AFTER BYRON

THE ROUT OF BELGRAVIA

HE Belgravians came down on the Queen in her hold,

THE

And their costumes were gleaming with purple and gold,

And the sheen of their jewels was like stars on the

sea,

As their chariots rolled proudly down Piccadill-ee.

Like the leaves of Le Follet when summer is green,
That host in its glory at noontide was seen;
Like the leaves of a toy-book all thumb-marked
and worn,

That host four hours later was tattered and torn.

For the rush of the crowd, which was eager and

vast,

Had rumpled and ruined and wrecked as it passed ; And the eyes of the wearer waxed angry in haste, As a dress but once worn was dragged out at the waist.

And there lay the feather and fan side by side,
But no longer they nodded or waved in their pride;
And there lay lace flounces and ruching in slips,
And spur-torn material in plentiful strips.

And there were odd gauntlets and pieces of hair; And fragments of back-combs and slippers were

there;

And the gay were all silent, their mirth was all hushed,

Whilst the dewdrops stood out on the brows of the crushed.

And the dames of Belgravia were loud in their wail, And the matrons of Mayfair all took up the tale; And they vow as they hurry unnerved from the scene, That it's no trifling matter to call on the Queen. Jon Duan.

D

A GRIEVANCE

EAR Mr. Editor: I wish to say

If you will not be angry at my writing it

But I've been used, since childhood's happy day, When I have thought of something, to inditing it;

I seldom think of things; and, by the way,
Although this metre may not be exciting, it
Enables one to be extremely terse,

Which is not what one always is in verse.

I used to know a man, such things befall

The observant wayfarer through Fate's domain

He was a man, take him for all in all,

We shall not look upon his like again;

I know that statement's not original;

What statement is, since Shakespere? or, since

Cain,

What murder? I believe 't was Shakespere said

it, or

Perhaps it may have been your Fighting Editor.

Though why an Editor should fight, or why
A Fighter should abase himself to edit,
Are problems far too difficult and high

For me to solve with any sort of credit.
Some greatly more accomplished man than I
Must tackle them: let's say then Shakespere
said it ;

And, if he did not, Lewis Morris may (Or even if he did). Some other day,

When I have nothing pressing to impart,

I should not mind dilating on this matter. I feel its import both in head and heart,

And always did,—especially the latter. I could discuss it in the busy mart

Or on the lonely housetop; hold! this chatter Diverts me from my purpose. To the point : The time, as Hamlet said, is out of joint,

And perhaps I was born to set it right,
A fact I greet with perfect equanimity.
I do not put it down to "cursed spite,"
I don't see any cause for cursing in it. I

Have always taken very great delight

In such pursuits since first I read divinity.
Whoever will may write a nation's songs
As long as I'm allowed to right its wrongs.

What's Eton but a nursery of wrong-righters,
A mighty mother of effective men;
A training ground for amateur reciters,

A sharpener of the sword as of the pen;

A factory of orators and fighters,

A forcing-house of genius? Now and then

The world at large shrinks back, abashed and beaten,

Unable to endure the glare of Eton.

I think I said I knew a man: what then?
I don't suppose such knowledge is forbid.
We nearly all do, more or less, know men,-
Or think we do; nor will a man get rid
Of that delusion, while he wields a pen.

But who this man was, what, if aught, he did,
Nor why I mentioned him, I do not know;
Nor what I "wished to say " a while

ago. F. K. Stephen.

AFTER CHARLES WOLFE

THE BURIAL OF THE BACHELOR

N°

OT a laugh was heard, not a frivolous note,
As the groom to the wedding we carried;
Not a jester discharged his farewell shot

As the bachelor went to be married.

We married him quickly that morning bright,
The leaves of our prayer-books turning,
In the chancel's dimly religious light,
And tears in our eyelids burning.

No useless nosegay adorned his chest,

Not in chains but in laws we bound him; And he looked like a bridegroom trying his best To look used to the scene around him.

Few and small were the fees it cost,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we silently gazed on the face of the lost
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hurried him home to be fed,
And tried our low spirits to rally,

That the weather looked very like squalls overhead
For the passage from Dover to Calais.