Part 1 — SPECIMENS OF MODERN POETS.

I. The Higher Pantheism in a Nutshell. II. John Jones. III. The Poet and the Woodlouse. IV. The Person of the House (Idyl CCCLXVI.) V. Last Words of a Seventh-rate Poet. VI. Sonnet for a Picture. VII. Nephelidia.

"Awfully deep, my boy, awfully deep, From that great deep before our world begins; Awfully deep, my boy, awfully deep, From that true world within the world we see, Whereof our world is but the bounding shore. Awfully deep, my boy, awfully deep, With this ninth moon that sends the hidden sun Down yon dark sea, thou comest, darling boy."

"Women of Adamant, fair Neophytes— Who thirst for such instruction as we give, Attend, while I unfold a parable. The elephant is mightier than Man, Yet Man subdues him. Why? The elephant Is elephantine everywhere but here (tapping her forehead). And Man, whose brain is to the elephant's, As Woman's brain to man's—(that's rule of three) Conquers the foolish giant of the woods, As woman, in her turn, shall conquer Man! In mathematics, woman leads the way— The narrow-minded pedant still believes That two and two make four! Why we can prove, We women-household drudges as we are— That two and two make five—or three—or seven; Or five-and-twenty, if the case demands! Diplomacy! The wiliest diplomate Is absolutely helpless in our hands, He wheedles monarchs—woman wheedles him! Logic? Why, tyrant Man himself admits It's waste of time to argue with a woman! Then we excel in social qualities: Though Man professes that he holds our sex In utter scorn, I venture to believe He'd rather spend the day with one of you Than with five hundred of his fellow-men! In all things we excel! Believing this, A hundred maidens here have sworn to place Their feet upon his neck. If we succeed, We'll treat him better than he treated us: But if we fail, why then let hope fail too! Let no one care a penny how she looks— Let red be worn with yellow—blue with green— Crimson with scarlet—violet with blue! Let all your things misfit, and you yourselves, At inconvenient moments come undone! Let hair-pins lose their virtue; let the hook Disdain the fascination of the eye— The bashful button modestly evade The soft embraces of the button-hole! Let old associations all dissolve, Let Swan secede from Edgar—Gask from Gask— Sewell from Cross—Lewis from Allenby! In other words, let Chaos come again!

"When can their glory fade, If from the Light Brigade When ONE is sundered, Two will his place supply, Ready to multiply Still the Six Hundred?"

To the "Star," through the "Star," Up the "Star" staircase— Into the Assembly Room, Crowded the Gownsmen. Some one cried, "Chaff the cad!" Forward they went like mad— None knew exactly why— All wished a lark to try— E'en 'neath the Proctor's eye— Into the Assembly Room. On went the Gownsmen. 'Baccy to right of them, 'Baccy to left of them, 'Baccy in front of them, Densely surrounds men! Howled at by cad and scout, Ordered by Proctors out, Still they pressed onwards well, Raising a stifling smell, Into the "Star" Hotel, To the Assembly Room, Hastened the Gownsmen. Flashed every weed alight, Showed every gownsman fight, Hitting to left and right, Checking the Proctor, and Milling the Townsmen. Flew Academic blows, Smashing the civic nose, Strong was the smoke, and thick, Making the Lect'rer sick— Then from the Assembly Room, Down the stairs, down the stairs, Bolted the Gownsmen! Peelers to right of them, Proctors to left of them, Pro.'s on the rear of them, Mingled with Townsmen! Out of the "Star Hotel", Those who had smoked so well, Thro' the Turl—through the High Mizzled the Gownsmen! Still shall the tale be told, When Private Halls are old, How was that Lect'rer sold By the fierce Gownsmen!

Half a leg, half a leg, Half a leg onward, All before the foot-lights Danced the one hundred. Crash went the German band. Supes strew'd the stage with sand; All before the foot-lights Danced the one hundred. "Forward, the light ballet!" Was there a coryphée Who couldn't help feeling Some one had blundered? Turned on the calcium light, Glittered each spangled tight, Kicked they with main and might; All before the foot-lights Danced the one hundred. Bald heads to right of them, Bald heads to left of them, Bald heads in front of them Shouted and thundered; Cynosures of every eye, Boldly they kicked and high, Regardless of life and limb, Into the very sky Kicked the one hundred, Flashed all their fleshings bare, Flashed as they turned in air, Crazing the bald heads there, In orchestra chair, while All the house wondered. On light, fantastic toe, Pirouette and pas de Seaux, Premier and coryphée Reeled from the vertigo, Shattered and sundered, And then they danced back, But not—not the one hundred. Bald heads to right of them, Bald heads to left of them, Bald heads in front of them Shouted and thundered; Bravoed the dilettante, While each old Bonfanti, With split raiment and scanty, Danced back from the jaws of death, Back from the—(see Dante), All that was left of them, Left of one hundred. When can their glory fade? Oh, the high kicks they made! All the house wondered. Fling up your big bouquet, Bald-headed Y. M. C. A.! Honour the light ballet, Noble one hundred!

I. Half a yard, half a yard, Half a yard onward, All through that narrow way, Gasping and out of breath, yet never ponder'd! "Right, Bill," the 'bus cad said, "'Bout time we were in bed." All through that narrow way Still he strode onward. II. Though light began to fade, Was there a man dismayed? Not tho' each row well knew Some one had blunder'd; Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs to sit tight and try To look stouter, broad, and high, As he came onward. III. Sneerers to right of him, Frowners to left of him, Scowlers in front of him, Curses a hundred. Words that no man could spell, Boldly strove he and well, All through that narrow way, Tumbling about pell-mell, Still on he wander'd. IV. To threats he gave no care, Worrying the poor man there, As standing he eyed them, while The 'bus rolled and thundered. Wrap't in his dark, brown cloak, Right through that line he broke, 'Twas then that boot and shoe Thought it a feeble joke— Corns nearly sundered! For he turned back again, Seeing he'd blunder'd. V. Sneerers to right of him, Frowners to left of him, Scowlers behind him, Curses a hundred. Words that no man could spell, How he got out no one can tell; Back through that narrow way, Back from that beastly sell, Moaning the toil and time, Unwittingly squandered. VI. Can his bumps be repaid? Won't he be ever afraid Of 'busses? I wondered! Honour the try he made, Honour the stones he weighed, As he limped homeward.

"You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, Within this region I subsist, Whose spirits falter in the mist, And languish for the purple seas?"

"Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth, Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky, And I will see before I die The Palms and Temples of the South."

You ask me why, though ill at ease, I sit among those Vere de Veres, I used to curse in former years, Pooh-poohing all their pedigrees. My answer's plain as it is true, Although of just and old renown, My fame is flattening slowly down, And yieldeth not its wonted due. This state of things I can't afford. My dramas and my later lays Have brought me neither pence nor praise. And, after all, a lord's a lord And so I joined the upper set, I know the seasons, when to take Macmillan by the hand, and make My poems fly far wider yet. I speak not of my works to you Who have them—they shall further go, The many-headed beast shall know, That he must learn to read them too. Yet blame me not for pride or pelf, I've royal blood, the heralds say, Insisting on it, yea or nay. (I never heard of it myself). And, furthermore, you ought to know 'Twas not my doing, I was sent— The Premier ordered me, I went; What man can stay when he says "Go?" I'd vote for some august decree Strong as the fabled towers of Ilium, Broad-based upon the people's William! Do anything, he asked of me! Well, yes, the House is dull, but still A useful haunt, where sitting down, (Extremely handy when in town) A man may eat the thing he will. I only said, the House was dreary! Wit cometh not, with help to keep One's eyes awake; but I can sleep Like others there that grow aweary! I hold it true whate'er befall. That, though in bed more quiet kept, 'Tis better to have sat and slept Than never to have slept at all. But yet should faction gather head, Till by degrees to fullness wrought, Men speak much louder than they ought; I'll take the train, and go to bed. Yes, waft me from the brainless mouth, Wild wind! I seek a calmer sky, And I will reach before I die My old home island in the South!

I READ, before mine eyelids dropt their shade, The last romance from MUDIE'S lately writ By one who is considered—in the trade— The flower of female wit. Miss BLANK, the famous writer, whose wild way Of fiction-weaving was the first to fill The startled times of good VICTORIA With ghosts which haunt them still. And for awhile I tumbled on my bed, Her Art from slumber held me, as strong gales Hold driven birds from lighting, and my head, Chock-full of her strange tales. * * * * Sudden I heard a voice that cried, "Come here! I want to look at you." I, turning, saw, curled in an easy chair, One sitting well wrapped up, as if from cold, Her cheeks were peachy, and her fluffy hair Was of the tawny gold. She, flashing forth a Circe smile, began: "I murdered men for fun—it was my trade; But, oh, 'tis long since I have slain a man. Once, panther-like I played "With many husbands, and then shed their blood, But life in this dim place is vastly slow; I have no men to murder in my mood— That makes my only woe! "The men, my lovers, how they bowed their necks 'Neath the neat boots wherewith my feet were shod! I witched them, and the sturdiest of the sex Were vassals to my nod. "At last the sly detective tracked me down; I tried to coax him, but the brute was cold. They found the last poor fool I tried to drown, And for the rest—behold!" With that she tore her robe apart, and half The polished ivory of her shoulders grand Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh, Showing the convict's brand. * * * * From Punch, October 12, 1878.

I read, before such things had lost their spice, Les Jolies Femmes de Paris—a sweet work, Devoted to the furtherance of vice— A sort of Devil's Burke. A scroll of fame and frailty that includes All Hamadryads that have ever shone, And nymphs who sell the Satyrs, in the woods Of Boulogne and St. John. And for awhile the study of those plates, Wherein the sylvan beauties were portrayed, Lifted my soul across the Dover straits, Without a Boyton's aid. * * * Then swiftly rose another Voice, and burst: "Aye, let them troll your ditties and applaud;— 'Twas I, Madame, preceded you, I first Called poetry a fraud. "I was Thérésa, and I saw what 'took,' Dropped art, dropped passion; knew you'd had enough; The amorous Sapeur cozening a cook Was all my lay of love. "And court and street took up the strains in glee; I sang to Cæsar, sang to prince and priest, And in the palace of the Medici Roared Le Petit Ebeniste." Then clashed the cymbals, and the bugles blew, Vague scents swarmed o'er the visionary stage; A soft sweet shape arose. We looked and knew The Darling of the age. She spoke no word, she had no need to speak; Who could withstand the sorceress—who compete? We knew that matchless smile, and that unique Allurement of the feet; The way so womanly, and yet so bold; Her eyes so frank, her gestures so profane; Her step so light—Ah! no need to be told— Voici La Belle Helene. Evohe, la belle Hélène, fair and fat, And forty, though they say you are, Time's touch Lies soft upon your plumpness—and of that, Say, can one have too much? Oh no, my liege, my gracious Grande Duchesse, However variously our ways incline, You find us all before your sweet address, Natives of Gérolstein.

"DREAMING, methought I heard the Laureate's song Of fairest women linked with deeds of shame, Whose burning loves of insult and of wrong Were anguish-paths to fame. "And for a while their sad looks haunt my dream; Then the night-visions slowly fade away, And fairer faces in the warm light gleam— The beauties of to-day. * * * * * "And around one, supreme in perfect grace, Princes bow down, and nobles gather nigh; And crowds afar off gaze upon her face, Contented there to sigh. * * * * * "Then o'er my dream a daintier figure came, Whose voice was music, and her gesture grace The fire of genius frets her tender frame, And lights her girlish face. "In foreign tones she murmurs, 'O, the bliss Of art that triumphs on a perfect stage; The thunders of applause, and e'en the hiss That tells of Envy's rage!'"

All the long week Lawn-tennis balls had rolled On the green sward beside the echoing line, Until the last and stateliest of the crowd Of players there competing, Donald Stewart, Had fallen at Wimbledon before his foe, Ernest: the last, because his skill was great, They hailed the winner of the All-comers' prize. And graced with large reward and honour meet. One struggle yet remained,—Ernest with William, Renshaw with Renshaw, must at last contend, Equal alike in name and age,—well matched In strength and skill,—there lightly-clad they stood, Brother confronting brother,—and the net Betwixt them. High above them blazed The goblet, carved with curious imagery, Unknown save to the initiate, but to these Pregnant with meaning, mystic, magical, Prize of the great Lawn-tennis championship, Which in its deep capacious womb concealed A thirsty man's allowance long withheld: This twice had William gained in equal fight, Winner of two successive tournaments; And, could he claim the prize but once again, 'Twere his for ever. Therefore hither came From Wimbledon and Putney, and the lands Which lie across the silver stream of Thames, From far Tyburnia and Belgravian halls, The strength and manhood of our lusty youth, The grace and beauty of our matchless maids, Clothed in rich raiment flashing on the sward In hues that mocked the butterfly, and made The rainbow colourless—satin and silk, Cambric, and lawn, and muslin virginal: Haply, there also whatsoe'er of strange Elise, or Worth, or Harberton devise, The wizards of adornment,—mystic shapes Dual or indivisible,—the awed bard Shrinks into silence. * * * * *

MRS. BIGGS, of Brunswick Square, On me you shall no more impose. You said I wanted change of air; My books, my desk, you bade me close; You raved about my "precious 'elth." Has conscience, Mrs. B., no twinges? You wouldn't lose me for the wealth, You told me "not of all the Injies." Mrs. Biggs, of Brunswick Square, Though I had work upon my hands, I grew alarmed: oppressed with care, I sought repose on Ramsgate sands. Returned at last, I chanced to cast A glance into my chiffonier. Oh, Mrs. B., your dodge I see!— While I've been gone you've drunk my beer! Mrs. Biggs, of Brunswick Square, You put strange memories in my head,— That currant jam!—I'd almost swear I'd half-a-dozen pots of red. Oh, your sweet child! On him I smiled Benignly; but it seemed to me That he had smears across his face Which I was hardly pleased to see. Mrs. Biggs, of Brunswick Square, You've used up all my choice Pekoe; My sherry's gone; and where, oh where Is that half-flask of curaçoa? Of brandy, too, I'm quite bereft: The bottle's dry, and—oh, my stars! This ends what patience I had left— You've smoked up all my best cigars! Mrs. Biggs, of Brunswick Square, Some meeker lodger you must find; Though good apartments may be rare, To quit you I've made up my mind. You held your course without remorse, To make me trust you with my keys, But when on you my back was turned, You needs must play such pranks as these. Mrs. Biggs, of Brunswick square, If rooms be vacant on your hands, If footsteps sound not on your stair, And tenantless your mansion stands, Go, teach that orphan girl you call Eliza,—she who cleans the boots,— The awful fate which waits for all Who steal their lodgers' best cheroots. A. P. SINNETT. From Tom Hood's Comic Annual, 1871.

WE were two children in one house, She was as meek as the mildest mouse, The time had come for a midnight spree! When we were over our jokes and wine, She scattered horse-hair chopped up fine. O! the girl was fair to see! She laughed well-pleased with what she'd done, She played the dreadful trick for fun. The time had come for a midnight spree! I lay awake! and struck a match, For didn't the horrible horse-hair scratch. O! the girl was fair to see! I made a vow! I laid a snare! And crept quite softly up the stair, The hour had come for a midnight spree! And after dinner from her bed I stole the pillow for her head. O! the girl was fair to see! I took the dredger full of flour, The pillow powdered for an hour; The time had come for a midnight spree! I hated her for her cruel sell, She loved her tresses passing well. O! the girl was fair to see! She slept serenely all that night, But woke up in a dreadful fright; The time had come for a midnight spree! When half awake she neared the glass, She uttered naughty words, alas! O! the girl was fair to see! She brush'd and comb'd her floury head, "I'll never get it out," she said, The time had come for a midnight spree! My deep revenge she'll not forget I think she may be brushing yet! O! the girl was fair to see! From Fun, February 1, 1868.

With black coal-dust the walls and floor Were thickly coated, one and all; On rusty hinges swung the door That open'd to the gloomy wall; The broken chairs looked dull and dark, Undusted was the mantel-piece, And deeply-speck'd with spots of grease Within the chamber of the clerk. He only said "I'm very weary With living in this ditch;" He said, "I am confounded dreary, I would that I were rich." * * * About six fathoms from the wall, A blackened chimney (much askew) Smoked in his face—and round and small The chimney-pots destroyed his view, Hard by—a popular highway, With coal-dust turned to pitchy dark, Where many a little dog doth bark— Some black, some mottled, many grey. He said, "My life is very dreary, With living in this ditch;" He said, "I am fatigued and weary, I would that I were rich."

The bugle calls in Bayreuth's halls Some notes of Wagner's mythic story; The tenor shakes, the heroine quakes, And the wild Teuton leaps in glory. Blow, bugles, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Echoes of Melody, ye answer, "Dying, dying." O hark! O hear! how thin and clear, With no perspiring players showing; O sweet and far from bar to bar The horns and trumpets faintly blowing. Blow—let us hear composers' ghosts replying; Blow, Wagner, blow, while Melody is dying. "Sweet tunes," they cry, "you shall not die, Nor fade from hill, and field, and river, But sweetly roll from soul to soul, And gladden music lovers ever." Blow, bugles, blow, set the wild echoes flying, But Melody still answers—"Never dying." From Funny Folks.

I flow by tainted noisome spots, A dark and deadly river; Foul gases my forget-me-nots, Which haunt the air for ever. I grow, I glide, I slip, I slide, I mock your poor endeavour; For men may write, and men may talk, But I reek on for ever. I reek with all my might and main, Of plague and death the brewer; With here and there a nasty drain, And here and there a sewer. By fetid bank, impure and rank, I swirl a loathsome river; For men may write, and men may talk, But I'll reek on for ever. I grew, I glode, I slipped, I slode, My pride I left behind me; I left it in my pure abode— Now take me as you find me. For black as ink, from many a sink, I roll a poisonous river; And men may write, and men may talk, But I'll reek on for ever. And thus my vengeance, still I seek Foul drain, and not a river; My breath is strong, though I am weak, Death floats on me for ever. You still may fight, or may unite To use your joint endeavour; But I'll be "boss," in spite of Cross, And poison you for ever. The City Lantern, Manchester, 1874.

WITH many a curve the trunks I pitch, With many a shout and sally; At station, siding, crossing, switch, On mountain-grade or valley. I heave, I push, I sling, I toss, With vigorous endeavour, And men may smile and men grow cross, But I sling my trunks forever! Ever! ever! I bust the trunks for ever. The paper trunk from country town I balances and dandles; I turn it once or twice around, And pull out both the handles, And grumble over travelling-bags And monstrous sample-cases; But I can smash the maker's brags Like plaster-Paris vases, They holler, holler, as I go; But they can stop me never, For they will learn just what I know— A trunk won't last forever; Ever! never! I tug, I jerk, I swear, I sweat, I toss the light valises; And what's too big to throw, you bet, I'll fire it round in pieces. They murmur, murmur everywhere; But I will heed them never, For women weep and strong men swear, I'll sling their trunks forever! Ever! ever! I'll bust the trunk forever! From the United States Independent, September, 1881.

"Home they brought the news with dread! He nor swore nor uttered cry: His committee watching said, He must weep, or he will die. "Then they praised him, Stone and Lowe, And called him worthy to be loved, Jingo's friend and Gladstone's foe, Yet he neither swore nor moved. "Rose up Calthorpe from his place, Lightly to the warrior crept, Made a speech all full of grace, But he neither swore nor wept. "Rose a man of ninety years, Placed a pill-box on his knee, Like summer tempest came his tears, "Cockle mine, thou'st done for me!"

AND so your prosperous days have passed away from you, John; And empty have grown your pockets, and all your customers gone; And the Government still keep talking—they never were over-wise; Never fit to rule you, John—but you wouldn't take my advice. For, John, do you see, the Tories were never the men to save; It doesn't look well to be mean while Britannia rules the wave: Swagger enough—lots of swagger—but it all costs money, you know. And so your grandfather found, John, some seventy years ago! For I remember the troubles that vexed your grandfather, John, Stripped every rag off his back, to the very shirt he had on; It was all for England, and glory—but that cost money, you know— Seventy years ago, John, seventy years ago. And now you say it's the same, what with Afghanistan and Zulu, And that darned American weather come over to bother you too; 'There won't be very much left me, if this sort of thing goes on; And this is a time of peace—of peace with honour!' says John. 'And all trade seems half dead, and the farmers can't pay their rent, While the landlords are only too happy to give them back twenty per cent. Farmers!—and pay no rent? Well, the rent perhaps could be borne, But giving back twenty per cent. won't make up for American corn. To be sure, Lord Beaconsfield says that we're an Imperial race, And an unscientific frontier is really a sort of disgrace; And Stafford and Holker—I hear them too—their voices are sweet, But they can't very well expect me to get fat on American meat. And to tell you the good plain truth, I never can quite understand What it is Lord Beaconsfield means, or what he's got in his hand; He conjures eggs out of his hat, he keeps fireworks under his bed, I really am not always certain he's not going to stand on his head. And the Liberals make it their text as they go to the hustings, no doubt! Even those who do nothing in office understand what to promise when out; There wouldn't be waste any more—not enough to make meat for a mouse— If Gladstone was at the Exchequer, and Hartington leading the House. Pattering upon the platform—they'll all be pattering soon, When Beaconsfield makes up his mind to dissolve them some fine afternoon, I seem to be sick of it all—I know every word they'll say, And perhaps it will come even sooner, for some are beginning to-day. So this is a time of peace—of peace with honour, you know; And empty have grown my pockets—they never used to be so; At least, not often, I think. I never was one to boast, But I seem to be sick of it all—and of empty pockets the most.' Prize parody from The World, November 19, 1879.

BREAD has gone up again. Was that what you said to me, child? Bread and coals gone up, and the weather wet and wild; Bread gone up again, and cold and hunger severe; An' me not knowing which way to turn, an' you but a child, my dear. Don't look at me that way, Mary, with eyes that plead for bread— O Lord, I could bear it well enough, if it only fell on my head! But the child so weak and sickly, and me but an old man now, Asking no better, though, Lord knows, than to work in the sweat of my brow. But work is not to be had, though I seek it from morning till night: Not to be had by me; there are men who are younger, a sight; Younger and stronger, too, who take what is to he had; And bread has gone up and cold is sharp, and times is very bad. * * * * *

Of course, it is here, all snarl and sneer, A letter from my Tutor. He said it was wrong, not to read in the "Long," For he was far acuter. O little don, in the days bygone, Did you never prefer the pages Of those gay books—a woman's looks— To the lore of Eastern sages? Were there not times when College Rhymes Relieved your mind dejected? And were they not a sorry lot Of things you had rejected? The time is brief from the fresh green leaf Of the callow moderator; From the greener leaf to the yellow leaf, The age of perambulator. Silly, am I? Is that your cry? And, I shall live to see it? Exactly so; but yours said "No," And mine said "Yes, so be it." And he would know who 'twas that so Had filled my thoughts with folly, And, oh! the name was the very same, The name of our love was Molly. From The Shotover Papers, Oxford 1874.

Sick of the perfume of praise, and faint with the fervid caresses, Flushing his face with a flame that is fair, like the blood on a dove; Weary of pangs that have pleased him, the poet refrains and confesses— Shrinks from the rapture of death, and the lips and the languors of love; The rootless rose of delight, and the love that lasts only to blossom, Blossom and die without fruit, as the kisses that feed and not fill; Famishing pleasure, dry-lipped, with the sting and the stain on her bosom, And all of a sin that is good, and all of a good that is ill!

Nature, continuous ME! Saltness, and vigorous, never-torpid yeast of ME! Florid, unceasing, for ever expansive; Not schooled, not dizened, not washed and powdered; Strait-laced not at all; far otherwise than polite; Not modest, nor immodest; Divinely tanned and freckled; gloriously unkempt; Ultimate yet unceasing; capricious though determined; Speak as thou listest, and tell the askers that which they seek to know. Thy speech to them will be not quite intelligible. Never mind! utter thy wild common-places; Yawp them loudly, shrilly; Silence with shrill noise the lisps of the foo-foos. Answer in precise terms of barbaric vagueness, The question that the Fun editor hath sparked through Atlantic cable To W..T W..TM..N, the speaker of the password primeval; The signaller of the signal of democracy; The seer and hearer of things in general; The poet translucent; fleshy, disorderly, sensually inclined; Each tag and part of whom is a miracle——.

Rhapsodically state the fact that is and is not; That is not, being past; that is, being eternal; If indeed it ever was, which is exactly the point in question.

Break, break, break! It's a serious thing to see, And I wish I could manage to utter The cheques that are forged by me! Oh well for the bill-broking cad That is able to toddle away! Oh well for the discounting lad That goes to no Botany Bay! The detective police go on, To find him whose name's on the bill— And it's oh for a whiff of Havannah brand, And a glass of the wine that is still! Break, break, break! It's little of me you will see; For the tender touch of detective's hand May some day be felt by me. From Faust and 'Phisto, 1876.

AH me! the times decay, and rent-rolls fall, The farmers weep the burden of moist ground, The men that back the field are out of luck. For during such a summer where's the coin? For me a wreath, prize of verbosity Was made: it withers still in Tracy's hands. For what to me this quiet Western world, While shadows flit before me, like a dream Of princely visits to the far-off East, And costly gifts, and Empire's badges worn? Alas for these gray tresses, once so black, When, glorious in my youth, I was thy choice, Britannia, and I seemed no vulgar clod To thee, who taught'st me my verbosity. Then, though the dull roughs met where'er they would, Beat the Park palings down, and marred the flowers, They could not end my rule; but left me still To sit 'neath shade of thy Imperial shield— Imperial locks beside Imperial shield— Though all things else were ashes. Thy rich gift, The Garter, made amends; but, Tracy, go; I pray thee go; take back thy vulgar gift: Why should the honest working man desire To vary from the spendthrift race of men, And part with hard-earned quarts of "fourpenny," Which good Sir Wilfrid calls the curse of all? * * * * *

"The men come up, the men come up, go down. The mighty Proctor prowls along the streets. Dons come and plough the men, and let them through, The unattached at length becomes B.A. The only envious moderators Will never pass. I linger through the terms Here in the quiet Tavern's classic shades, A bearded undergraduate, well nigh bald, Roaming along the High, the Broad, the Corn, Amidst new men, strange faces, other minds." * * * * *

"I hold it clear, as one who sings The party song in divers tones, That men may rise on stepping stones Of brazen speech to higher things."

I hold this truth with one who sings That when a donkey will not go, The kick, the curse, the brutal blow Should be exchanged for milder things. But who that sees the donkey's ears Droop downward, and his hind legs rise, While from the creature's back he flies, Can spare the lissom switch he bears? Or who can smile when crowds condemn, And ragamuffin imps deride, Advising him to "get inside" That product of Jerusalem? Had I the brute that would not stir, Despite "Gee-woa!" or "Kim-up, Ned!" I should, methinks, use arts instead Of supplemented provender. From Funny Folks.

We left behind the painted buoy That tosses at the harbour mouth; And madly danced our hearts with joy As fast we floated to the South. THE VOYAGE. "We left behind the painted boy Who tumbles at the gutter's mouth, And madly leaped our hearts for joy In taking tickets for the south; To get away from smell and sound, And crowded street and city roar, Two used-up clerks on pleasure bound, Ere yet our holidays were o'er. * * * * And never tongue of ours was furled, As on we went with spirits free; The railway was our little world, Though not a little whirled were we. The winds and rain might blow and cease— What cared we for wind or rain? We'd paid our one pound ten apiece, And this was our Excursion Train!

"GREENWICH," they said, and pointed into space; "The steaming train will bear us thither soon," In time for dinner came they to that place, In which it seemèd always dinner-time. A place of diners: some with friend or fair, Slow dropping down the stream, to feast did go; And those by quicker train did there repair Who deemed all other locomotion slow, Nor cared to watch the muddy river's flow. The sky looked showery, as is oft the case Now, when no two days ever seem the same; But yet, despite of Nature's frowning face, To dine the whitebait-eating members came. Baskets they saw of that delightful fish Whose flavour is seductive, and doth make Those who have tasted say that never dish Was so delicious, and when they partake Of these, all other food they straight forsake. Then some one said, "Why further should we pace?" And all at once they sang, "This is the place To spend a happy day. Rest we a little space. Refreshing is this liquor dry, Iced well as well can be;" Drink is "the best of life." Then why Abstain teetotally? * * * *

At breakfast time he comes and stands, He puts his paper in your hands, He hums and haws, with "ifs" and "ands." His hands he laves with unseen soaps, Thanks you for nothing, says he hopes, Then bows, "Good morning, sir;" he slopes. From Odd Echoes from Oxford, 1872.

Opens a door in Heaven; From skies of glass A Jacob's ladder falls On greening grass, And o'er the mountain-walls Young angels pass.