Tomb’d in dishonor! Not like thine own Ghoul Have I thus dug thee out, Unhappy One! For critical devouring; but some words Writ heedlessly above thee call for words Of answering rebuke. If Israfel In heaven needs his own heart-strings for his lyre―― The only organ of harmonious worth―― Shall not earth’s poet? And if he be weak, Rent by ill memories, harsh with sour desire, Untunable, rejoicing not in good, Can aught but discord issue? Speech absurd Of “art for art’s sake!” when art is not art Out of the circles of the universe, Out of the song of the eternities, Or unfit to attend the ear of God. My mocking words aim at, not thee, but those Who would strain praise for thee, disgracing Truth. [CONCLUSION OF POT-POURRI.] [Illustration] The Art Of Parody. Many good and honest souls, neither prigs nor pedants, are disposed to look with suspicion on the parody. They are not incapable of appreciating its good points; they will even allow it, when it is so, to be very good fun of its kind; but it is the _kind_ they cannot away with. Nor are they always of that sort――a numerous and flourishing sort in our day――which, being itself one monstrous parody, is naturally prone to look with dislike on all who are blessed――or cursed, as some would say――with a sense of the ridiculous. But they regard it as an abuse of the gifts both of nature and of art; as apt to degrade and vulgarize what should really elevate and refine; as itself intrinsically an injustice; and, indeed, the more unjust as it is the more skilful.