At mating time the hippo’s voice Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd, But every week we hear rejoice The Church, at being one with God. The hippopotamus’s day Is past in sleep; at night he hunts; God works in a mysterious way The Church can sleep and eat at once. I saw the potamus take wing Ascending from the damp savannas, And quiring angels round him sing The praise of God in loud hosannas. Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean And him shall heavenly arms enfold, Among the saints he shall be seen Performing on a harp of gold. He shall be washed as white as snow, By all the martyr’d virgins kist, While the True Church remains below Wrapt in the old miasmal mist. A COOKING EGG _En l’an trentiesme de mon aage Que toutes mes hontes j’ay beues..._ Pipit sate upright in her chair Some distance from where I was sitting; _Views of the Oxford Colleges_ Lay on the table with the knitting. Daguerrotypes and silhouettes, Her grandfather and great great aunts, Supported on the mantelpiece An _Invitation to the Dance_. * * * * * I shall not want Honour in Heaven For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney And have talk with Coriolanus And other heroes of that kidney. I shall not want Capital in Heaven For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond: We two shall lie together, lapt In a five per cent Exchequer Bond. I shall not want Society in Heaven Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride; Her anecdotes will be more amusing Than Pipit’s experience could provide. I shall not want Pipit in Heaven: Madame Blavatsky will instruct me In the seven Sacred Trances; Piccarda de’ Donati will conduct me.... * * * * * But where is the penny world I bought To eat with Pipit behind the screen? The red-eyed scavengers are creeping From Kentish Town and Golder’s Green; Where are the eagles and the trumpets? Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps. Over buttered scones and crumpets Weeping, weeping multitudes Droop in a hundred A. B. C.’s. LUNE DE MIEL Ils ont vu les Pays-Bas, ils rentrent á Terre Haute; Mais une nuit d’été, les voici à Ravenne, A l’aise entre deux draps, chez deux centaines de punaises; La sueur estivale, et une forte odeur de chienne. Ils restent sur le dos écartant les genoux De quatre jambes molles tout gonflées de morsures. On relève le drap pour mieux égratigner. Moins d’une lieue d’ici est Sainte Apollinaire In Classe, basilique connue des amateurs De chapitaux d’acanthe que tournoie le vent.