Observe us, then, an eager four
  Advancing on the Western Door
  Or possibly the Northern, or—­
    Well, anyhow, advancing;
  Aunt Alice bending from the hips,
  And Bill in little runs and trips,
  And John with frequent hops and skips,
    While I was fairly dancing.

  Aunt Alice pays; the turnstile clicks,
  And with the happy crowds we mix
  To gaze upon—­well, I was six,
    Say, getting on for seven;
  And, looking back on it to-day,
  The memories have passed away—­
  I find that I can only say
    (Roughly) to gaze on heaven.

  Heaven it was which came to pass
  Within those magic walls of glass
  (Though William, like a silly ass,
    Had lost my bag of bull’s-eyes). 
  The wonders of that wonder-hall! 
  The—­all the things I can’t recall,
  And, dominating over all,
    The statues, more than full-size.

  Adam and Niobe were there,
  DISRAELI much the worse for wear,
  Samson before he’d cut his hair,
    Lord BYRON and Apollo;
  A female group surrounded by
  A camel (though I don’t know why)—­
  And all of them were ten feet high
    And all, I think, were hollow.

  These gods looked down on us and smiled
  To see how utterly a child
  By simple things may be beguiled
    To happiness and laughter;
  It warmed their kindly hearts to see
  The joy of Bill and John and me
  From ten to lunch, from lunch to tea,
    From tea to six or after.

  That evening, when the day was dead,
  They tucked a babe of six in bed,
  Arranged the pillows for his head,
    And saw the lights were shaded;
  Too sleepy for the Good-night kiss
  His only conscious thought was this: 
  “No man shall ever taste the bliss
    That I this blessed day did.”

  When one is six one cannot tell;
  And John, who at the Palace fell
  A victim to the Blondin Belle,
    Is wedded to another;
  And I, my intimates allow,
  Have lost the taste for bull’s-eyes now,
  And baldness decorates the brow
    Of Bill, our elder brother.

  Well, more than thirty years have passed.... 
  But all the same on Thursday last
  My heart was beating just as fast
    Within that Hall of Wonder;
  My bliss was every bit as great
  As what it was in ’88—­
  Impossible to look sedate
    Or keep my feelings under.

  The gods of old still gazed upon
  The scene where, thirty years agone,
  The lines of Bill and me and John
    Were cast in pleasant places;
  And “Friends,” I murmured, “what’s the odds
  If you are rather battered gods? 
  This is no time for Ichabods
    And eheu—­er—­fugaces.”

  Ah, no; I did not mourn the years’
  Fell work upon those poor old-dears,
  Nor PITT nor Venus drew my tears
    And set me slowly sobbing;
  I hailed them with a happy laugh
  And slapped old Samson on the calf,
  And asked a member of the staff
    For “Officers Demobbing.”