TO MISS JANE AUSTEN by GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE

@2M@1ADAM, I must express respectful wonder
At your delightful novels, penned despite
Your unawareness of the proper thunder
Employed by those professionals who write
For present generations.

You've minor merits; we have—Miss Corelli—
She's in "Who's Who" and so is Mistress Ward;
Your heroines are @3bourgeoise@1 Liz or Nellie—
Such homely English hearts you seem to hoard,
Untoned by foreign nations.

Your canvas, too, is very small and shrinking—
You've said as much yourself—and yet you smile,
Content with gentle raillery, not thinking
Of what you @3ought@1 to do—belabour guile
With stageable gyrations.

Indeed, dear Madam Jane, the eagle wheeling,
The vulture tearing, e'en the owl sedate,
Or brooding hen,—such modern modes of feeling
Are foreign to you, I regret to state
(With mental reservations).

So mild and unobtrusive seems your pleasure
It minds us rather of the humming-bird,
Sipping and skimming to a patterned measure,
Within an ordered park of way and word,
'Mid Spring's felicitations.

It's true, of course, that you amused Sir Walter,
Lewes, Macaulay, and a number more,
But fashions change, Miss Austen, @3have@1 to alter,—
Your glowworm humour now is ancient lore,
Barren of imitations.

In short, although we like you still extremely,
It's not the thing to read you nowadays;
If only you had been a bit unseemly
In style, or bold of plot, why then our praise
Might still perform oblations.

So good-bye, Madam; we must leave behind us
Your wit and wisdom, for no more they'll do:
We must progress, the publishers remind us—
This chat was pleasant, but it means—adieu!—
@3Our@1 people are creations.

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