Methought that I was on what's called "a spree," Yet sadly pensive in the motley throng. Where thrills through clouds of smoke the melody Of idiotic song; Where youth with tipsy rapture drowns in beer All common sense, votes decency a bore, But, to the shapely limbs and sensuous leer, Yells out a loud "Encore--" Then flashed before me in the gaslights' glare A form to make the boldest hold his breath, She, who by reckless leapings in mid air, Plays pitch and toss with Death. Shame on the gaping crowds who only know Sensation in the chance of broken necks! Shame on the manliness that cries "Bravo" To such a scorn of sex! I saw that now, since License holds such sway, The comic muse her false position feels, And that her sister may not gain the day, Has taken to her heels. And then methought I stood in fairy bowers, Where Dulness hides behind the mask of Fun, Where tin-foil and Dutch metal do for flowers, And lime-light is the sun; Where Art groans under an unseemly ban, And airy nothings pass for full attire, The Stage appeals but to the baser man, And th' only blush, Red Fire! * * * * * Then starting I awoke from my nightmare. A nightmare? No! the truth came clear to me. I'd dream'd the truth--bare facts (O much too bare!) And stern reality. * * * * * An Extract from the original MARGARET. O, SWEET pale Margaret, O, rare pale Margaret, What lit your eyes with tearful power, Like moonlight on a falling shower? Who lent you, love, your mortal dower Of pensive thought and aspect pale, Your melancholy sweet and frail As perfume of the cuckoo-power? * * * * * What can it matter, Margaret, What songs below the waning stars The lion-heart, Plantagenet, Sang, looking thro' his prison bars? Exquisite Margaret, who can tell The last wild thought of Chatelet, Just ere the fallen axe did part The burning brain from the true heart, Even in her sight he loved so well? * * * * * MARY ANN. _(After Mr. Tennyson's "Margaret.")_ O, slipshod Mary Ann, O, draggled Mary Ann, What gives your arms such fearful power To raise the dust in blinding shower? Who gave you strength, your mortal dower, To beat the mats as with a flail. To lift with ease that heavy pail?