FEAR no unlicensed entry, Heed no bombastic talk, While guards the British Sentry Pall Mall and Birdcage Walk. Let European thunders Occasion no alarms, Though diplomatic blunders May cause a cry “To arms!” Sleep on, ye pale civilians; All thunder-clouds defy: On Europe’s countless millions The Sentry keeps his eye! Should foreign-born rapscallions In London dare to show Their overgrown battalions, Be sure I’ll let you know. Should Russians or Norwegians Pollute our favoured clime With rough barbaric legions, I’ll mention it in time. So sleep in peace, civilians, The Continent defy; While on its countless millions The Sentry keeps his eye! THE LOVE-SICK BOY WHEN first my old, old love I knew, My bosom welled with joy; My riches at her feet I threw; I was a love-sick boy! No terms seemed too extravagant Upon her to employ— I used to mope, and sigh, and pant, Just like a love-sick boy! But joy incessant palls the sense; And love unchanged will cloy, And she became a bore intense Unto her love-sick boy? With fitful glimmer burnt my flame, And I grew cold and coy, At last, one morning, I became Another’s love-sick boy! POETRY EVERYWHERE WHAT time the poet hath hymned The writhing maid, lithe-limbed, Quivering on amaranthine asphodel, How can he paint her woes, Knowing, as well he knows, That all can be set right with calomel? When from the poet’s plinth The amorous colocynth Yearns for the aloe, faint with rapturous thrills, How can he hymn their throes Knowing, as well he knows, That they are only uncompounded pills? Is it, and can it be, Nature hath this decree, Nothing poetic in the world shall dwell? Or that in all her works Something poetic lurks, Even in colocynth and calomel? HE LOVES! HE loves! If in the bygone years Thine eyes have ever shed Tears—bitter, unavailing tears, For one untimely dead— If in the eventide of life Sad thoughts of her arise, Then let the memory of thy wife Plead for my boy—he dies! He dies! If fondly laid aside In some old cabinet, Memorials of thy long-dead bride Lie, dearly treasured yet, Then let her hallowed bridal dress— Her little dainty gloves— Her withered flowers—her faded tress— Plead for my boy—he loves! TRUE DIFFIDENCE