Rosemary and Pansies/A Poet's Grievance
A POET'S GRIEVANCE
Yes, sir! my name is Milton—Spenser Milton.Am I descended from the famous John?I knew you'd ask that—everybody putsThat question to me, making me sometimesFit to blaspheme the poet's memory,By which I've all my life been handicapped."Paradise Lost" I've often wished had beenLost literally and never more Regained.John Milton was John Milton, I'm myself:He had his special talent, I have mine:'Tis true indeed a family tradition(I care not for its authenticity)Asserts we are descended from the poet:But can you give me any reason whyOne family should not produce two poets?I couldn't write a "Paradise" I'll own,And if I could I would not: but could JohnWith all his genius have composed that song,So full of patriotic inspiration,Of foreign foes so scornfully defiant,So trumpet-like in its triumphant measure,Which the great MacMungo sang with such successAt almost every Music Hall in England,And which so roused the spirit of the nation, And I—yes! I, your humble servant, wrote?I trow he could not: wherefore I contend'Tis most unjust my corn to measure byJohn Milton's bushel. Do you think that he,Were he to come to life again, would chooseTo write another "Paradise"? Not he!He was a man (considering the timesHe lived in) of advanced opinions; notBy any means a man to take unquestionedHis principles from masters and from pastors.His Epic owes far more to his inventionThan to the Book which he professed to follow:His Jesus and Jehovah were but Miltons"Writ large," through whom the bard ventriloquised.Did he live now and know the proved resultsOf Biblical research in modern times,He would be counted in the foremost ranksOf those who have cast off the chains of dogma:But that is scarcely what I meant to urge:I dare say folks have no design to hurtMy feelings when they ask if I'm descendedFrom the great Milton. It's a natural question—That is it's natural inconsiderate folk(Most folk are inconsiderate) should ask it;But don't you see (and here's the sting of it,)Most people ask as though within their mindsThere lurked the thought "A long descent indeed."Now this is aggravating you must own:I don't by choice bear so renowned a name;Could I have chosen my own patronymicI'd have preferred Smith, Brown, Jones, Robinson,Or any other undistinguished surname,Which I perchance by merits of my own,O'ershadowed by no famous ancestor, Might then have made renowned and glorious.Let me confide a secret to your ear:Three tragedies I've written in a styleNever attempted by another poet,Original in matter as in form,And full of great sensational effects,Which, were they once produced upon the stage,Would rank me even with the Bard of Avon. You smile, sir! but I mean just what I say,In fact I know not if I'm not too modest,And should not claim a higher place than Shakespeare:For what says Bernard Shaw?—"Excepting Homer,There is no famous writer I despiseSo much as I despise the vaunted Shakespeare,When I compare my intellect with his:"(And that is just what I should say of Shaw,Were I—but modesty restrains my speech.)Buchanan too (I mean the famous Robert,The author of—hang it! I've clean forgottenTheir names—of countless poems, plays, and novels,)He also thinks that Shakespeare's overrated,—See! here's his "Open Letter," where he showsThat the absurd idolatry of ShakespeareIs but a superstition of the mob,Who worship him for his faults and not his merits;(Robert, you see, is candid and allowsThat Shakespeare has some merits): Listen now—"Shakespeare, of course, writing in barbarous times,Wrote like a savage: he could do naught else!But what is most amazing in his mostAmazing genius is the thorough-goingConsistency with which he ever seizesThe brutal and the barbarous side of things,Be it the Trojan War or Jack Cade's rising, His horrid caricature of hunchbacked Richard,Or his bestial libel on heroic Joan."Now, sir, I don't endorse all Robert says,(His pen, I fancy, masters him at times,And writes down things which no one is astonishedMore than their author is to see in print:)But I do think that if you take awayHis six or seven masterpieces, ShakespeareFalls to a level which may well be reached,Or overleaped even by your humble servant.But let that pass; comparisons are odious,And I'm content posterity should judgeBetween me and the Elizabethan bard:That is, I should be well content could IBut get my plays produced upon the stage,Or could I even find a publisherWith enterprise enough to make them knownTo the great British public. Genius, sir,Both manager and publisher are blind to,And so my plays remain unknown, unacted,And I make but a poor precarious livingBy writing songs (at half a crown a time)For music-hall professionals. Dame FortuneHas never yet your humble servant favoured,And at the present moment worse than usualShe's treating me. Behold! my purse containsNot even a copper coin. I know notHow to replenish it. I should be in luckIf some kind soul would lend me half a crown.Thanks, friend; my lucky star must rise some day,I shan't be always penniless, unknown,And down at heel; depend on't I'll repay you.
1886-1899