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 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!

THE BALLAD OF PROSE AND RHYME

WHEN

HEN the ways 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 at 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 pedantstrut,

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!

"O NAVIS"

HIP, to the roadstead rolled,

SHIP,

What dost thou ?—O, once more

Regain the port. Behold!

Thy sides are bare of oar,

Thy tall mast wounded sore Of Africus, and see,

What shall thy spars restore!— Tempt not the tyrant sea!

What cable now will hold

When all drag out from shore!
What god canst thou, too bold,
In time of need implore!
Look! for thy sails flap o'er,
Thy stiff shrouds part and flee,

Fast-fast thy seams outpour,—

Tempt not the tyrant sea!

What though thy ribs of old
The pines of Pontus bore!
Not now to stern of gold

Men trust, or painted prore!
Thou, or thou count'st it store
A toy of winds to be,

Shun thou the Cyclads' roar,Tempt not the tyrant sea!