WS Gilbert A Mid-Victorian Aristophanes - Haddon Hall

38 THE ENGLISH ARISTOPHANES
The last, and saddest, is “Fairfax’s” farewell, which has almost an Elizabethan or
Jacobean savor. It may aptly close this imperfect tribute to the great satirist-singer:
Is life a boon?
If so it must befall That Death, whene’er he call,
Must call too soon.
Though four-score years he give, Yet one would pray to live
Another moon!
What kind of plaint have I, Who perish in July?
I might have had to die
Perchance in June.
Is life a thorn?
Then count it not a whit! Man is well done with it:
Soon as he’s born,
He should all means essay To put the plague away;
And I, war-worn,
Poor, captured fugitive, My life most gladly give —
I might have had to live
Another morn!
After these let none with any sense of song dare to deny that Gilbert was a minstrel
born. I have sought to dwell on the strong fibre — the web and woof which the shuttle of
his nimble ironies compounded. The tissue is firm beneath its glitter; there is purpose in
his paradox. Gilbert has left England more than a legacy of pure and lasting laughter,
though this is much indeed. He has bequeathed an inheritance of melody as well as of
mirth, of thought, and criticism, as well as of whim and fantasy. These are not
evanescent, and “another morn” will dawn on them, though it is always hard to prophesy
the permanence of words wedded to music. But as literature the librettos will endure. The
great Englishman, like the greater Greek, will long outlive the surroundings that his irony
brought into such sharp yet such joyous relief. Posterity is a careless fellow, but his debt
of gratitude is assured.