Oh, leisurely, helmeted Bobby! Hast never with jealousy shook; Lest Mercury, Jeames in the lobby, Should chisel thee out of thy cook? Ah, mark thou what mischief is hatching, By love who doth nothing by halves; What chance hast thou, Bobby, of matching Those marvellous calves! Oh, there are more perilous places Than horrible hovering seas! Come! Radiant the area space is With the beams of the emerald cheese. Thou art bold and thy uniform nobby, But subtle are Syrens, and sweet! Oh, fiery, melodious Bobby, Come back to thy beat! _The Figaro._ October 11, 1876. ―――― FOAM AND FANGS. O, Nymph with the nicest of noses; And finest and fairest of forms; Lips ruddy and ripe as the roses That sway and that surge in the storms; O, buoyant and blooming Bacchante, Of fairer than feminine face, Rush, raging as demon of Dante―― To this, my embrace! The foam, and the fangs, and the flowers, The raving and ravenous rage, Of a poet as pinion’d in powers, As condor confined in a cage! My heart in a haystack I’ve hidden, As loving and longing I lie, Kiss open thine eyelids unbidden―― I gaze and I die! I’ve wander’d the wild waste of slaughter, I’ve sniff’d up the sepulchre’s scent, I’ve doated on devilry’s daughter, And murmur’d much more than I meant; I’ve paused at Penelope’s portal, So strange are the sights that I’ve seen, And mighty’s the mind of the mortal, Who knows what I mean! From _Patter Poems_, by WALTER PARKE, London, VIZETELLY & CO., 1885. ――――:o:―――― A MATCH. One of the cleverest parodies on Swinburne was written by the late Mr. Tom Hood, the younger, on the above named poem, and first appeared in _Fun_, whence it has frequently been copied without proper acknowledgment. The parody will be better appreciated after reading a few stanzas of the original which, as will be observed, is written in a difficult and very uncommon metre: If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather, Blown fields or flowerful closes, Green pleasure or gray grief; If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf. If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune, With double sound and single Delight our lips would mingle, With kisses glad as birds are That get sweet rain at noon; If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune. * * * * * If you were April’s lady, And I were lord in May, We’d throw with leaves for hours And draw for days with flowers, Till day like night were shady, And night were bright like day; If you were April’s lady, And I were lord in May.