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Matters of state and of might,
Things that great ministers do ;
Things that, may be, overthrew Those in whose brains they began ;
Here was the sign and the cue,This was the Pompadour's fan !
Where are the secrets it knew?
Weavings of plot and of plan? -But where is the Pompadour, too?
This was the Pompadour's Fan!
A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH
of the Spanish Armada.
ING PHILIP had vaunted his claims;
He had sworn for a year he would sack us ; With any army of heathenish names
He was coming to fagot and stack us ;
Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, And shatter our ships on the main ;
But we had bold Neptune to back us, And where are the galleons of Spain ?
His carackes were christened of dames
To the kirtles whereof he would tack us ; With his saints and his gilded stern-frames,
He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us;
Now Howard may get to his Flaccus, And Drake to his Devon again,
And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus,-For where are the galleons of Spain ?
Let his Majesty hang to St. James
The axe that he whetted to hack us ;
He must play at some lustier games
Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us ;
To his mines of Peru he would pack us To tug at his bullet and chain ;
Alas! that his Greatness should lack us ! But where are the galleons of Spain ?
He must reach us before he can rack us, ... And where are the galleons of Spain ?
THE BALLAD OF IMITATION.
“Cest imiter quelqu'un que de planter des choux."
ALFRED DE MUSSET,
IF they hint
, o Musician, the piece that you played Is nought but a copy of Chopin or Spohr; That the ballad you sing is but merely “conveyed ”
From the stock of the Arnes and the Purcells of yore;
That there's nothing, in short, in the words or the score That is not as out-worn as the “Wandering Jew";
Make answer --Beethoven could scarcely do moreThat the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!
If they tell you, Sir Artist, your light and your shade
Are simply "adapted” from other men's lore; That-plainly to speak of a “spade” as a “spade"
You've “stolen” your grouping from three or from
That (however the writer the truth may deplore), 'Twas Gainsborough painted your “Little Boy Blue”;
Smile only serenely—though cut to the coreFor the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!
And you too, my Poet, be never dismayed
If they whisper your Epic—“Sir Eperon d'Or”_ Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayed
In a tissue that's taken from Morris's store;
That no one, in fact, but a child could ignore That you "lift " or « accommodate " all that you do;
Take heart—though your Pegasus' withers be soreFor the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!
POSTSCRIPTUM.–And you, whom we all so adore,
Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so new ! One word in your ear.
There were Critics before ... And the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!