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(To Mr. Arthur Rackham's edition of Alice in Wonderland.)
IS two-score years since Carroll's art,
Sent Alice wandering through a part
Enchanting Alice! Black-and-white
But still you are a Type, and based
Here comes a fresh Costumier then ;
(FOR A PARISH MAGAZINE)
"On n'y lit aucun nom."-VICTOR HUGO.
HERE sleeps, at last, in narrow bed,
A man of whom; whate'er is spoken, This may with certainty be said
His promises were never broken.
He boasted no high-sounding name,
He never joined the cry of those
But reconciled some private foes,
And patched up sundry standing quarrels.
It never came within his plan
To "demonstrate" on Want or Labour; He strove to serve his fellow-man, And did his best to love his neighbour.
When Doubt disturbed his honest soul,
He found in this his consolation :We see a part, and not the whole, With only scant illumination.
And this, at least, he felt was sure:-
So, all unpraised, he ran his race;
But we, who watched his life, and knew it, Thus mark his nameless resting-place,
Because he died too poor to do it.
A MILTONIC EXERCISE
"Stops of various Quills."-LYCIDAS.
WHAT need of votive Verse
To strew thy Laureat Herse
With that mix'd Flora of th' Aonian Hill?
Or Mincian vocall Reed,
That Cam and Isis breed,
When thine own Words are burning in us still?
Bard, Prophet, Archimage!
In this Cash-cradled Age,
We grate our scrannel Musick, and we dote: Where is the Strain unknown,
Through Bronze or Silver blown,
That thrill'd the Welkin with thy woven Note?
Yes-"we are selfish Men "
Might see Sabrina braid her amber Tire;
Or watch the Comus Crew
Sweep down the Glade; or view Strange-streamer'd Craft from Javan or Gadire!
Or could we catch once more, High up, the Clang and Roar Of Angel Conflict,-Angel Overthrow; Or, with a World begun,
Behold the young-ray'd Sun
Flame in the Groves where the Four Rivers go!
Ay me, I fondly dream!
Only the Storm-bird's Scream
Foretells of Tempest in the Days to Come;
The lofty lyric Rhyme,
And the "God-gifted Organ-voice" is dumb.