Puslapio vaizdai
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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 !

ENVOY.

Where are the secrets it knew?

Weavings of plot and of plan? -But where is the Pompadour, too?

This was the Pompadour's Fan!

1878.

A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH

of the Spanish Armada.

(BALLADE.)

K

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 ?

ENVOY.
GLORIANA I—the Don may attack us
Whenever his stomach be fain;

He must reach us before he can rack us, ... And where are the galleons of Spain ?

1877.

THE BALLAD OF IMITATION.

(BALLADE.)

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

four ;

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!

1878.

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