"LITERATURE AND ART."

No possibility of doubt Can stop us now in finding out What "literature" should be; No longer dazed by rival claims, We read a row of deathless names, Not yet renowned, but would-be. Not "letterpress," or other word As modest, that would be absurd, Contemptuous and slighting; But "literature," which for long, It may be right, it may be wrong, Has meant the best of writing. Those duller minds which once essayed To ply the literary trade, Poor Shakspeare, Dante, Homer, Did not describe their feebler work As "literature." Gibbon, Burke Avoided this misnomer. The art of writing now we learn. Should Poe or Wycherly return They would not be neglected. The corpses, tombs and worms of one, The other's plain, outspoken fun, Would never be rejected. But anyone may marvel why Sane persons read, and even buy, A page, a word, a letter Of this new school, yet hardly know The works of Wycherly or Poe, So infinitely better. Still literature is but a part; These pages also teach us "art," Surpassing Tintoretto. Allegro, not in Milton's way, But, with the modern meaning, "gay"; Not too gay, allegretto. Velasquez, you were but an ass, Like Rembrandt, Titian, alas! All despicable duffers. And Romney, Reynolds (poor old fool!) And Gainsborough, a simple school Of blundering old buffers. At last we know what art should be. A subject which we cannot see, In spite of all our trying; The portraits not like anyone, The landscapes, though not "well begun," "Half done" there's no denying. And Beardsley shows us now the nude; It would not shock the primmest prude, Or rouse the legislature. An unclothed woman, ten feet high, Could not make anyone feel shy; She's "art," she is not nature.