Henry Austin Dobson

SCENE.--The Fountain in the Garden of the Luxembourg. It is surrounded by Promenaders. MONSIEUR JOLICOEUR. A LADY (unknown).

(To A. L.) The shopman shambled from the doorway out And twitched it down--

(Grandpapa Loquitur.) You don't know Froissart now, young folks. This age, I think, prefers recitals

"Non injussa cano." Virg. POET. I sing of POPE--

"On court, h'las! apr's la v'rit'; Ah! croyez-moi, l'erreur a son m'rite." Voltaire.

To * * Esq. of * * with a Life of the late Ingenious Mr. W M. Hogarth. Dear Cosmopolitan,--I know I should address you a Rondeau,

"De m'moires de Roses on n'a point vu mourir le Jardinier." The Rose in the garden slipped her bud, And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood,

(To W. E. H.) Here, in this sequestered close Bloom the hyacinth and rose;

Ah, Postumus, we all must go: This keen North-Easter nips my shoulder; My strength begins to fail; I know

(XVIII. CENT.) When first in CELIA'S ear I poured A yet unpractised pray'r,

Before me, careless lying, Young Love his ware comes crying; Full soon the elf untreasures

(TERCENTENARY, 1608-1908) "Stops of various Quills."--LYCIDAS. What need of votive Verse

To the Burden of "Rogues All." Come hither ye gallants, come hither ye maids, To the trim gravelled walks, to the shady arcades;

"Flee fro the PREES, and dwelle with sothfastnesse."--CHAUCER, Balade de Bon Conseil. The Press is too much with us, small and great: We are undone of chatter and on dit,

Old it is, and worn and battered, As I lift it from the stall; And the leaves are frayed and tattered,

("His Friends" To Quintus Horatius Flaccus.) "H'c decies repetita [non] placebit."--Ars Poetica. Flaccus, you write us charming songs:

As I went a-walking on Lavender Hill, O, I met a Darling in frock and frill; And she looked at me shyly, with eyes of blue,

When first I came to Court, Fa la! When first I came to Court,

FRANK (on the Lawn). Come to the Terrace, May,--the sun is low. MAY (in the House).

"Sic visum Veneri: cui placet impares Formas atque animos sub juga a'nea Saevo mittere cum joco."

"There's nothing new"--Not that I go so far As he who also said "There's nothing true," Since, on the contrary, I hold there are

To William John Courthope, March 12, 1903 When Pope came back from Trojan wars once more, He found a Bard, to meet him on the shore,

"Mitte sectari ROSA quo locorum Sera moretur." --Hor. i. 38.

Emigravit, October Vi., Mdcccxcii. Grief there will be, and may, When King Apollo's bay

He. Whither away, fair Neat-herdess? She. Shepherd, I go to tend my kine. He. Stay thou, and watch this flock of mine.

(To E. H. P.) Melik the Sult'n, tired and wan, Nodded at noon on his div'n.

"Jamais les arbres verts n'ont essaye d'etre bleus."-- THEOPHILE GAUTIER. "A new Review!" You make me tremble

Green growths of mosses drop and bead Around the granite brink; And 'twixt the isles of water-weed

(Clerk of Love, 1170.) His Plaint To Venus Of The Coming Years. "Plus ne suis ce que j'ay est'

Wistaria blossoms trail and fall Above the length of barrier wall; And softly, now and then,

"At the Sign of the Lyre," Good Folk, we present you With the pick of our quire,

"Rather be dead than praised," he said, That hero, like a hero dead, In this slack-sinewed age endued

All night through Daisy's sleep, it seems, Have ceaseless "rat-tats" thundered; All night through Daisy's rosy dreams

"Le temps le mieux employe est celui qu' on perd." |Claude Tillier|. I'd read three hours. Both notes and text

Behind thy pasteboard, on thy battered hack, Thy lean cheek striped with plaster to and fro, Thy long spear levelled at the unseen foe,

"The Case is proceeding." From the tragic-est novels at Mudie's-- At least, on a practical plan--

Many days have come and gone, Many suns have set and shone, HERRICK, since thou sang'st of Wake,

"For old sake's sake!" 'Twere hard to choose Words fitter for an old-world Muse Than these, that in their cadence bring

(With Original Drawings By G. H. Boughton.) Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker, Help me sing of Knickerbocker!

"On a l''ge de son coeur."--A. d'Houdetot. A little more toward the light;-- Me miserable! Here's one that's white;

(To James Russell Lowell.) Not from the ranks of those we call Philosopher or Admiral,--

"Nec turpem senectam Degere, nec cithara carentem." --Hor. i. 31.

(Published at Madrid, by Francisco de Robles, January 1605) "Para mi sola nacio don Quixote, y yo para el."--CERVANTES. Advents we greet of great and small;

"Mine be a cot," for the hours of play, Of the kind that is built by MISS GREENAWAY; Where the walls are low, and the roofs are red,

HUGH (on furlough). HELEN (his cousin). HELEN.

"The blue fly sung in the pane."--Tennyson. Toiling in Town now is "horrid," (There is that woman again!)--

Just for a space that I met her-- Just for a day in the train! It began when she feared it would wet her,

In our hearts is the Great One of Avon Engraven, And we climb the cold summits once built on

"--the music of the moon Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale." Aylmer's Field.

"Little Blue-Ribbons!" We call her that From the ribbons she wears in her favourite hat; For may not a person be only five,

"Now the Graces are four and the Venuses two, And ten is the number of Muses; For a Muse and a Grace and a Venus are you,--

They dwell in the odour of camphor, They stand in a Sheraton shrine, They are "warranted early editions,"

(After Anthony Hamilton.) To G. S. She that I love is neither brown nor fair,

(HORACE, III. 7.) "Quid fles, Asterie, quem tibi candidi Primo restituent vere Favonii--

Him best in all the dim Arthuriad, Of lovers of fair women, him I prize,-- The Pagan Palomydes. Never glad

To One who asked why he wrote it. You ask me what was his intent? In truth, I'm not a German;

Old Loves and old dreams,-- "Requiescant in pace." How strange now it seems,--

Even as one in city pent, Dazed with the stir and din of town, Drums on the pane in discontent,

In the year Seventeen Hundred and Seventy and Three, When the GEORGES were ruling o'er Britain the free, There was played a new play, on a new-fashioned plan,

(To E. G., With A Collection Of Essays.) When You and I have wandered beyond the reach of call, And all our Works immortal lie scattered on the Stall,

Nothing so idle as to waste This Life disputing upon Taste; And most--let that sad Truth be written--

By A Gentleman Of The Temple. While cynic CHARLES still trimm'd the vane 'Twixt Querouaille and Castlemaine,

(We lay our story in the East. Because 'tis Eastern? Not the least. We place it there because we fear

Too oft we hide our Frailties' Blame Beneath some simple-sounding Name! So Folks, who in gilt Coaches ride,

When do the reasoning Powers decline? The Ancients said at Forty-Nine. At Forty-Nine behoves it then

Monsieur the Cur' down the street Comes with his kind old face,-- With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,

The most oppressive Form of Cant Is that of your Art-Dilettant:-- Or rather "was." The Race, I own,

A Suggestion From Hogarth. One knows the scene so well,--a touch, A word, brings back again

"Emam tua carmina sanus?"--MARTIAL. F.    OF H. I want a verse. It gives you little pains;-- You just sit down, and draw upon your brains.

"Hoc est vivere."--MARTIAL. The Printer's is a happy lot: Alone of all professions,

A Proper New Ballad Of The Country And The Town. "Phyllida amo ante alias." Virg.

Hurrah! the Season's past at last; At length we've "done" our pleasure. Dear "Pater," if you only knew

AN EPILOGUE TO ANY BOOK "Hic Finis chartaeque viaeque." "FINIS at last--the end, the End, the END!

"One drop of ruddy human blood puts more life into the veins of a poem than all the delusive 'aurum potabile' that can be distilled out of the choicest library."--Lowell. Ah, yes, that "drop of human blood!"-- We had it once, may be,

I drink of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Chepe; At noon I dream on the settle; at night I cannot sleep; For my love, my love it groweth; I waste me all the day;

(For A Fresco.) Firstly thou, churl son of Janus, Rough for cold, in drugget clad,

Across the grass I see her pass; She comes with tripping pace,-- A maid I know,--and March winds blow

(Expanded from an Epigram of Piron.) Stella, 'tis not your dainty head, Your artless look, I own;

"Ce sont les amours Qui font les beaux jours." What is a Patron? JOHNSON knew,

"What's not destroyed by Time's devouring Hand? Where's Troy, and where's the May-Pole in the Strand?" Bramston's "Art of Politicks."

(Whose name is Amanda.) With Apologies to the Shade of Christopher Marlowe. Come live with me and be my Dear;

If those who wield the Rod forget, 'Tis truly--Quis custodiet? A certain Bard (as Bards will do)

"Ille terrarum mihi pr'ter omnes Angulus Ridet." --Hor. ii. 6.

Yes, here it is, behind the box, That puzzle wrought so neatly-- That paradise of paradox--

When Fate presents us with the Bays, We prize the Praiser, not the Praise. We scarcely think our Fame eternal

With Verse, is Form the first, or Sense? Hereon men waste their Eloquence. "Sense (cry the one Side), Sense, of course.

In Art some hold Themselves content If they but compass what they meant; Others prefer, their Purpose gained,

Much strange is true. And yet so much Dan Time thereto of doubtful lays He blurs them both beneath his touch:--

"Buy,--who'll buy?" In the market-place, Out of the market din and clatter, The quack with his puckered persuasive face

"--portentaque Thessala rides?" --Hor. "--Thessalian portents do you flout?"

(From The "Garland Of Rachel.") How shall I sing you, Child, for whom So many lyres are strung;

Missal of the Gothic age, Missal with the blazoned page, Whence, O Missal, hither come,

(H. E. B.) Among my best I put your Book, O Poet of the breeze and brook!

"Kill not--for Pity's sake--and lest ye slay The meanest thing upon its upward way." Five Rules of Buddha.

"Sermons in stones." Who were you once? Could we but guess, We might perchance more boldly

(HOR. EP. I., 20.) For mart and street you seem to pine With restless glances, Book of mine!

(HOR. III., 23.) Incense, and flesh of swine, and this year's grain, At the new moon, with suppliant hands, bestow,

"Tuque, Testudo, resonare septem Callida nervis." Hor. iii. 11.

nellie If I were you, when ladies at the play, Sir, Beckon and nod, a melodrama through,

Between the rail of woven brass, That hides the "Strangers' Pew," I hear the gray-haired vicar pass

(For A Drawing By E. A. Abbey.) How weary 'twas to wait! The year Went dragging slowly on;

He set the trumpet to his lips, and lo! The clash of waves, the roar of winds that blow, The strife and stress of Nature's warring things,

About the ending of the Ramad'n, When leanest grows the famished Mussulman, A haggard ne'er-do-well, Mahmoud by name,