If veritable and lawful, is not given By imposition of the foreign hand,— Nor chosen from a pretty pattern-book Of some domestic idealogue, who sits And coldly chooses empire, where as well He might republic. Genuine government Is but the expression of a nation, good Or less good,—even as all society, Howe’er unequal, monstrous, crazed, and cursed, Is but the expression of men’s single lives, The loud sum of the silent units. What, We’d change the aggregate and yet retain Each separate figure? Whom do we cheat by that? Now, not even Romney.’ ‘Cousin, you are sad. Did all your social labour at Leigh Hall And elsewhere, come to nought then?’ ‘It _was_ nought,’ He answered mildly. ‘There is room indeed, For statues still, in this large world of God’s, But not for vacuums,—so I am not sad: Not sadder than is good for what I am. My vain phalanstery dissolved itself; My men and women of disordered lives, I brought in orderly to dine and sleep, Broke up those waxen masks I made them wear, With fierce contortions of the natural face; And cursed me for my tyrannous constraint In forcing crooked creatures to live straight; And set the country hounds upon my back To bite and tear me for my wicked deed Of trying to do good without the church Or even the squires, Aurora. Do you mind Your ancient neighbours? The great book-club teems With ‘sketches,’ ‘summaries,’ and ‘last tracts’ but twelve, On socialistic troublers of close bonds Betwixt the generous rich and grateful poor. The vicar preached from ‘Revelations,’ (till The doctor woke) and found me with ‘the frogs’ On three successive Sundays; ay, and stopped To weep a little (for he’s getting old) That such perdition should o’ertake a man Of such fair acres,—in the parish, too! He printed his discourses ‘by request;’ And if your book shall sell as his did, then Your verses are less good than I suppose. The women of the neighbourhood subscribed, And sent me a copy bound in scarlet silk, Tooled edges, blazoned with the arms of Leigh: I own that touched me.’ ‘What, the pretty ones? Poor Romney!’ ‘Otherwise the effect was small. I had my windows broken once or twice By liberal peasants, naturally incensed At such a vexer of Arcadian peace, Who would not let men call their wives their own To kick like Britons,—and made obstacles When things went smoothly as a baby drugged, Toward freedom and starvation; bringing down The wicked London tavern-thieves and drabs, To affront the blessed hillside drabs and thieves With mended morals, quotha,—fine new lives!— My windows paid for’t. I was shot at, once, By an active poacher who had hit a hare