Classic Poem

If they hint, O Musician, the piece that you played
— Is naught but a copy of Chopin or Spohr;
That the ballad you sing is but merely " conveyed "
— From the stock of the Arnes and the Purcells of yore;
— That there's nothing, in short, in the words or the score,
That is not as out-worn as the " Wandering Jew " ;
— Make answer — Beethoven could scarcely do more —
That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

If they tell you, Sir Artist, your light and your shade
— Are simply " adapted " from other men's lore;
That — plainly to speak of a " spade " as a " spade " —
— You've " stolen " your grouping from three or from four;
— That (however the writer the truth may deplore),
'Twas Gainsborough painted your " Little Boy Blue " ;
— Smile only serenely — though cut to the core —
For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

And you too, my Poet, be never dismayed
— If they whisper your Epic — " Sir Eperon d'Or " —
Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayed
— In a tissue that's taken from Morris's store;
— That no one, in fact, but a child could ignore
That you " lift " or " accommodate " all that you do;
— Take heart — though your Pegasus' withers be sore —
For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

P OSTCRIPTUM . — And you, whom we all so adore,
— Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so new! —
One word in your ear. There were Critics before. . . .
— And the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!