"Then o'er my dream a daintier figure came, Whose voice was music, and her gesture grace The fire of genius frets her tender frame, And lights her girlish face. "In foreign tones she murmurs, 'O, the bliss Of art that triumphs on a perfect stage; The thunders of applause, and e'en the hiss That tells of Envy's rage!'" * * * * * A parody on the same original, entitled _A Dream of Great Players_ (in reference to Lawn Tennis) appeared, on the 13th February, 1884, in _Pastime_, an ably conducted journal, devoted to out-door games and recreations. Unlike most of the sporting papers, _Pastime_ has a distinctly literary tone, and publishes, from time to time, clever parodies of our modern poets. Two have appeared on Tennyson's blank verse, the first (June 29, 1883), entitled _A Fragment of the Lost Tennisiad;_ the second, which was much longer, appeared in the number for July 27, 1883, and commenced thus:-- THE LAY OF THE SEVENTH TOURNAMENT. All the long week Lawn-tennis balls had rolled On the green sward beside the echoing line, Until the last and stateliest of the crowd Of players there competing, Donald Stewart, Had fallen at Wimbledon before his foe, Ernest: the last, because his skill was great, They hailed the winner of the All-comers' prize. And graced with large reward and honour meet. One struggle yet remained,--Ernest with William, Renshaw with Renshaw, must at last contend, Equal alike in name and age,--well matched In strength and skill,--there lightly-clad they stood, Brother confronting brother,--and the net Betwixt them. High above them blazed The goblet, carved with curious imagery, Unknown save to the initiate, but to these Pregnant with meaning, mystic, magical, Prize of the great Lawn-tennis championship, Which in its deep capacious womb concealed A thirsty man's allowance long withheld: This twice had William gained in equal fight, Winner of two successive tournaments; And, could he claim the prize but once again, 'Twere his for ever. Therefore hither came From Wimbledon and Putney, and the lands Which lie across the silver stream of Thames, From far Tyburnia and Belgravian halls, The strength and manhood of our lusty youth, The grace and beauty of our matchless maids, Clothed in rich raiment flashing on the sward In hues that mocked the butterfly, and made The rainbow colourless--satin and silk, Cambric, and lawn, and muslin virginal: Haply, there also whatsoe'er of strange Elise, or Worth, or Harberton devise, The wizards of adornment,--mystic shapes Dual or indivisible,--the awed bard Shrinks into silence. * * * * * THE BACHELOR'S RETURN. _A Vere de Vere-isimilitude._