Thus never more to Chelsea might The luckless boy return, He knew himself too dreadful, quite, A thing his friends would spurn, And turn To praise some Grecian urn! But still he dwells in Borneo, A land that culture lacks, And there they all admire him so, They bring him heads in sacks, Dyacks Are _not_ æsthetic blacks! THE PALACE OF BRIC-À-BRAC. 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 manuscripts 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. We know not, and we need not To know how mortals fare, Of Bills that pass, or speed not, Time finds us unaware, Yea, creeds and codes may crumble, And Dilke and Gladstone stumble, And eat the pie that’s humble, We neither know nor care! Can kings or clergies alter The crackle on one plate? Can creeds or systems palter With what is truly great? With Corots and with Millets, With April daffodillies, Or make the maiden lilies Bloom early or bloom late? Nay, here ’midst Rhodian roses, ’Midst tissues of Cashmere, The Soul sublime reposes, And knows not hope nor fear; Here all she sees her own is, And musical her moan is, O’er Caxtons and Bodonis, Aldine and Elzevir! RONDEAUX OF THE GALLERIES. _Camelot_. IN Camelot how grey and green The Damsels dwell, how sad their teen, In Camelot how green and grey The melancholy poplars sway. I wis I wot not what they mean Or wherefore, passionate and lean, The maidens mope their loves between, Not seeming to have much to say, In Camelot. Yet there hath armour goodly sheen The blossoms in the apple treen, (To spell the Camelotian way) Show fragrant through the doubtful day, And Master’s work is often seen In Camelot! _Philistia_.