An Ode To Spring In The Metropolis

(AFTER R. LE G.)     Is this the Seine?     And am I altogether wrong     About the brain,     Dreaming I hear the British tongue?     Dear Heaven! what a rhyme!     And yet 'tis all as good     As some that I have fashioned in my time,     Like bud and wood;     And on the other hand you couldn't have a more precise or neater     Metre.     Is this, I ask, the Seine?     And yonder sylvan lane,     Is it the Bois?     Ma foi!     Comme elle est chic, my Paris, my grisette!     Yet may I not forget     That London still remains the missus     Of this Narcissus.     No, no! 'tis not the Seine!     It is the artificial mere     That permeates St. James's Park.     The air is bosom-shaped and clear;     And, Himmel! do I hear the lark,     The good old Shelley-Wordsworth lark?     Even now, I prithee,     Hark     Him hammer     On Heaven's harmonious stithy,     Dew-drunken, like my grammar!     And O the trees!     Beneath their shade the hairless coot     Waddles at ease,     Hushing the magic of his gurgling beak;     Or haply in Tree-worship leans his cheek     Against their blind     And hoary rind,     Observing how the sap     Comes humming upwards from the tap-     Root!     Thrice happy, hairless coot!     And O the sun!     See, see, he shakes     His big red hands at me in wanton fun!     A glorious image that! it might be Blake's;     As in my critical capacity I took occasion to remark elsewhere,     When heaping praise     On this exceptionally happy phrase,     Although I made it up myself.     But I and Blake, we really constitute a pair,     Each being rather like an artless woodland elf.     And O the stars! I cannot say     I see a star just now,     Not at this time of day;     But anyhow     The stars are all my brothers;     (This verse is shorter than the others).     O Constitution Hill!     (This verse is shorter still).     Ah! London, London in the Spring!     You are, you know you are,     So full of curious sights,     Especially by nights.     From gilded bar to gilded bar     Youth goes his giddy whirl,     His heart fulfilled of Music-Hall,     His arm fulfilled of girl!     I frankly call     That last effect a perfect pearl!     I know it's     Not given to many poets     To frame so fair a thing     As this of mine, of Spring.     Indeed, the world grows Lilliput     All but     A precious few, the heirs of utter godlihead,     Who wear the yellow flower of blameless bodlihead!     And they, with Laureates dead, look down     On smaller fry unworthy of the crown,     Mere mushroom men, puff-balls that advertise     And bravely think to brush the skies.     Great is advertisement with little men!     Moi, qui vous parle, L- G-ll, nn-,     Have told them so;     I ought to know!