Dull verse, queer style, dim tropes and rhythm, telling Us nought; One looks for sense and shape in song, compelling Sweet thought! In this what thought there is all clouded o’er Abides, And ev’ry one the more he reads the more Derides! The words start, jump and jerk, and rise and fall So funny, That one endures, yet deems such stuff is all For money! A poet’s thoughts should please in all their stages. This lay Seems cobbled up to find a home in pages That pay. But thought and rhythm flighty have this time Gone wrong, Though splendid once his speech, and oft sublime His song! (Remembrance tells the powers of poet-souls Wax hoary) This song may give him guineas, but enrols No glory! HERBERT L. GOULD. Highly commended:―― THE LADIES. Faces we see that make amends for many Most plain, When English girls seem sweeter e’en than any From Spain, Beauty had not been rare with us, or quelled In Greece, Had Tom Moore sung not, or Anacreon held His peace. Had Aphrodite never cleft the sea, In splendour, Our modern belles would still as winsome be And tender. And so these girls of gentle air and manner Delight: Who lovelier looks than Hilda, as you scan her? Sweet sight! The gleam that shines from every golden tress, Whose wealth The sunbeam kisses, or the winds caress By stealth. Hair, lips, and eyes, with which our nymphs prepare For action―― What were they, did no _esprit_ give them rare Attraction? Dead lips, dead eyes, dead silken tresses, telling Men nought; Wit only gives them life and soul and dwelling In thought. In memory must their grace endure, their spell Abide: Else were their sway a thing that we might well Deride. The “darlings” flirt, sigh, smile, wax old, with none To cherish; Their hope endures, though charms fail one by one And perish. In faces sweet seek all men consolation; Our “fair” Laugh, lisp, and lighten life, and find flirtation A snare. But wit and soul are mightier things than Time Can wrong, Linked with a silv’ry voice that is sublime In song. Dreams of fair girls illume, like stars on pall, Life’s story; Give rapture rare, and our soft slumbers all Their glory. F. B. DOVETON.