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, Esthetically-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!
Impossible! One might as well

Attempt comparison of creeds;
Or fill that huge Malayan shell
With these half-dozen Indian beads.

Friend B., the argument you choose
Has been by France refuted;
And C., mon cher, your novel views
Are just Tom Paine, diluted;

There's but one creed,--that's Laissez faire, Behold its mild apostle!

My dear, declamatory pair,

Although you shout and jostle,

Not your ephemeral hands, nor mine,
Time's Gordian knots shall sunder,-
WILL laid three casks of this old wine:
Who'll drink the last, I wonder?

TO Q. H. F.

SUGGESTED BY A CHAPTER IN SIR THEODORE MARTIN'S "HORACE" "}

("ANCIENT CLASSICS FOR ENGLISH READERS")

"HORATIUS FLACCUS, B.C. 8,"

There's not a doubt about the date,—
You're dead and buried:

As you observed, the seasons roll;
And 'cross the Styx full many a soul
Has Charon ferried,

Since, mourned of men and Muses nine,
They laid you on the Esquiline.

And that was centuries ago!

You'd think we'd learned enough, I know
To help refine us,

Since last you trod the Sacred Street,
And tacked from mortal fear to meet
The bore Crispinus;

Or, by your cold Digentia, set

The web of winter birding-net.

Ours is so far-advanced an age!
Sensation tales, a classic stage,
Commodious villas!

We boast high art, an Albert Hall,
Australian meats, and men who call
Their sires gorillas!

We have a thousand things, you see,
Not dreamt in your philosophy.

And yet, how strange! Our "world," to-day, Tried in the scale, would scarce outweigh

Your Roman cronies;

Walk in the Park-you'll seldom fail
To find a Sybaris on the rail

By Lydia's ponies,

Or hap on Barrus, wigged and stayed,
Ogling some unsuspecting maid.

The great Gargilius, then, behold!
His "long-bow" hunting tales of old
Are now but duller;

Fair Neobule too! Is not

One Hebrus here-from Aldershot?

Be wise.

Aha, you colour!

There old Canidia sits;

No doubt she's tearing you to bits.

And look, dyspeptic, brave, and kind,

Comes dear Mæcenas, half behind

Terentia's skirting;

Here's Pyrrha, "golden-haired" at will;
Prig Damasippus, preaching still;

Asterie flirting,

Radiant, of course. We'll make her black,Ask her when Gyges' ship comes back.

So with the rest.

Who will may trace

Behind the new each elder face

Defined as clearly;

Science proceeds, and man stands still;
Our "world" to-day's as good or ill,-
As cultured (nearly),-

As yours was, Horace! You alone,
Unmatched, unmet, we have not known.