Puslapio vaizdai
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A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH.
Of the Spanish Armada.

King Philip had vaunted his claims;

He had sworn for a year he would sack us; With an army of heathenish names

He was coming to fagot and stack us;

Like the thieves of the sea he would track us,

And shatter our ships on the main ;

But we had bold Neptune to back us,

And where are the galleons of Spain?

His carackes were christened of dames

To the kirtles whereof he would tack us;
With his saints and his gilded stern-frames,

He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us;
Now Howard may get to his Flaccus,

And Drake to his Devon again,

And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus,For where are the galleons of Spain?

Let his Majesty hang to St. James

The axe that he whetted to hack us;

He must play at some lustier games

Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us;
To his mines of Peru he would pack us

To tug at his bullet and chain;

Alas that his Greatness should lack us!But where are the galleons of Spain?

Envoy.

GLORIANA !-the Don may attack us

Whenever his stomach be fain;

He must reach us before he can rack us,

And where are the galleons of Spain?

AUSTIN DOBSON.

ON A FAN THAT BELONGED TO THE
MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR.

Chicken-skin, delicate, white,
Painted by Carlo Vanloo,

Loves in a riot of light,

Roses and vaporous blue;

Hark to the dainty frou-frou!

Picture above if you can,

Eyes that could melt as the dew,

This was the Pompadour's fan !

See how they rise at the sight,

Thronging the Eil de Bauf through,

Courtiers as butterflies bright,

Beauties that Fragonard drew,

Talon-rouge, falbala, queue,

Cardinal, Duke,—to a man,
Eager to sigh or to sue,-
This was the Pompadour's fan!

Ah! but things more than polite
Hung on this toy, voyez vous!
Matters of state and of might,

Things that great ministers do;
Things that, maybe, overthrew
Those in whose brains they began;
Here was the sign and the cue,-
This was the Pompadour's fan!

Envoy.

Where are the secrets it knew?
Weavings of plot and of plan?
-But where is the Pompadour, too?
This was the Pompadour's Fan!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

THE BALLAD OF IMITATION.

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

If 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!

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If they tell you, Sir Artist, your light and youf 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 core-
For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

And you too, my Poet, be never dismayed

If they whisper your Epic-"Sir Eperon 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 That you "lift" or

"accommodate" all that 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! AUSTIN DOBSON.

THE BALLADE of prosE AND RHYME.

(Ballade à double refrain.)

When the roads are heavy with mire and rut,

In November fogs, in December snows,

When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut, There is place and enough for the pains of prose ;— But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows. And the jasmine-stars to the casement climb,

And a Rosalind face at the lattice shows, Then hey!-for the ripple of laughing rhyme !

When the brain gets dry as an empty nut,

When the reason stands on its squarest toes, When the mind (like a beard) has a formal cut,"

There is place and enough for the pains of prose ;But whenever the May blood stirs and glows, And the young year draws to the " golden prime," And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,

Then hey!-for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant strut
In a changing quarrel of " Ayes" and "Noes,"
In a starched procession of "If" and "But,"

There is place and enough for the pains of prose ;-
But whenever a soft glance softer grows,

And the light hours dance to the trysting-time,

And the secret is told "that no one knows," Then hey!-for the ripple of laughing rhyme !

Envoy.

In the work-a-day world,-for its needs and woes,
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever the May-bells clash and chime,
Then hey!-for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
AUSTIN DOBSON.

THE BALLAD OF DEAD CITIES.
To A. L.

Where are the cities of the plain?

And where the shrines of rapt Bethel? And Calah built of Tubal-Cain?

And Shinar whence King Amraphel Came out in arms, and fought, and fell, Decoyed into the pits of slime

By Siddim, and sent sheer to hell
Where are the cities of old time?

Where now is Karnak, that great fane
With granite built, a miracle?
And Luxor smooth without a stain,

Whose graven scriptures still we spell?
The jackal and the owl may tell,
Dark snakes around their ruins climb,
They fade like echo in a shell;

Where are the cities of old time?

And where is white Shusan, again,

Where Vashi's beauty bore the bell,

And all the Jewish oil and grain

Were brought to Mithridath to sell,
Where Nehemiah would not dwell,

Because another town sublime

Decoyed him with her oracle?

Where are the cities of old time?

Envoi.

Prince, with a dolorous, ceaseless knell,
Above their wasted toil and crime

The waters of oblivion swell :

Where are the cities of old time?

EDMUND GOSSE.

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