Puslapio vaizdai
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In these light moods, I call to mind,

He darkly would allude
To some dread sorrow undefined,

Some passion unsubdued ;
Then break into a ghastly laugh,
And talk of Keats his epitaph.

He railed at women's faith as Cant;

We thought him grandest when He named them Siren-shapes that “ chant

On blanching bones of Men ;”– Alas, not e’en the great go free From that insidious minstrelsy!

His lot, he oft would gravely urge,

Lay on a lone Rock where
Around Time-beaten bases surge

The Billows of Despair.
We dreamed it true. We never knew
What gentler ears he told it to.

We, bound with him in common care,

One-minded, celibate,
Resolved to Thought and Diet spare

Our lives to dedicate ;-
We, truly, in no common sense
Deserved his closest confidence !

But soon,

and yet, though soon, too late, We, sorrowing, sighed to find A gradual softness enervate

That all superior mind,
Until,-in full assembly met,
He dared to speak of Etiquette.

The verse that we severe had known,

Assumed a wanton air,
A fond effeminate monotone

Of eyebrows, lips, and hair ;
Not ήθος stirred him now or νούς, ,
He read “The Angel in the House !"

Nay worse. He, once sublime to chaff,

Grew whimsically sore
If we but named a photograph

We found him simpering o’er ;
Or told how in his chambers lurked
A watch-guard intricately worked.

Then worse again. He tried to dress ;

He trimmed his tragic mane ; Announced at length (to our distress)

He had not "lived in vain " Thenceforth his one prevailing mood Became a base beatitude.

And O Jean Paul, and Fate, and Soul !

We met him last, grown stout,
His throat with wedlock's triple roll,

“All wool,”—enwound about ;
His very hat had changed its brim ;-
Our course was clear,—WE BANISHED HIM!

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A VIRTUOSO.

BE seated, pray.

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A grave appeal”? The sufferers by the war, of course ; Ah, what a sight for us who feel,

This monstrous mélodrame of Force ! We, Sir, we connoisseurs, should know,

On whom its heaviest burden falls; Collections shattered at a blow,

Museums turned to hospitals !

“ And worse," you say ;

" the wide distress !" Alas, 'tis true distress exists, Though, let me add, our worthy Press

Have no mean skill as colourists; Speaking of colour, next your seat

There hangs a sketch from Vernet's hand; Some Moscow fancy, incomplete,

Yet not indifferently planned ;

Note specially the gray old Guard,

Who tears his tattered coat to wrap A closer bandage round the scarred

And frozen comrade in his lap ;

But, as regards the present war,

Now don't you think our pride of pence Goes—may I say it ?—somewhat far

For objects of benevolence ?

You hesitate. For my part, I

Though ranking Paris next to Rome, Æsthetically-still reply

That “Charity begins at Home.” The words remind me. Did

you

catch My so-named “Hunt"? The girl's a gem; And look how those lean rascals snatch

The pile of scraps she brings to them !

“But your appeal's for home,”—you say,–

For home, and English poor! Indeed ! I thought Philanthropy to-day

Was blind to mere domestic need However sore-Yet though one grants

That home should have the foremost claims, At least these Continental wants

Assume intelligible names ;

While here with us—Ah ! who could hope

To verify the varied pleas,
Or from his private means to cope

With all our shrill necessities!

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