So, gat me to the oaken, gnarlèd man, That sat within the sounding-gate, half-wrapt, Encumbered by three-cornered phantasies, Hard-lipped, and low’ring like an autumn sky When winter jostles in before his time, Powdering his silvern breath against the brown. Now, thought I, if mayhap by time or tide, Or swiftly confluent imaginings, Or great Potentialities (which thrive On weakness,――for the doubtful gains on doubt As doubt grows yet more weakly in its doubt!) I may achieve to speech with this old man, Tho’ barrel-hooped with yellow waistcloth,――propped By king’s-cord on the nether, nerveless knees, He seems yet unattainable: the sky, Th’ imponderate vast æther――every star Have by the climbing-ladder brain of man Been searched and labelled. Nature, once so coy, Has yielded to her noble ravisher, And I, BARPARLO, in whose pulses run The golden blood of fearless ancestors, Will――must――bespeak this rustic sage, or die! But now the old man sudden turned, and so He spied me, and with scoop’d hand to his ear Attentive listened, glow’ring as I spoke. “Oh, age! Conglomerate youth! For such is age, If age _be_ age amid the ages! For The ages know not age, but ever run In youth――yet youthless, for they bring us age―― Why sit you in the sun that sinks to show Man’s self a parable; not inchoate Like something self-revolving on itself To something pre-sublime, co-ordinate With the eternal justice of the Poles!” To whom, with bitter smile, the enraptured sage Curling a blue spire from his hollow clay―― “Oh, ax the Parson. _I_ don’t know no French!” _Judy._ July 7, 1880. ――――:o:―――― Parodies of Mr. Browning’s poem “Wanting is――What?” in _Jocoseria_. BROWNING IS――WHAT? Browning is――what? Talent redundant, Verbiage abundant, ――Where is his blot? Beaming his verses, but blank all the same. ――Framework that waits for some reason to frame: What of his meaning?――Strive for an hour―― Posies unreal, grapes that are sour! No neatness, completeness, O lyrical mummer! Panting for vagueness, unmusical strummer! Breathe o’er thy lyre, Apollo! and thence Into his mire Throw life, throw sense, Throw sense! H. W. HANCOCK. LOVING IS――WHAT? Loving is――what? Nothing material, Essence ethereal. ――Say, is it not? More than a myth, yet unreal all the same. ――Vapour electric with passion and flame; What is love’s glory, what is love’s power? Something devouring what nought can devour! Love, then, content discontentment, O lover! Feast on the phantom round which you hover! Feed on the gleam Revealed from above, For youth’s fervid dream Is life, is love, Is love! CHARLES A. COOPER.