Puslapio vaizdai

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 ἦθος stirred him now or νοῦς,
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!


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;

"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,
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!

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