Is not this the First Lord of your choice? Sure its time that you put him to bed, For the kingdom is seared by his fires, O fools; He was Lord, and is dead. You will hear not again his fine speaking, His sophistry now as before And the tone of his wonderful lying will Humbug your senses no more; By the party he ruled as his slave, is he Slain who was mighty to slay; And the stigma that rests on his name He can raise not, nor roll it away. He is choked by his raiment of lies, Now the wane of his power is come; Truth hears he, and heeds not; and facts, And he sees not; and taunts, and is dumb. Power and will hath he none of it left him Nor truth in his breath; Till his name be struck out of the lists Will ye know not the truth of his death! Surely, ye say, he is strong, but the _Times_ Is ’gainst him and Parnell; Wait a little, ye say――nay too long He has made our fair island a hell; Let him then die, as all must die, that Use treason thus as a rod; Let him fade from the ranks of his Party Take his foot from the neck that he trod. They cry out, his elect, his seekers for Office, who cling to his shame, They call him sweet light of his Party; They call him their Lord, by his name; The name that is written in Egypt, And in Africa stained by retreat, That name by our enemies loved, but Scorned by our army and fleet. He answers them not――he is fallen, Political death his reward, He is smitten! behold, he is smitten! As though by the stroke of a sword. The Conservative cause is triumphant, And peace and prosperity brings So glory to that in the highest, The healer and mender of things. F.A.C. _The St. Stephen’s Review_, May 28, 1887. ――――:o:―――― In _Rhymes à la Mode_, by Mr. Andrew Lang (Kegan, Paul, Trench & Co., London, 1883), there are also two good parodies of Swinburne. In one, the “Palace of Bric-à-Brac,” the exquisite diction and appropriate rhythm of the “Garden of Proserpine,” are most amusingly caricatured:―― “Here, where old Nankin glitters, Here, where men’s tumult seems As faint as feeble twitters Of sparrows heard in dreams, We watch Limoges enamel, An old chased silver camel, A shawl, the gift of Schamyl, And manuscript in reams. Here, where the hawthorn pattern On flawless cup and plate Need fear no housemaid slattern, Fell minister of fate, ’Mid webs divinely woven, And helms and hauberks cloven, On music of Beethoven We dream and meditate.” * * * * * But all lovers of dainty books and quaint old world _ballades_ will go to the fountain head to taste this stream. ――――