‘Oh, _I_ approve of nothing in the world,’ He answered; ‘not of you, still less of me, Nor even of Romney—though he’s worth us both. We’re all gone wrong. The tune in us is lost: And whistling in back alleys to the moon, Will never catch it.’ Let me draw Lord Howe; A born aristocrat, bred radical, And educated socialist, who still Goes floating, on traditions of his kind, Across the theoretic flood from France,— Though, like a drenched Noah on a rotten deck, Scarce safer for his place there. He, at least, Will never land on Ararat, he knows, To recommence the world on the old plan: Indeed, he thinks, said world had better end; He sympathises rather with the fish Outside, than with the drowned paired beasts within Who cannot couple again or multiply: And that’s the sort of Noah he is, Lord Howe. He never could be anything complete, Except a loyal, upright gentleman, A liberal landlord, graceful diner-out, And entertainer more than hospitable, Whom authors dine with and forget the port. Whatever he believes, and it is much, But no-wise certain ... now here and now there, ... He still has sympathies beyond his creed, Diverting him from action. In the House, No party counts upon him, and all praise All like his books too, (he has written books) Which, good to lie beside a bishop’s chair, So oft outreach themselves with jets of fire At which the foremost of the progressists May warm audacious hands in passing by. —Of stature over-tall, lounging for ease; Light hair, that seems to carry a wind in it, And eyes that, when they look on you, will lean Their whole weight half in indolence, and half In wishing you unmitigated good, Until you know not if to flinch from him Or thank him.—’Tis Lord Howe. ‘We’re all gone wrong,’ Said he, ‘and Romney, that dear friend of ours, Is no-wise right. There’s one true thing on earth; That’s love! He takes it up, and dresses it, And acts a play with it, as Hamlet did, To show what cruel uncles we have been, And how we should be uneasy in our minds, While he, Prince Hamlet, weds a pretty maid (Who keeps us too long waiting, we’ll confess) By symbol, to instruct us formally To fill the ditches up ’twixt class and class, And live together in phalansteries. What then?—he’s mad, our Hamlet! clap his play, And bind him.’ ‘Ah Lord Howe, this spectacle Pulls stronger at us than the Dane’s. See there! The crammed aisles heave and strain and steam with life— Dear Heaven, what life!’ ‘Why, yes,—a poet sees; Which makes him different from a common man. _I_, too, see somewhat, though I cannot sing; I should have been a poet, only that My mother took fright at the ugly world,