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Matters of state and of might,
Things that great ministers do ;
Things that, may be, overthrew Those in whose brains they began ;
Here was the sign and the cue,This was the Pompadour's fan !
WHERE are the secrets it knew?
Weavings of plot and of plan? -But where is the Pompadour, too?
This was the Pompadour's Fan!
A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH
of the Spanish Armada.
ING PHILIP had vaunted his claims ;
He had sworn for a year he would sack us; With any 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?
THE BALLAD OF IMITATION.
"Cest imiter quelqu'un que de planter des choux."
ALFRED DE MUSSET.
IF they hint; Musician, the piece that you played
Is nought but copy of
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 moreThat 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
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 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 soreFor 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!