Beethoven Brown could play and sing before he learnt to crawl: 
  Piano, bones, or ophicleide—­he played upon them all! 
  Some talk of Paderewski, or of Dr Joachim—­
  These artists meritorious are, but can’t compare with him.

  No faults or errors technical his Symphonies deface: 
  He calculates in counterpoint, he thinks in thoroughbass: 
  Composers of celebrity—­musicians of renown—­
  Confess that they’re inferior far to Bach Beethoven Brown.

  As conquerors, their triumphs won, new fields before them see,
  So Mr Brown resolved to have a Musical Degree: 
  Some say that it the title was and others say the gown
  That captive took the soaring soul of Bach Beethoven Brown.

  But ah! our Statues grovelling command their candidates
  To satisfy examiners in Smalls, and Mods., and Greats,
  To learn those verbs irregular which men of taste abhor,
  Before you can a Doctor be or e’en a Bachelor!

  O mores! and O tempora! can pedantry compel
  Musicians who write choruses to construe them as well? 
  Is this (I ask) the way to deal with genius great and high? 
  Why fetter it with Latin Prose? and Echo answers “Why?”

  Beethoven Brown is famous still, though ignorant of Greek,
  He writes cantatas every month and anthems once a week: 
  And still in every capital and each provincial town
  Piano organs play the tunes of Bach Beethoven Brown;

  Earls, Viscounts, Dukes, and R-y-lties his music throng to hear: 
  Already he’s a Baronet, and soon he’ll be a Peer: 
  And—­thrice a year this awful news a nation’s heart appals,
  That great Sir Bach Beethoven Brown is ploughed again in Smalls!

QUIETA MOVERE

  “Any leap in the dark is better than standing still.”—­New Proverb.

  Talk not to us of the joys of the Present,
    Say not what is is undoubtedly best: 
  Never be ours to be merely quiescent—­
    Anything, everything rather than rest!

  Placid prosperity bores us and vexes: 
    What if philosophers Latin and Greek
  Say that well-being’s a Status and Exis? [1]
    Nothing should please you for more than a week.

  Tinkering, doctoring, shifting, deranging,
    Urged by a constant satiety on,
  Ever the new for the newer exchanging,
    Hazarding ever the gains we have won—­

  Only perpetual flux can delight us,
    Blown like a billow by winds of the sea: 
  Still let us bow to the shrine of St. Vitus—­
    Vite Sanctissime, ora pro me!

  Pray, that when leaps in the darkness uncaring
    End in a fall (as they probably will),
  Mine be the credit for valiantly daring,
    Others be charged with defraying the bill!

[1.  Transcriber’s note:  The word “Exis” was transliterated from the Greek as follows:  Epsilon (with the rough-breathing diacritical), xi, iota, sigma.]