IN THE GROSVENOR GALLERY. THEY smile upon the western wall, The lips that laughed an age agone, The fops, the dukes, the beauties all, Le Brun that sang, and Carr that shone. We gaze with idle eyes: we con The faces of an elder time— Alas! and _ours_ is flitting on; Oh, moral for an empty rhyme! Think, when the tumult and the crowd Have left the solemn rooms and chill, When dilettanti are not loud, When lady critics are not shrill— Ah, think how strange upon the still Dim air may sound these voices faint; Once more may Johnson talk his fill And fair Dalrymple charm the Saint! Of us they speak as we of them, Like us, perchance, they criticise: Our wit, they vote, is Brummagem; Our beauty—dim to Devon’s eyes! Their silks and lace our cloth despise, Their pumps—our boots that pad the mud, What modern fop with Walpole vies? With St. Leger what modern blood? Ah, true, we lack the charm, the wit, Our very greatest, sure, are small; And Mr. Gladstone is not Pitt, And Garrick comes not when we call. Yet—pass an age—and, after all, Even _we_ may please the folk that look When we are faces on the wall, And voices in a history book! In Art the statesman yet shall live, With collars keen, with Roman nose; To Beauty yet shall Millais give The roses that outlast the rose: The lords of verse, the slaves of prose, On canvas yet shall seem alive, And charm the mob that comes and goes, And lives—in 1985. _A Remonstrance with the Fair_. THERE are thoughts that the mind cannot fathom, The mind of the animal male; But woman abundantly hath ’em, And mostly her notions prevail. And why ladies read what they _do_ read Is a thing that no man may explain, And if any one asks for a true rede He asketh in vain. Ah, why is each “passing depression” Of stories that gloomily bore Received as the subtle expression Of almost unspeakable lore? In the dreary, the sickly, the grimy Say, why do our women delight, And wherefore so constantly ply me With _Ships in the Night_? Dear ladies, in vain you approach us, With books to your taste in your hands; For, alas! though you offer to coach us, Yet the soul of no man understands Why the grubby is always the moral, Why the nasty’s preferred to the nice, While you keep up a secular quarrel With a gay little Vice; Yes, a Vice with her lips full of laughter, A Vice with a rose in her hair, You condemn in the present and after, To darkness of utter despair: But a sin, if no rapture redeem it, But a passion that’s pale and played out, Or in surgical hands—you esteem it Worth scribbling about!