(Grandpapa Loquitur.) You don't know Froissart now, young folks. This age, I think, prefers recitals
Before me, careless lying, Young Love his ware comes crying; Full soon the elf untreasures
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,
"The Case is proceeding." From the tragic-est novels at Mudie's-- At least, on a practical plan--
In our hearts is the Great One of Avon Engraven, And we climb the cold summits once built on
To One who asked why he wrote it. You ask me what was his intent? In truth, I'm not a German;
When do the reasoning Powers decline? The Ancients said at Forty-Nine. At Forty-Nine behoves it then
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
AN EPILOGUE TO ANY BOOK "Hic Finis chartaeque viaeque." "FINIS at last--the end, the End, the END!
(Expanded from an Epigram of Piron.) Stella, 'tis not your dainty head, Your artless look, I own;
(From The "Garland Of Rachel.") How shall I sing you, Child, for whom So many lyres are strung;
(HOR. EP. I., 20.) For mart and street you seem to pine With restless glances, Book of mine!
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;