Note specially the gray old Guard,
Who tears his tattered coat to wrap
A closer bandage round the scarred
And frozen comrade in his lap ;-
But, as regards the present war,—

Now don't you think our pride of pence
Goes-may I say it?-somewhat far
For objects of benevolence?

You hesitate. For my part, I—
Though ranking Paris next to Rome,
Esthetically-still reply

That "Charity begins at Home."
The words remind me. Did you catch
My so-named "Hunt"?

The girl's a gem;

And look how those lean rascals snatch

The pile of scraps she brings to them!

"But your appeal's for home,"-you say,"For home, and English poor!" Indeed! I thought Philanthropy to-day

Was blind to mere domestic need

However sore-Yet though one grants

That home should have the foremost claims,

At least these Continental wants

Assume intelligible names ;

While here with us-Ah! who could hope
To verify the varied pleas,

Or from his private means to cope
With all our shrill necessities!
Impossible! One might as well
Attempt comparison of creeds;
Or fill that huge Malayan shell

With these half-dozen Indian beads.

Moreover, add that every one

So well exalts his pet distress, 'Tis-Give to all, or give to none, If you'd avoid invidiousness.

Your case, I feel, is sad as A.'s,

The same applies to B.'s and C.'s;
By my selection I should raise
An alphabet of rivalries;

And life is short,—I see you look
At yonder dish, a priceless bit;
You'll find it etched in Jacquemart's book,
They say that Raphael painted it ;-

And life is short, you understand;
So, if I only hold you out

An open though an empty hand,

Why, you'll forgive me, I've no doubt.

Nay, do not rise. You seem amused;

One can but be consistent, Sir!
'Twas on these grounds I just refused
Some gushing lady-almoner,-
Believe me, on these very grounds.

Good-bye, then. Ah, a rarity!

That cost me quite three hundred pounds,— That Dürer figure,-" Charity."

1871.

TO Q. H. F.

SUGGESTED BY A CHAPTER IN SIR THEODORE

("ANCIENT CLASSICS FOR ENGLISH READERS")

HORATIUS FLACCUS, B.C. 8,

There's not a doubt about the date,—
You're dead and buried:

As you observed, the seasons roll;

And cross the Styx full many a soul
Has Charon ferried,

Since, mourned of men and Muses nine,
They laid you on the Esquiline.

And that was centuries ago!

You'd think we'd learned enough, I know,
To help refine us,

Since last you trod the Sacred Street,
And tacked from mortal fear to meet
The bore Crispinus ;

Or, by your cold Digentia, set
The web of winter birding-net.

Ours is so far-advanced an age!
"Sensation" tales, a classic stage,

"Commodious" villas!

We boast high art, an Albert Hall,
Australian meats, and men who call
Their sires gorillas!

We have a thousand things, you see,
Undreamed in your philosophy.

And yet, how strange! Our "world," to-day,
Tried in the scale, would scarce outweigh
Your Roman cronies;

Walk in the Park-you'll seldom fail
To find a Sybaris on the rail
By Lydia's ponies,

Or hap on Barrus, wigged and stayed,
Ogling some unsuspecting maid.

The great Gargilius, then, behold!
His "long-bow” hunting tales of old
Are now but duller;

Fair Neobule too! Is not

One Hebrus here-from Aldershot?
Aha, you colour!

Be wise. There old Canidia sits;

No doubt she's tearing you to bits.