ENVOY.

BIRD, though they come, we know,
The empty cage, the hush;
Still, ere the brief day go,
Sing on, sing on, O Thrush!

THE BALLAD OF THE BARMECIDE

To

one in Eastern clime,-'tis said,

There came a man at eve with "Lo! Friend, ere the day be dimmed and dead, Hast thou a mind to feast, and know Fair cates, and sweet wine's overflow ?" To whom that other fain replied

"Lead on. Not backward I nor slow ;Where is thy feast, O Barmecide?"

Thereon the bidder passed and led

To where, apart from dust and glow, They found a board with napery spread, And gold, and glistering cups a-row. "Eat," quoth the host, yet naught did show To whom his guest_" Thy board is wide; But barren is the cheer, I trow; Where is thy feast, O Barmecide?"

"Eat," quoth the man not less, and fed From meats unseen, and made as though

He drank of wine both white and red.

"Eat, ere the day to darkness grow. Short space and scant the Fates bestow!" What time his guest him wondering eyed, Muttering in wrath his beard below"Where is thy feast, O Barmecide ?"

ENVOY.

LIFE, 'tis of thee they fable so.
Thou bidd'st us eat, and still denied,
Still fasting, from thy board we go :—
"Where is thy feast, O Barmecide?"

IF

THE BALLAD OF IMITATION

“ C'est imiter quelqu'un que de planter des choux.” -ALFRED DE MUSSET

F 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

more

That 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 Éperon

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 "lift" or "accommodate " all that

That you

you do ;

Take heart-though your Pegasus' withers be

sore

For 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!