THE BALLAD OF THE BARMECIDE T O 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?" 66 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?" THE BALLAD OF THE BARMECIDE ENVOY. LIFE, 'tis of thee they fable so. 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! 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), THE BALLAD OF IMITATION '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 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 cut," " formal 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 " prime," golden And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,Then hey-for the ripple of laughing rhyme! |