Archive for March 16, 2012

Oscar Wilde   1 comment

Above:  Oscar Wilde



My great-grandfather’s opinion in this matter does not reflect my thinking.



Thou mystic spell, if Muse or no,

That makes my youthful spirits glow,

And wakes within my heart a spell

Of thoughts sublime,

And feelings I can’t hope to tell

In my crude rhyme.


Now be thou of the sacred Nine

That tunes these weakly lays of mine,

Or but a school-boy’s whimpering fancies,

I wont conjecture,

Hear while prosaic sense advances

A certain lecture.


You know this frantic chap that’s styled,

And most appropriately, as “Wilde,”

Tho’ I think that a better name

Would be “darn fool,”

If I may judge him by his fame–

And that’s the rule.


He’s raving crazed about a lot

Of fool’ry, e’en he don’t know what,

With intellectual grunts and squirms,

And mental tugs;

He’s given birth to long French terms

For his humbugs.


The sun-flower and the lilly wear,

I don’t deny, some beauties rare,

But what’s the use of being a fool

‘Bout things so small?

‘Tis oftener he seems most cool,

Feels most of all.


Now if you do or even would

Claim with his Muse a sisterhood,

I’ll clip your wings with such close deal

They’ll never sprout,

And every feather of your tail

I’ll pull square out.


His lay is of the head, not heart,

Well rounded by the hand of art,

Tho’ not a speck of soul alloyed,

‘Tis grind-stone rhyme;

As round and smooth, but as devoid

Of the sublime.


‘Tis as a human’s plaster mould,

Where all the charms of form unfold,

No soul, no heart, no feeling dressed

In its fair clothing,

So e’en its beauty fills the breast

With sadly loathing.


He tries as hard as e’er did quack

To get astride Pegasus’ back;

He’s found his jade wont mend his speed

For spurs and wallops,

And so he calls at Keat’s steed

As off he gallops.


But old Pegasus flies the track,

His tail exultant on his back,

With all his might and main he puts it;

All calls are idle,

And so Wilde’s little Muse foots it

And totes the bridle.


O! Britain, thou so famed and sung,

‘Tis from thine isles the lyre has flung

Its sweetest notes, which seem to blend

With lays divine;

And can it be that they must end

In such a whine?


And art thou, as the giant shorn,

In weakness doomed to look and mourn

On what thou’st been in former days;

With future drear,

And these weak, whimpering, whiffling lays

Alone to cheer?


Down from its heights, Oh! call again,

The Muse that did inspire his strain,

Who sang lays that for aye shall be

Beyond Wilde’s power,

Altho’ his eyes could never see

The grand sun-flower.


Where is the soul that did inspire

The Ploughman when he strung his lyre,

And struck the keys with heavenly art,

In measures bold,

To which there is in every heart,

An echo told?


Oh! call them back that they may drowned

In music sweet this discord sound,

And make thy shores resound again.

As when they sung,

For if Wilde’s is thy noblest strain,

Thy knell is rung.


Posted March 16, 2012 by neatnik2009 in John Dodson Taylor Sr.--Poems

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