BE seated, pray. 'A grave appeal'? The sufferers by the war, of course; Ah, what a sight for us who feel, -- This monstrous melodrame of Force! We, Sir, we connoisseurs, should know, On whom its heaviest burden falls; Collections shattered at a blow, Museums turned to hospitals! 'And worse,' you say; 'the wide distress!' Alas, 'tis true distress exists, Though, let me add, our worthy Press Have no mean skill as colourists; Speaking of colour, next your seat There hangs a sketch from Vernet's hand; Some Moscow fancy, incomplete, Yet not indifferently planned; Note specially the gray old guard, Who tears his tattered coat to wrap A closer bandage round the scarred And frozen comrade in his lap; -- But, as regards the present war, -- Now don't you think our pride of pence Goes -- may I say it? -- somewhat far For objects of benevolence? You hesitate. For my part, I -- Though ranking Paris next to Rome, Aesthetically -- still reply That 'Charity begins at Home.' The words remind me. Did you catch My so-named 'Hunt'? The girl's a gem; And look how those lean rascals snatch The pile of scraps she brings to them! 'But your appeal's for home,' -- you say, -- For home, and English poor! Indeed! I thought Philanthropy to-day Was blind to mere domestic need -- However sore -- Yet though one grants That home should have the foremost claims, At least these Continental wants Assume intelligible names; While here with us -- Ah! who could hope To verify the varied pleas, Or from his private means to cope With all our shrill necessities! Impossible! One might as well Attempt comparison of creeds; Or fill that huge Malayan shell With these half-dozen Indian beads. Moreover, add that every one So well exalts his pet distress, 'Tis -- Give to all, or give to none, If you'd avoid invidiousness. Your case, I feel, is sad as A.'s, The same applies to B.'s and C.'s; By my selection I should raise An alphabet of rivalries; And life is short, -- I see you look At yonder dish, a priceless bit; You'll find it etched in Jacquemart's book, They say that Raphael painted it; -- And life is short, you understand; So, if I only hold you out An open though an empty hand, Why, you'll forgive me, I've no doubt. Nay, do not rise. You seem amused; One can but be consistent, Sir! 'Twas on these grounds I just refused Some gushing lady-almoner, -- Believe me, on these very grounds. Good-bye, then. Ah, a rarity! That cost me quite three hundred pounds, -- That Durer figure, -- 'Charity.' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WINTER TREES by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS DISCORDANTS: 1 by CONRAD AIKEN CHARITAS NIMIA; OR THE DEAR BARGAIN by RICHARD CRASHAW THE ANGEL IN THE HOUSE: BOOK 1. CANTO 2. PRELUDE: LOVE AT LARGE by COVENTRY KERSEY DIGHTON PATMORE STATUETTE by DOLORES DOROTHE BOST PRESENTIMENT by CHARLOTTE BRONTE CRIPPLED SOLDIER by ABBIE FARWELL BROWN |