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When he says that to eat them's a crime； …
I have lectured upon the Essenes；
ButI am not in 〃Men of the Time！〃
I've a fancy as morbid as Poe's；
I can tell what is meant by 〃Shebeens；〃
I have breasted the river that flows
Through the land of the wild Gadarenes；
I can gossip with Burton on skenes；
I can imitate Irving （the Mime）；
And my sketches are quainter than Keene's；
ButI am not in 〃Men of the Time！〃
ENVOY
So the tower of mine eminence leans
Like the Pisan； and mud is its lime；
I'm acquainted with Dukes and with Deans；
ButI am not in 〃Men of the Time！〃
BALLADE OF RAILWAY NOVELS
Let others praise analysis
And revel in a 〃cultured〃 style；
And follow the subjective Miss ｛2｝
From Boston to the banks of Nile；
Rejoice in anti…British bile；
And weep for fickle hero's woe；
These twain have shortened many a mile；
Miss Braddon and Gaboriau。
These damsels of 〃Democracy's；〃
How long they stop at every stile！
They smile； and we are told； I wis；
Ten subtle reasons WHY they smile。
Give ME your villains deeply vile；
Give me Lecoq； Jottrat； and Co。；
Great artists of the ruse and wile；
Miss Braddon and Gaboriau！
Oh； novel readers； tell me this；
Can prose that's polished by the file；
Like great Boisgobey's mysteries；
Wet days and weary ways beguile；
And man to living reconcile；
Like these whose every trick we know？
The agony how high they pile；
Miss Braddon and Gaboriau！
ENVOY
Ah； friend； how many and many a while
They've made the slow time fleetly flow；
And solaced pain and charmed exile；
Miss Braddon and Gaboriau。
THE CLOUD CHORUS （FROM ARISTOPHANES）
Socrates speaks。
Hither； come hither； ye Clouds renowned； and unveil yourselves
here；
Come； though ye dwell on the sacred crests of Olympian snow；
Or whether ye dance with the Nereid choir in the gardens clear；
Or whether your golden urns are dipped in Nile's overflow；
Or whether you dwell by Maeotis mere
Or the snows of Mimas； arise！ appear！
And hearken to us； and accept our gifts ere ye rise and go。
The Clouds sing。
Immortal Clouds from the echoing shore
Of the father of streams； from the sounding sea；
Dewy and fleet； let us rise and soar。
Dewy and gleaming； and fleet are we！
Let us look on the tree…clad mountain crest；
On the sacred earth where the fruits rejoice；
On the waters that murmur east and west
On the tumbling sea with his moaning voice；
For unwearied glitters the Eye of the Air；
And the bright rays gleam；
Then cast we our shadows of mist； and fare
In our deathless shapes to glance everywhere
From the height of the heaven； on the land and air；
And the Ocean stream。
Let us on； ye Maidens that bring the Rain；
Let us gaze on Pallas' citadel；
In the country of Cecrops； fair and dear
The mystic land of the holy cell；
Where the Rites unspoken securely dwell；
And the gifts of the Gods that know not stain
And a people of mortals that know not fear。
For the temples tall； and the statues fair；
And the feasts of the Gods are holiest there；
The feasts of Immortals； the chaplets of flowers
And the Bromian mirth at the coming of spring；
And the musical voices that fill the hours；
And the dancing feet of the Maids that sing！
BALLADE OF LITERARY FAME
〃All these for Fourpence。〃
Oh； where are the endless Romances
Our grandmothers used to adore？
The Knights with their helms and their lances；
Their shields and the favours they wore？
And the Monks with their magical lore？
They have passed to Oblivion and Nox；
They have fled to the shadowy shore； …
They are all in the Fourpenny Box！
And where the poetical fancies
Our fathers rejoiced in； of yore？
The lyric's melodious expanses；
The Epics in cantos a score？
They have been and are not： no more
Shall the shepherds drive silvery flocks；
Nor the ladies their languors deplore； …
They are all in the Fourpenny Box！
And the Music！ The songs and the dances？
The tunes that Time may not restore？
And the tomes where Divinity prances？
And the pamphlets where Heretics roar？
They have ceased to be even a bore； …
The Divine； and the Sceptic who mocks； …
They are 〃cropped；〃 they are 〃foxed〃 to the core； …
They are all in the Fourpenny Box！
ENVOY
Suns beat on them； tempests downpour；
On the chest without cover or locks；
Where they lie by the Bookseller's door； …
They are ALL in the Fourpenny Box！
＇Greek title＇
I would my days had been in other times；
A moment in the long unnumbered years
That knew the sway of Horus and of hawk；
In peaceful lands that border on the Nile。
I would my days had been in other times；
Lulled by the sacrifice and mumbled hymn
Between the Five great Rivers； or in shade
And shelter of the cool Himalayan hills。
I would my days had been in other times；
That I in some old abbey of Touraine
Had watched the rounding grapes； and lived my life；
Ere ever Luther came or Rabelais！
I would my days had been in other times；
When quiet life to death not terrible
Drifted； as ashes of the Santhal dead
Drift down the sacred Rivers to the Sea！
A VERY WOFUL BALLADE OF THE ART CRITIC （TO E。 A。 ABBEY。）
A spirit came to my sad bed；
And weary sad that night was I；
Who'd tottered； since the dawn was red；
Through miles of Grosvenor Gallery；
Yea； leagues of long Academy
Awaited me when morn grew white；
'Twas then the Spirit whispered nigh；
〃Take up the pen； my friend； and write！
〃Of many a portrait grey as lead；
Of many a mustard…coloured sky；
Say much； where little should be said；
Lay on thy censure dexterously；
With microscopic glances pry
At textures； Tadema's delight；
Praise foreign swells they always sky；
Take up the pen； my friend； and write！〃
I answered； 〃'Tis for daily bread；
A sorry crust； I ween； and dry；
That still； with aching feet and head；
I push this lawful industry；
'Mid pictures hung or low； or high；
But； touching that which I indite；
Do artists hold me lovingly？
Take up the pen； my friend； and write。〃
＇The Spirit writeth in form of＇
ENVOY
〃They fain would black thy dexter eye；
They hate thee with a bitter spite；
But scribble since thou must； or die；
Take tip the pen； my friend； and write！〃
ART'S MARTYR
Telleth of a young man that fain would be fairly tattooed on his
flesh； after the heathen manner； in devices of blue； and that；
falling among the Dyacks； a folk of Borneo； was by them tattooed
in modern fashion and device； and of his misery that fell upon
him； and his outlawry。
He said； The China on the shelf
Is very fair to view；
And wherefore should mine outer self；
Not correspond thereto？
In blue
My frame I must tattoo。
Where may tattooing men abound；
And ah； where might they be？
Nay； well I wot they are not found
In lands of Christentie；
（Quoth he）
But I must cross the sea！
So forth he sailed to Borneo；
（A land that culture lacks；）
And there his money did bestow
To purchase pricks and hacks；
（Dyacks
Are famed tattooing blacks。）
But European commerce had
Debased the savage kind；
And they this most unhappy lad
Before （and eke behind）
Designed
In colours to their mind！
Such awful colours as are blent
On terrible placards
Where flames the fierce advertisement
Yea； or on Christmas cards
（Not Ward's；
But common Christmas cards！）
Thus never more to Chelsea might
The luckless boy return；
He knew himself too dreadful； quite；
A thing his friends would spurn；
And turn
To praise some Grecian urn！
But still he dwells in Borneo；
A land that culture lacks；
And there they all admire him so；
They bring him heads in sacks；
Dyacks
Are NOT aesthetic blacks！
THE PALACE O BRIC…A…BRAC
Here； where old Nankin glitters；
Here； where men's tumult seems
As faint as feeble twitters
Of sparrows heard in dreams；
We watch Limoges enamel；
An old chased silver camel；
A shawl； the gift of Schamyl；
And manuscripts in reams。
Here； where the hawthorn pattern
On flawless cup and plate
Need fear no housemaid slattern；
Fell minister of fate；
'Mid webs divinely woven；
And helms and hauberks cloven；
On music of Beethoven
We dream and meditate。
We know not； and we need not
To know how mortals fare；
Of Bills that pass； or speed not；
Time finds us unaware；
Yea； creeds and codes may crumble；
And Dilke and Gladstone stumble；
And eat the pie that's humble；
We neither know nor care！
Can kings or clergies alter
The crackle on one plate？
Can creeds or systems palter
With what is truly great？
With Corots and with Millets；
With April daffodillies；
Or make the maiden lilies
Bloom early or bloom late？
Nay； here 'midst Rhodian roses；
'Midst tissues of Cashmere；
The Soul sublime reposes；
And knows not hope nor fear；
Here all she sees her own is；
And musical her moan is；
O'er Caxtons and Bodonis；
Aldine and Elzevir！
RONDEAUX OF THE GALLERIES
Camelot
In Camelot how grey and green
The Damsels dwell； how sad their teen；
In Camelot how green and grey
The melancholy poplars sway。
I wis I wot not what they mean
Or wherefore； passionate and lean；
The maidens mope their loves between；
Not seeming to have much to say；
In Camelot。
Yet there hath armour goodly sheen
The blossoms in the apple treen；
（To spell t