And the streaming window again engages The thoughts that stray from the field of Prague; And the moping birds in their gauze-girt cages, And the wax-work fruits of a genus vague; And the flies that buzz like a lazy plague Round the lone lorn jam, as it stands forsaken; And the varnished pike in the mill-pool taken About the year that they fought at Prague. But twilight falls, and its folds encumber The misty mounds of the patient trees, And sunset cheers with a touch of umber The puddles of steel-gray Gruyère cheese. And, interposing a little ease, Our frail thoughts dally with false surmises Of a morning as brilliant as mid July's is With bravest sunshine and sweetest breeze. A soothing silence the soul surprises, For the little Maid, like a hero true, Has fought her fight through its poignant crises, And shown what practice can dare and do. And, tearing the moonlight in handfuls through, A giant arm in the cloudland sombre Scatters the light on a world of slumber, Through snowy craters, from gulfs of blue. * * * * * BOGEY IN BOND STREET. (_A Legend of the Grosvenor Gallery._) [Illustration] The Spirit of Art glided through the streets of Modern London, seeking a resting-place. She entered the Diploma Gallery of the Royal Academy, but hurried away, affrighted at some of the terrible examples of the illustrious Forty. "And these are the greatest English painters!" she murmured--"the countrymen of SHAKSPEARE, MILTON, and ADDISON, TENNYSON, MACAULAY, and DICKENS! How is it that Painting cannot keep pace with Literature?" It sounded like a Conundrum, and the Spirit of Art was not good at Conundrums. So she gave it up. Then she passed into other Exhibitions--there were quite a dozen in the neighbourhood at the very least. But she was unsatisfied, and came away. She paused, and considered. The Spirit of Art had one great English friend (of Irish extraction), who was a Musician. "ARTHUR is a clever fellow," said the Spirit of Art to herself--there was no one else to speak to--"and if he _does_ compose more comic Operas than Oratorios, it is, I suppose, because there is a greater demand for the former than the latter." From this it will be seen the Spirit of Art had, on the whole, a good head for business. "Now," continued the Representative of the Beautiful, "I distinctly recollect that the words to one of the songs of my friend ARTHUR contained a pointed reference to the Greenery Yallery Gallery. I fancy, from all I have heard, that the sort of thing I want will be found in the Greenery Yallery Gallery." She was quite pleased at the notion. To tell the truth the Spirit of Art was rather weary of perambulating the streets of London--not even the advertisements of BUFFALO BILL on the hoardings gave her lasting satisfaction.