FORECAST

Tomkins! when revolving lustres

Thin those shining locks that now

Wreathe their hyacinthine clusters

Round your intellectual brow,—

You who in your nobler station

Still are kind enough to seek

Our political salvation

Rather more than once a week,—

Think you, will your rightful value

Still be duly understood?

Will the British Public hail you

Always great and always good?

When the Peoples fight for Freedom

And the tyrant’ s rage confront,

Will they call for you to lead’ em?

— No, my friend: I fear they won’ t.

Soon or late are Truth’ s apostles

Laid upon their destined shelf;

You, who talk of Ancient Fossils,

Tomkins! will be one yourself:

Dons and Men with gibe and sneer your

Ancient crusted ways will view,

Wondering oft with smile superior

What’ s the use of Things like you!

All the schemes that win you glory,

Meant to mend our mortal mess —

These will simply brand you Tory,

Nothing more and nothing less:

You who waked the world from slumber,

You, who shone in Progress’ van,

You’ ll be then a mere Back Number,

Obsolete as good Queen Anne!

You I see with zeal excessive

Dying then for causes, which

Now ( forsooth ) you call Progressive,

In reaction’ s Final Ditch:

By Conservatives in caucus

( Ardent youth, reflect on that! )

Sent to stem the horrid raucous

Clamours of the Democrat...

No: I do not wish to quarrel

With your high exalted sense;

No: there isn’ t any moral —

Not of any consequence:

Only,’ neath your exhortations

Passive while we’ re doomed to sit,

Themes like these conduce to patience,—

And I thought I’ d mention it.