To A New Knight

Momentous sage of Mona’s Isle, Pride of your fellow-Manx, Renowned alike upon the Nile And by the Tiber’s banks—

What though sour critics, whom it irks To watch your widening reign, And elders of illiberal kirks Affect a harsh disdain;

What though fastidious souls declare Your style distinction lacks Or sacrilegiously dare To mimic it, like “Max”;

So long as countless myriads hold Your lucubrations dear, And, side by side, the copies sold Would circumvent the sphere?

Let pert reviewers carp and jibe, Let jealous pens deride, The interviewers, noble tribe, Are solid on your side.

Have you not shown in all its bloom Rome’s grandeur to mankind, And, culling “copy” at Khartoum, Laid bare the Arab mind?

Did not your heroine, Glory Quayle Our views of life transform; Did not all modern heroes pale Beside the great John Storm?

As long as char-à-banc or ’bus Brings trippers to your shrine, Shall the new star Cainiculus High in the welkin shine.

Loud booms the wave in Bradda’s cave, Yet with a muffled tone Matched with the sound, immense, profound, From your great trumpet blown.