AMERICANISATION

Britannia needs no Boulevards, No spaces wide and gay: Her march was through the crooked streets Along the narrow way. Nor looks she where, New York's seduction, The Broadway leadeth to destruction.

Britannia needs no Cafes: If Coffee needs must be, Its place should be the Coffee-house Where Johnson growled for Tea; But who can hear that human mountain Growl for an ice-cream soda-fountain?

She needs no Russian Theatrey Mere Father strangles Mother, In scenes where all the characters And colours kill each other Her boast is freedom had by halves, And Britons never shall be Slavs.

But if not hers the Dance of Death, Great Dostoievsky's dance, And if the things most finely French Are better done in France Might not Americanisation Be best applied to its own nation?

Ere every shop shall be a store And every Trade a Trust . . . Lo, many men in many lands Know when their cause is just. There will be quite a large attendance When we Declare our Independence.

"The Myth of Arthur" By G. K. Chesterton

O learned man who never learned to learn, Save to deduce, by timid steps and small, From towering smoke that fire can never burn And from tall tales that men were never tall. Say, have you thought what manner of man it is Of who men say "He could strike giants down" ? Or what strong memories over time's abyss Bore up the pomp of Camelot and the crown. And why one banner all the background fills, Beyond the pageants of so many spears, And by what witchery in the western hills A throne stands empty for a thousand years. Who hold, unheeding this immense impact, Immortal story for a mortal sin; Lest human fable touch historic fact, Chase myths like moths, and fight them with a pin. Take comfort; restthere needs not this ado. You shall not be a myth, I promise you. ON THE DISASTROUS SPREAD OF AESTHETICISM IN ALL CLASSES

Impetuously I sprang from bed, Long before lunch was up, That I might drain the dizzy dew From the day's first golden cup.

In swift devouring ecstasy Each toil in turn was done; I had done lying on the lawn Three minutes after one.

For me, as Mr. Wordsworth says, The duties shine like stars; I formed my uncle's character, Decreasing his cigars.

But could my kind engross me? No! Stern Art-what sons escape her? Soon I was drawing Gladstone's nose On scraps of blotting paper.

Then on-to play one-fingered tunes Upon my aunt's piano. In short, I have a headlong soul, I much resemble Hanno.

(Forgive the entrance of the not Too cogent Carthaginian. It may have been to make a rhyme; I lean to that opinion.)

Then my great work of book research Till dusk I took in hand- The forming of a final, sound Opinion on The Strand.

But when I quenched the midnight oil, And closed the Referee, Whose thirty volumes folio I take to bed with me,

I had a rather funny dream, Intense, that is, and mystic; I dreamed that, with one leap and yell, The world became artistic.

The Shopmen, when their souls were still, Declined to open shops- And Cooks recorded frames of mind In sad and subtle chops.

The stars were weary of routine: The trees in the plantation Were growing every fruit at once, In search of sensation.

The moon went for a moonlight stroll, And tried to be a bard, And gazed enraptured at itself: I left it trying hard.

The sea had nothing but a mood Of 'vague ironic gloom,' With which t'explain its presence in My upstairs drawing-room.

The sun had read a little book That struck him with a notion: He drowned himself and all his fires Deep in a hissing ocean.

Then all was dark, lawless, and lost: I heard great devilish wings: I knew that Art had won, and snapt The Covenant of Things.

I cried aloud, and I awoke, New labours in my head. I set my teeth, and manfully Began to lie in bed.

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, So I my life conduct. Each morning see some task begun, Each evening see it chucked.

But still, in sudden moods of dusk, I hear those great weird wings, Feel vaguely thankful to the vast Stupidity of things.

Envoi

Clear was the night: the moon was young The larkspurs in the plots Mingled their orange with the gold Of the forget-me-nots.

The poppies seemed a silver mist: So darkly fell the gloom. You scarce had guessed yon crimson streaks Were buttercups in bloom.

But one thing moved: a little child Crashed through the flower and fern: And all my soul rose up to greet The sage of whom I learn.

I looked into his awful eyes: I waited his decree: I made ingenious attempts To sit upon his knee.

The babe upraised his wondering eyes, And timidly he said, "A trend towards experiment In modern minds is bred.

"I feel the will to roam, to learn By test, experience, nous, That fire is hot and ocean deep, And wolves carnivorous.

"My brain demands complexity," The lisping cherub cried. I looked at him, and only said, "Go on. The world is wide."

A tear rolled down his pinafore, "Yet from my life must pass The simple love of sun and moon, The old games in the grass;

"Now that my back is to my home Could these again be found?" I looked on him and only said, "Go on. The world is round."THE SONG OF THE STRANGE ASCETIC

If I had been a Heathen, I'd have praised the purple vine, My slaves should dig the vineyards, And I would drink the wine. But Higgins is a Heathen, And his slaves grow lean and grey, That he may drink some tepid milk Exactly twice a day.

If I had been a Heathen, I'd have crowned Neaera's curls, And filled my life with love affairs, My house with dancing girls; But Higgins is a Heathen, And to lecture rooms is forced, Where his aunts, who are not married, Demand to be divorced.

If I had been a Heathen, I'd have sent my armies forth, And dragged behind my chariots The Chieftains of the North. But Higgins is a Heathen, And he drives the dreary quill, To lend the poor that funny cash That makes them poorer still.

If I had been a Heathen, I'd have piled my pyre on high, And in a great red whirlwind Gone roaring to the sky; But Higgins is a Heathen, And a richer man than I: And they put him in an oven, Just as if he were a pie.

Now who that runs can read it, The riddle that I write, Of why this poor old sinner, Should sin without delight- But I, I cannot read it (Although I run and run), Of them that do not have the faith, And will not have the fun. (G. K. Chesterton - 1913)