!

* * * * *

A remonstrance.

TO LUKE’S LITTLE SUMMER.

[Illustration]

  Ah, Summer! now thy wayward race is run,
  With soft, appeasing smiles thou com’st, like one
    Who keeps a pageant waiting all the day,
  Till half the guests and all the joy is gone,
    And hearts are heavy that awoke so gay.

  What though the faithful trees, still gladly green,
  Show fretted depths of blue their boughs between,
    Though placid sunlight sleeps upon the lawn,
  It only tells us of what might have been
    Of fickle favours wantonly withdrawn.

  Blown with rude winds, and beaten down with rain,
  How can the roses dare to trust again
    The tricksy mistress whom they once adored? 
  Even the glad heaven, chilled with stormy stain,
    Grudges its skylark pilgrims of its hoard.

  Poor is the vintage that the wild bee quiffs,
  When the tall simple lilies—­the giraffes
    That browse on loftier air than other flowers—­
  When all the blooms, wherewith late Summer laughs,
    Like chidden children droop among the bowers.

  Oft like a moorhen scuttling to the reeds,
  The cricket-ball sped o’er the plashy meads,
    And rainbow-blended blazers shrank and ran
  When showers, in mockery of his moist needs,
    Half-drown’d the water-loving river man.