[Lines addressed to one of those officials who charge you a copper
for your seat in St. James's Park.]
Fellow, you have no _flair_ for art, I fear,
Who thus confound me with the idle Many--
The loafer pensive o'er his betting rag,
The messenger (express) with reeking fag,
The nursemaid sighing for her bombardier--
All charged the same pew-rate, a common penny.
I am an artist; I am not as these;
He does me horrid despite who confuses
My taste with theirs who come this way to chuck
Light provender to some exotic duck,
Whereas I sit beneath these secular trees
In close collaboration with the Muses.
To me St. James's Park is holy ground;
In fancy I regard these glades as Helicon's;
This lake (although an artificial pond)
To Hippocrene should roughly correspond;
Others, not I, shall make its shores resound,
Bandying chaff with yonder jaunty pelicans.
All this escaped you, lacking minstrel lore.
'Tis so with poets: men are blind and miss us;
You did not mark my eye's exultant mood,
The inflated chest, the listening attitude,
Nor, bent above the mere, the look I wore
When lost in self-reflection--like Narcissus.
Else you could scarce have charged me for my seat;
I must have earned an honorary session;
For how could I have strained your solid chair,
I that am all pure spirit, fine as air,
And sit as light as when with wingéd feet
Mercury settles, leaving no impression?
Well, take your paltry penny, trivial dun!
And bid your chair-contractors freely wallow
In luxury therewith; but, when you find
Another in this hallowed seat reclined,
Squeeze him for tuppence, saying, "_Here sat one
On June the fifth and parleyed with Apollo_."
SIR OWEN SEAMAN.
June 11, 1913.