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BE seated, pray. "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;
Have no mean skill as colourists ;-
There hangs a sketch from Vernet's hand; Some Moscow fancy, incomplete,
Yet not indifferently planned;
"the wide distress!"
Note specially the gray old Guard,
But, as regards the present war,—
You hesitate. For my part, I-
That "Charity begins at Home."
My so-named "Hunt"? The girl's a gem ;
And look how those lean rascals snatch
"But your appeal 's for home,"-you say,For home, and English poor! Indeed! I thought Philanthropy to-day
Was blind to mere domestic needHowever 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
Or from his private means to cope
Impossible! One might as well
Moreover, add that every one
So well exalts his pet distress, 'Tis-Give to all, or give to none,
If you'd avoid invidiousness. Your case, I feel, is sad as A.'s,
The same applies to B.'s and C.'s ;
And life is short,-I see you look
So, if I only hold you out
Why, you'll forgive me, I've no doubt.
Nay, do not rise. You seem amused;
Believe me, on these very grounds.
Good-bye, then. Ah, a rarity! That cost me quite three hundred pounds,-That Dürer figure,-"Charity."
"Prophete rechts, Prophete links,
GOETHE'S Diné zu Coblenz.
To left, here's B., half-Communist,
Who talks a chastened treason, And C., a something-else in "ist," Harangues, to right, on Reason.
B., from his "tribune," fulminates
While C.'s peculiar coterie
And yet-Why not? If zealots burn, Their zeal has not affected
My taste for salmon and Sauterne,