Descendant of the doves of Aphrodite
Who fluttered in that type of beauty's train
And followed her affairs--the grave, the flighty,
Cooing in just your calm, uncaring strain,
Whether she thought to rid her of a rival,
Or bring some laggard lover to her knees;--
I see you, Sir, the latter-day survival
Of such fair plumed satellites as these!
"Bred in the bone," perchance you know the motto!
And so you doubtless dream of tides that lace
O'er snow-white sand by some blue Paphian grotto,
Or of your sires' dark, murmurous, woodland Thrace;
A penny whistle shrilling 'mid the traffic
May seem the goat-foot god's own oaten trill,
Till you shall think to hear the Maenads maffic
In the upborne commotion of Cornhill!
And from your perch where sooty winds are striving,
O Bank Stock-dove, as o'er Hymettian bloom
You yet may watch the busy bees a-hiving
The sweet and subtle fragrance of the Boom,
And see, as once before the Cyprian matron,
The crowds that wait, obsequious and discreet,
On her, your passionless and newer patron,
The stern Old Lady of Threadneedle Street!
P. R. CHALMERS.
May 11, 1910.