"O Shelley! my companion and my friend, Brother in golden song, is this the end? Is this the guerdon for thy glorious thought, Thy dreams of human freedom, lightning-fraught? No larger honours from the world's chief city, Save this half-hearted, slow and dull 'Committee'? Where Names appear upon the muster-roll But only Names that lack all visible soul; Conspicuous by his absence, TENNYSON, The HORSHAM 'In Memoriam' doth shun; Next, HENRY IRVING'S name doth much attract (That 'glory' of the stage who cannot act) But even he, the Mime, keeps clear away From personal share in such a 'got-up' day,-- And not one 'notable' the eye perceives, Save the Methusaleh of song, SIMS REEVES; Alas, dear Shelley! Hast thou fallen so low? And must thy Genius such dishonour know? Is this the way thy Centenary's kept? Better go unremembered and unwept Than be thus 'celebrated' in a hurry, And get 'recited' by an ALMA MURRAY! "Now hold, my Muse, and strive no more to tell The public what they all should know full well; Zeal for true worth has bid me here engage The host of idiots that infest the age And spin their meagre prose and verse for hire, Libelling genius if it dare aspire. Let harmless BARRIE scrawl a Scottish tale And English ears with 'dialect' assail, Let WILLIAM ARCHER judge, and bearded SHARP Condemn his betters, enviously carp At living bards (if any), one and all, Such is the way of versifiers small; Let MORRIS whine and steal from Tennyson, The poet King, whose race is nearly run, Let ARNOLD drivel on, and SWINBURNE rave, And godly PATMORE chant a stupid stave, Let KIPLING, CAINE, and HARDY, and the rest, And all the women-writers unrepressed, Scrawl on till death release us from the strain, Or Art assume her highest rights again; Let HENLEY, to assert his tawdry muse, Damn other bards by scurrilous reviews, Feeding with rancour his congenial mind, Himself the most cantankerous of his kind; Let ANDREW LANG undaunted, take his stand Beside his favourite bookstalls, secondhand; Let 'Pseudonyms' appear in yellow pairs, Let careful STANNARD sell her 'Winter' wares, Let WATTS 'puff' SWINBURNE, SWINBURNE bow to WATTS, And Shakespeare be disproved by MRS. POTTS; Let all the brawling folly of the time Find vent in vapid prose and vulgar rhyme; Let scribblers rush into the common mart With all their mutilated blocks of art, And take their share of this ephemeral day With COLLINS and her 'Ta-ra-Boom-de-ay'; And what their end shall be, let others tell; My time is up and I must say farewell, Content at least that I have once agen Poured scorn upon the puny writing men That chaffer for the laurel wreath of fame,