| You gave, but will not give again |
| Until enough of Paudeen’s pence |
| By Biddy’s halfpennies have lain |
| To
be ‘some sort of evidence,’ |
| Before you’ll put your guineas down, |
| That things it were a pride to give |
| Are
what the blind and ignorant town |
| Imagines best to make it thrive. |
| What cared Duke Ercole, that bid |
| His
mummers to the market-place, |
| What th’ onion-sellers thought or did |
| So that his Plautus set the pace |
| For
the Italian comedies? |
| And Guidobaldo, when he made |
| That grammar school of courtesies |
| Where wit
and beauty learned their trade |
| Upon Urbino’s windy hill, |
| Had sent no runners to and fro |
| That he might
learn the shepherds’ will. |
| And when they drove out Cosimo, |
| Indifferent how the rancour ran, |
| He gave
the hours they had set free |
| To Michelozzo’s latest plan |
| For the San Marco Library, |
| Whence turbulent
Italy should draw |
| Delight in Art whose end is peace, |
| In logic and in natural law |
| By sucking at the dugs
of Greece. |
|
|
|
|
| Your open hand but shows our loss, |
| For he knew better how to live. |
| Let Paudeens play at
pitch and toss, |
| Look up in the sun’s eye and give |
| What the exultant heart calls good |
| That some new
day may breed the best |
| Because you gave, not what they would, |
| But the right twigs for an eagle’s nest! |
| December
1912 |
