So must the sinewy Centaur snort and rear, As some sweet maiden-mare trots wickedly Across his pagan path, burning his very heart; Flicking the flies from off her heaving flanks, The amorous flies who fill their lips with blood; And while his life-blood riots in his hocks, She spreads her cunning heels and whisks her tail; Then kicks the bitter sand into his eyes, Still gazing smarting on the supple form―― For I have felt a joy new-born to pain! For I have seen that silken syren glide Across the desert, hight old Astley’s Fane. My breast could hardly flutter as she came Bare-backed before my timorous sight; my nails Curved inward to my palms, and such a sweet Soft tremor crept around my nervous knees. I swooned but for the kindly guardian of the box, Who brought me welcome water at my wish, And damped my throbbing temples. On my bed I rolled and rioted in frenzied fret, For turn howe’er I would, upon the walls, Across the sheets, the beauteous Ada rode, Scenting the air with black-head clustering hair, Loading the senses with soft-thrilling sighs; While through the rosy lips pale pearls of teeth Flashed hungrily. Strapped to her showy steed, She bites her charger in the side, till lips Run red with the brave beast’s blood; and as the sting Of her small fangs urges his wild career, So this hot flame that chars me to the bones, Spreads out the fire of jealousy, and cries, Mazeppa flies across the sea to greet Great Athos-Porthos-Aramis. ――――:o:―――― On page 9, an imitation of Mr. Swinburne’s style written by Mr. Walter Parke, was given; the following, which is a parody of _Dolores_, appears in “Lays of the Saintly,” (London, Vizetelly & Co.), a clever work written by the same gentleman:―― ST. SIMEON STYLITES. * * * * * Talking of bards, one day a pagan poet Approach’d the pillar, and began to sing; The blessed Simeon could not choose but know it, So high the minstrel pitch’d his voice and string. This bard was Greek in sentiment and style; A Venus-worshipper――profuse of curses On those who deem’d his ethics loose and vile: I give you a translation of his verses:―― _Stylites._ “Closed eyelids that hide like a shutter, Hard eyes that have visions apart, The grisly gaunt limbs, and the utter And deadly abstraction of heart; Whence all that is joyous and bright is Expell’d as both vicious and vain O, stony and stolid Stylites, Our Patron of Pain!” “There can be but warfare between us, For thine is a spiritual creed, And mine is the worship of Venus, On “raptures and roses” I feed; Self-torture’s thine only employment, We both feel the bliss and the bane, For woe will oft spring from enjoyment, Our Patron of Pain!”