Alas for the going of swiftness, for the feet of the running of thee, When thou wentest among the swords, and the shoutings of Captain’s made shrill! Woe is me for the pleasant places! yea, one shall say of thy glee, “It is not,” and as for delight the feet of thy dancing are still. _Translation._ Where are those eyes that were so mild When of my heart you me beguiled? Why did you skedaddle from me and the child? O, Johnnie, I hardly knew you. Where are those legs with which you run When first you went to shoulder the gun? Indeed, your dancing days are done―― O, Johnnie, I hardly knew you. R. Y. TYRRELL. From _A Book of Jousts_. London, Field and Tuer. ―――― In _The World_ Christmas Number, 1879, there was an exquisite satire on Mr. Burne Jones’s art entitled “The God and the Damosel”; it was accompanied by the following verses, and a prose criticism (too long to quote in full) written in imitation of the intensely Æsthetic jargon familiar to the frequenters of the Grosvenor Gallery. To fully appreciate the poem and the criticism, the burlesque picture by Mr. E. B. T. Burnt Bones should be seen, once seen it could never be forgotten. THE GOD AND THE DAMOSEL. _By A. C. Sinburn._ THE GOD. Look in my face, and know me who I am. I smite and save; I bless, and, lo, I damn. Incline thine head, thy browless brow incline; I touch thee, and I tap thee, and proclaim, For ever and for ever thou art mine! O long as grief, and leaner than desire! O sweet retreating breasts and amorous-kissing knees! O grace and goodliness of strait attire! A robe of them who sport in summer seas. By these, and by the eyelids of thine eyes, Ringed round with darkness, swollen weeper-wise, By these I know thee; these are for a sign, Surer, yea, even than thy most splendid size Of spreaden hands: I know thee, thou art mine. THE DAMOSEL. Master and lord, I know thee who thou art; Lo, and with homage of the stricken heart, I hail thee, I adore thee, and obtest: I am thine own, I know no better part; Do with me, master, as thee seemeth best. O loose as thought and bodiless as dream! O globular grand eyes, a bane of maidenhood! O miracle of tunic-folds, that seem Self-balanced, firm, a glory of carven wood! By these, and by the crown thy temples wear, Holy, a cauline flower of wondrous hair; By thy red mouth, a bow without a chord, And shaftless, yea, but deadly, O most fair, I knew thee, and I know thee for my lord! THE GOD. Ay, now the flicker of a nauseate smile Bestirs thy cheek and wan lips imbecile; Thy pale plucked blossom droops; its day is done. THE DAMOSEL.