What will they christen it? Ach--not _Herschel_, no! Nor _Georgium Sidus_, as I once proposed; Although he scarce could lose it, as he lost That world in 'seventy-six. Indeed, so far From trying to tax it, he has granted me How much?--two hundred golden pounds a year, In the great name of science,--half the cost Of one state-coach, with all those worlds to win! Well--well--we must be grateful. This mad king Has done far more than all the worldly-wise, Who'll charge even this to madness. I believe One day he'll have me pardoned for that...crime, When I escaped--deserted, some would say-- From those drill-sergeants in my native land; Deserted drill for music, as I now Desert my music for the orchestral spheres. No. This new planet is only new to man. His majesty has done much. Yet, as my friend Declared last night, "Never did monarch buy Honour so cheaply"; and--he has not bought it. I think that it should bear some ancient name, And wear it like a crown; some deep, dark name, Like _Uranus_, known to remoter gods. How strange it seems--this buzzing concert-room! There's Doctor Burney bowing and, behind him, His fox-eyed daughter Fanny. Is it a dream, These crowding midgets, dense as clustering bees In some great bee-skep? Now, as I lift my wand, A silence grips them, and the strings begin, Throbbing. The faint lights flicker in gusts of sound. Before me, glimmering like a crescent moon, The dim half circle of the choir awaits Its own appointed time. Beside me now, Watching my wand, plump and immaculate From buckled shoes to that white bunch of lace Under his chin, the midget tenor rises, Music in hand, a linnet and a king. The bullfinch bass, that other emperor, Leans back indifferently, and clears his throat As if to say, "This prelude leads to _Me_!" While, on their own proud thrones, on either hand, The sumptuously bosomed midget queens, Contralto and soprano, jealously eye Each other's plumage. Round me the music throbs With an immortal passion. I grow aware Of an appalling mystery.... We, this throng Of midgets, playing, listening, tense and still, Are sailing on a midget ball of dust We call our planet; will have sailed through space Ten thousand leagues before this music ends. What does it mean? Oh, God, what _can_ it mean?-- This weird hushed ant-hill with a thousand eyes; These midget periwigs; all those little blurs, Tier over tier, of faces, masks of flesh, Corruptible, hiding each its hopes and dreams, Its tragi-comic dreams. And all this throng Will be forgotten, mixed with dust, crushed out, Before this book of music is outworn Or that tall organ crumbles. Violins Outlast their players. Other hands may touch That harpsichord; but ere this planet makes Another threescore journeys round its sun, These breathing listeners will have vanished. Whither?