Who is this who gently slips
⁠Through my door, and stands and sighs,
Hovering in a soft eclipse,
With a finger on her lips
⁠And a meaning in her eyes?

Once she came to visit me
⁠In white robes with festal airs,
Glad surprises, songs of glee;
Now in silence cometh she.
⁠And a sombre guard she wears.

Once I waited and was tired.
⁠Chid her visits as too few;
Crownless now and undesired,
She to seek me is inspired
⁠Oftener than she used to do.

Grave her coming is and still,
⁠Sober her appealing mien,
Tender thoughts her glances fill;
But I shudder, as one will
⁠When an open grave is seen.

Wherefore, friend, for friend thou art.
⁠Should I wrong thee thus and grieve?
Wherefore push thee from my heart?
Of my morning thou wert part;
⁠Be a part too of my eve.

See, I hold my hand to meet
⁠That cool, shadowy hand of thine;
Hold it firmly, it is sweet
Thus to clasp, and thus to greet.
⁠Though no more in full sunshine.

Come and freely seek my door,
⁠I will open willingly;
I will chide the past no more.
Looking to the things before,
⁠Led by pathways known to thee.

Your pardon, dear Gladstone. We seldom dispute.
Are you rightly reported? Punch cannot be mute.
As a recognized leader and lover of letters,
He will not admit the professors his betters,
Or let Archimedes fly higher than Homer,
Through whose infinite realm you're a fortunate roamer.
Our Newton reached science's summit, we know,
But on poetry's peak was great Shakespeare below?
Imagine the wrathful discussion 'twould kindle
If we had to decide 'twixt the laureate and Tyndall!

Punch, proctor of letters, designs no defiance
To the absolute definite value of science;
But he holds that by logic 'tis clearly deducible
That the pen beats retort and alembic and crucible.
Beats compass, theodolite, sewing-machine.
Creates or suggests them, and tells what they mean.
It gives us the easiest record of thought,
And without its strong aid all our science were nought

September's long lights cross the lawn and the garden,
You, statesman retired, enjoy autumn at Ha'arden;
Punch hopes, when you've felled the due number of trees.
On the turf by the castle there, sitting at ease.
You'll just reconsider that saying of yours —
Since you're one whose terse apophthegm always endures.
The different grooves which are occupied scan:
See, science takes nature, but letters take man —
Take woman as well, a most exquisite field!
Think over that matter, dear Gladstone, and yield.

The binomial theorem's something to strike; it
Was clever, no doubt — I prefer "As You Like It."
Archimedes was dencedly wise on the cone,
Aristophanes' "Birds" suit me better, I own:
And though science must have her keen surgeons with lancets.
Her astronomers sage to watch Venus's transits
(From boudoir to drawing-room, doubtless, and back again),
Yet as long as life lasts men will tread the old track again,
Will follow the pen, that can wing them afar
To regions beyond the least visible star,
Will smile just awhile at the science experiment.
Then welcome pure poetry's music, depth, merriment.

Since school-boards have come a great change there must be,
And even ex-premiers have learnt rule of three;
So, as letters to science is dinner to lunch —
Thus verily sayeth