Your taste in the region of letters I only can dimly foresee, But guess that from metrical fetters The verse you’ll affect must be free; And I shan’t be surprised or astounded If your generation rebels Against adulation unbounded Of SHAW and of BENNETT and WELLS. Upholding ancestral tradition Your uncle has booked you at Lord’s, But I doubt if you’ll sate your ambition Athletic on well-levelled swards; No, I rather opine that you’ll follow The lead that we owe to the WRIGHTS, And soar like the eagle or swallow On far and adventurous flights. But no matter—in joy and affliction, In seasons of failure or fame, I cherish the certain conviction You’ll never dishonour your name; For the love of the mother that bore you, The life and the death of your sire Will shine as a lantern before you, To guide and exalt and inspire. THE HOUSE-MASTER Four years I spent beneath his rule, For three of which askance I scanned him, And only after leaving school Came thoroughly to understand him; For he was brusque in various ways That jarred upon the modern mother, And scouted as a silly craze The theory of the “elder brother.” Renowned at Cambridge as an oar And quite distinguished as a wrangler, He felt incomparably more Pride in his exploits as an angler; He held his fishing on the Test Above the riches of the Speyers, And there he lured me, as his guest, Into the ranks of the “dry-flyers.” He made no fetish of the cane As owning any special virtue, But held the discipline of pain, When rightly earned, would never hurt you; With lapses of the normal brand I think he dealt most mercifully, But chastened with a heavy hand The sneak, the liar and the bully. We used to criticize his boots, His simple tastes in food and fiction, His everlasting homespun suits, His leisurely old-fashioned diction; And yet we had the saving _nous_ To recognize no worse disaster Could possibly befall the House Than the removal of its Master. For though his voice was deep and gruff, And rumbled like a motor-lorry, He showed the true angelic stuff If anyone was sick or sorry; So when pneumonia, doubly dread, Of breath had nearly quite bereft me, He watched three nights beside my bed Until the burning fever left me. He served three Heads with equal zeal And equal absence of ambition; He knew his power, and did not feel The least desire for recognition; But shrewd observers, who could trace Back to their source results far-reaching, Saw the true spirit of the race Embodied in his life and teaching.