Bath

(With grateful acknowledgments to the anonymous but urbane author of “Bath in History and Social Traditions.”)

Fair city, though KING BLADUD and his story Is largely wrapt in mythologic mist And legends of your fame in ages hoary Are scouted by the sceptic annalist, One century at least of crowded glory Inspires a recent genial eulogist And prompts a humble rhymer to rehearse Your merits in a piece of jingling verse.

I pass the Romans, business-like invaders; Of their enduring traces he that runs May read elsewhere; I pass the Saxon raiders And tales of mediæval monks and nuns, Of leper hospitals and mud-bath waders, And hurry on to Beaux and Belles and Buns; Your palmy days, me judice, began In the Augustan period of QUEEN ANNE.

The men who planned and built your noble Abbey Well earned the homage of a sacred bard, Yet in your golden roll it would be shabby Your minor worthies wholly to discard; And though your Bun, now sugarless and flabby And highly-priced, is sadly shrunk and marred, The first compounder of its rich delight Ought not to pass into eternal night.

Of your great trio, ALLEN, WOOD and NASH, ALLEN, Mæcenas-postman, leaves me cold; He had not one redeeming vice to clash With his array of virtues manifold; But he was patriotic, for his cash Freed WOOD’S majestic genius, sane yet bold, Until a new and gracious city rose; And Nash was far the finest of the Beaux.

At least this meed of praise must we accord him, That he restrained the mutinies of Mode; That WESLEY was the only man who floored him; That order was the essence of his code; That bullies feared him, that the poor adored him, And, though in age a thorny path be trode, For many a year none could his seat disturb, Mounted on Folly ridden on the curb.

What famous names, what episodes romantic Are linked with yours in Clio’s sacred shrine Ere piety pronounced you Corybantic And seaside bathing compassed your decline! “SHERRY” and SIDDONS, HANNAH the pedantic, FIELDING and WALPOLE, how your annals shine!— Immortal JANE, and HERSCHEL counting bars And drilling fiddlers—and discovering stars.

Yet even when your vogue was slowly waning Rich sunset splendours lingered on the scene, When Sultan BECKFORD in your midst was reigning And lending you an Oriental mien; When D’ARBLAY, loyal to her haunts remaining, Extolled your beauties varied and serene; When in the Octagon men heard MAGEE And LANSDOWN teams rejoiced in “W. G.”

Fashion may veer; the elegant and witty— Light come, light go—may scatter far and wide, But still the terraced colonnaded city Stands proudly by the silver Avon’s tide, And scenes that move to wonder, praise and pity, Touched gently by the hand of Time, abide; Still, O immortal Bath, you wear your crown Fresh in your beauty, old in your renown.