proper scorn When we turn lies-called gods forsoothTo lies' fit use, now Christ is born. 66 6 Drawing and coloring are Truth. LIII. Think you I honor lies so much As scruple to parade the charms Of Leda--Titian, every touch Because the thing within her arms Means Jupiter who had the praise And prayer of a benighted world? Benighted I too, if, in days 66 Of light, I kept the canvas furled!' LIV. So ending, with some easy gibe. What power has logic! I, at once, Acknowledged error in our tribe, So squeamish that, when friends ensconce A pretty picture in its niche To do us honor, deck our graves, We fret and fume and have an itch To strangle folk-ungrateful knaves! LV. "No, sir! Be sure that-what's its style, Your picture?-shall possess ungrudged A place among my rank and file Of Ledas-and what not-be judged I fear me much I scarce have bought Found there, will have the laugh flaws ought!" LVI. So, with a scowl, it darkens door- LVII. Was magic here? Most like! For, since, To check increase of cold. 'Tis "Live And let live! Languidly repress The Dissident! In short,-contrive Christians must bear with Jews: no less!" LVIII. The end seems, any Israelite Wants any picture,- pishes, poohs, In any chamber he may choose! In Christ's crown, one more thorn we rue! No, boy, you must not pelt a Jew! O Lord, how long? How long, O Lord? SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH CLOISTER. I. GR-R-R-there go, my heart's abhorrence! Needs its leaden vase filled brimming? II. At the meal we sit together: Salve tibi! I must hear Wise talk of the kind of weather, Whew! We'll have our platter burnished, Rinsed like something sacrificial Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps Marked with L. for our initial! IV. Saint, forsooth! While brown Dolores Steeping tresses in the tank, Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs, -Can't I see his dead eye glow, Bright as 'twere a Barbary corsair's? (That is, if he'd let it show!) V. When he finishes refection, Drinking watered orange-pulp- VI. Oh, those melons! If he's able None double? Not one fruit-sort can you spy? Strange! And I, too, at such trouble VII. There's a great text in Galatians, Sure of heaven as sure can be, VIII. Or, my scrofulous French novel At the woeful sixteenth print, IX. Or, there's Satan !-one might venture Such a flaw in the indenture As he'd miss till, past retrieve, Blasted lay that rose-acacia We're so proud of! Hy,Zy, Hine 'St, there's Vespers! Plena gratia Ave Virgo! Gr-r-r-you swine! THE HERETIC'S TRAGEDY. A MIDDLE-AGE INTERLUDE. ... A CONCEIT OF MASTER ROSA MUNDI; SEU, FULCITE ME FLORIBUS. SUNG AT HOCK-TIDE AND FESTIVALS. (It would seem to be a glimpse from the burning of Jacques du Bourg-Molay, at Paris, A. D. 1314; as distorted by the refraction from Flemish brain to brain, during the course of a couple of centuries.) I. PREADMONISHETH THE ABBOT DEODAET. THE Lord, we look to once for all, Is the Lord, we should look at, all at once: He knows not to vary, saith St. Paul, Nor the shadow of turning, for the nonce. See him no other than as he is! Give both the infinitudes their due Infinite mercy, but, I wis, As infinite a justice too. [Organ: plagal-cadence. As infinite a justice too. II. ONE SINGETH. John, Master of the Temple of God, Till caught by Pope Clement, a-buzzing there, [And wanteth there grace of lute or clavicithern, ye shall say to confirm him who singeth— We bring John now to be burned alive. III. In the midst is a goodly gallows built; |