Q are the Questions put by noble Lords;
R my Responses, more cutting than swords.
S is the Sultan, my friend true and warm;
T are the Turks, whom I hope to reform.
U’s my Utopia—Cyprus, I mean:
V is Victoria, my Empress and Queen.
W’s the World, which ere long I shall own;
X is the sign of my power unknown.
Y is the Yacht I shall keep in the Red Sea:
Z the Zulus, whom I wish in the Dead Sea.
THE GLADSTONE ALPHABET.
A’s Aristides, or Gladstone the
B is Lord B., whom I’d crush if I could.
C are Conservatives, full of mad pranks;
D are the Dunces who fill up their ranks.
E stands for Ewelme, of some notoriety;
F for the Fuss made in Oxford society.
G stands for Gladstone, a hewer of wood;
H is my Hatchet of merciless mood.
I is the Irish Church which I cut down:
J are the Jobs which I kill with a frown,
K are the Knocks which I give and I take:
L are the Liberals whom I forsake.
M are the Ministry whom I revile;
N are the Noodles my speeches beguile.
O is the Office I mean to refuse:
P is the Premier—I long for his shoes.
Q are the Qualms of my conscience refined;
R is the Rhetoric nothing can bind,
S is Herr Schliemann who loves much to walk about
T ancient Troy, which I love much to talk about.
U is the Union of Church and State;
V are my former Views, now out of date.
W is William, the People’s ‘True Bill,’
X is the Exit from power of that ‘Will.’
Y is Young England, who soon will unite
Z in fresh Zeal for the ‘People’s Delight.’
SOLITUDE IN SEPTEMBER.
O BEATA SOLITUDO; O SOLA BEATITUDO.
(Inscription in the Grounds of Burg Birseck, near Basel.)
Sweet Solitude where dost thou linger?
When and where shall I look in thy face?
Feel the soft magic touch of thy finger,
The glow of thy silent embrace?
Stern Civilization has banished
Thy charms to a region unknown;
The spell of thy beauty has vanished—
Sweet Solitude, where hast thou flown?
I have sought thee on pampas and prairie,
By blue lake and bluer crevasse,
On shores that are arid and airy,
Lone peak, and precipitous pass.
I have sought thee, sweet Solitude, ever
Regardless of peril and pain;
But in spite of my utmost endeavour
I have sought thee, fair charmer, in vain.
To the Alps, to the Alps in September,
Unconducted by Cook, did I rush;
Full well even now I remember
How my heart with emotion did gush.
Here at least in these lonely recesses
With thee I shall cast in my lot;
Shall feel thy endearing caresses,
Forgetting all else and forgot.