Not thus we mourn thee-we-
Not thus we grieve for thee,
MASTER and Friend;

Since, like a clearing flame,
Clearer thy pure song came
E'en to the end.

Nay-nor for thee we grieve
E'en as for those that leave

Life without name;

Lost as the stars that set,

Empty of men's regret,
Empty of fame.

Rather we count thee one

Who, when his race is run,
Layeth him down,

Calm-through all coming days,

Filled with a nation's praise,
Filled with renown.

FABLES OF LITERATURE

AND ART

THE POET AND THE CRITICS

F those who wield the Rod forget,
'Tis truly-Quis custodiet?

A certain Bard (as Bards will do)
Dressed up his Poems for Review.
His Type was plain, his Title clear;
His Frontispiece by FOURDRINIER.
Moreover, he had on the Back
A sort of sheepskin Zodiac ;-
A Mask, a Harp, an Owl,-in fine,
A neat and "classical" Design.
But the in-Side ?-Well, good or bad,
The Inside was the best he had :
Much Memory,-more Imitation ;-
Some Accidents of Inspiration ;-
Some Essays in that finer Fashion

Where Fancy takes the place of Passion;-
And some (of course) more roughly wrought
To catch the Advocates of Thought.

In the less-crowded Age of ANNE,
Our Bard had been a favoured Man;
Fortune, more chary with the Sickle,
Had ranked him next to GARTH or TICKELL;—
He might have even dared to hope

A Line's Malignity from POPE!

But now, when Folks are hard to please,
And Poets are as thick as-Peas,
The Fates are not so prone to flatter,
Unless, indeed, a Friend . . . . No Matter.

The Book, then, had a minor Credit:
The Critics took, and doubtless read it.
Said A.-These little Songs display
No lyric Gift; but still a Ray,-
A Promise. They will do no Harm.
'Twas kindly, if not very warm.
Said B.-The Author may, in Time,
Acquire the Rudiments of Rhyme:
His Efforts now are scarcely Verse.
This, certainly, could not be worse.

Sorely discomfited, our Bard

Worked for another ten Years-hard.
Meanwhile the World, unmoved, went on;
New Stars shot up, shone out, were gone;
Before his second Volume came

His Critics had forgot his Name:
And who, forsooth, is bound to know
Each Laureate in embryo!

They tried and tested him, no less,-
The sworn Assayers of the Press.
Said A.-The Author may, in Time
Or much what B. had said of Rhyme.
Then B.-These little Songs display
And so forth, in the sense of A.
Over the Bard I throw a Veil.

There is no MORAL to this Tale.