Puslapio vaizdai
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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.

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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?

Aha, you colour !
Be wise. 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.

TO “LYDIA LANGUISH."

Il me faut des émotions."

BLANCHE AMORY.

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OU ask me, Lydia, “whether I,

If you refuse my suit, shall die.”
(Now pray don't let this hurt you)
Although the time be out of joint,
I should not think a bodkin's point

The sole resource of virtue;
Nor shall I, though your mood endure,
Attempt a final Water-cure

Except against my wishes ;
For I respectfully decline
To dignify the Serpentine,

And make hors-d'æuvres for fishes;
But, if you ask me whether I

Composedly can go,
Without a look, without a sigh,

Why, then I answer-No.

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You are assured,” you sadly say (If in this most considerate way

To treat my suit your will is), That I shall “ quickly find as fair

Some new Neæra's tangled hair

Some easier Amaryllis.”
I cannot promise to be cold
If smiles are kind as yours of old

On lips of later beauties;
Nor can I hope to quite forget
The homage that is Nature's debt,

While man has social duties;
But, if you ask shall I prefer

To you I honour so
A somewhat visionary Her,

I answer truly–No.

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You fear, you frankly add, "to find
In me too late the altered mind

That altering Time estranges.” To this I make response that we (As physiologists agree),

Must have septennial changes ; This is a thing beyond control, And it were best upon the whole

To try and find out whether
We could not, by some means, arrange
This not-to-be-avoided change

So as to change together :
But, had you asked me to allow

That you could ever grow

Less amiable than you are now,

Emphatically-No.

But-to be serious—if you care
To know how I shall really bear

This much-discussed rejection,
I answer you. As feeling men
Behave, in best romances, when

You outrage their affection ;-
With that gesticulatory woe,
By which, as melodramas show,

Despair is indicated ;
Enforced by all the liquid grief
Which hugest pocket-handkerchief

Has ever simulated ;
And when, arrived so far, you say

In tragic accents “Go,"
Then, Lydia, then . . . I still shall stay,

And firmly answer No.

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