Volume 147 — A PATRIOT UNDER FIRE.

Philip, I note with unaffected awe How, with the glass at 90 in the cool, You still obey inflexibly the law That governs manners of the British school; How, in a climate where the sweltering air Seems to be wafted from a kitchen copper, You still refuse to lay aside your wear Of sable (proper). The Civil Service which you so adorn Would lose its prestige, visibly grown slack, And all its lofty pledges be forsworn Were you to deviate from your boots of black; Were you to shed that coat of sombre dye, That ebon brain-box (imitation beaver) Whose torrid aspect strikes the passer-by With tertian fever. As something far beyond me I respect The virtue, equal to the stiffest crux, Which thus forbids your costume to deflect Into the primrose path of straw and ducks; I praise that fine regard for red-hot tape Which calmly and without an eyelid's flutter Suffers the maddening noon to melt your nape As it were butter. "His clothes are not the man," I freely own, Yet often they express the stuff they hide, As yours, I like to fancy, take their tone From stern, ascetic qualities inside; Just as the soldier's heavy marching-gear Conceals a heart of high determination, Too big, in any temperature, to fear Nervous prostration. I cite the warrior's case who goes through fire; For you, no less a patriot, face your risk When in your country's service you perspire In blacks that snort at Phœbus' flaming disc; So, till a medal (justly made of jet) Records your grit and pluck for all to know 'em, I on your chest with safety-pins will set This inky poem.