Οίμοι! that I can never be a poet Modelled on spoon-fed college Adonäises, Whose metres reek of Porson, Jebb, and Jowett, Whose very thoughts derive from donnish däises. Alas! for us who, writing life, must know it-- Its sights, its scents, its ladies, lords, and Läises. Alas! for my refusal to disseminate-- Even in verse--the scholarly-effeminate. And oh! ten thousand times alas, should Jill Be recognised in these Parnassian pages. Woe for the libel action, and the bill Which he must face who in the law engages. And ah! thank Heaven for a metric skill That shields this head from Justice Darling’s rages ... Safeguarded by thy last experience, G. Moore, I maiden-name my lady--Lewis-Seymour. IV. _In which the author, contrary to custom, Goes for the gloves--as Sohrab went for Rustum._ I have discovered, after much perusal Of Cannan, George Mackenzie, Walpole, Bennett, A Law whose discipline brooks no refusal,-- A neo-rheo-literary tenet Which runs: “In art, forbear to pick and choose. All That happens, happens. Wherefore, up and pen it! Let the scribe’s tale be casual and cursory; End where you like--but start us in the nursery.” And so I fain had traced, through many a canto, My heroine; all dimples in her cot; Bored with her lessons; laughing at the panto.; Immersed in “Fauntleroy” or Walter Scott: But, since green herbs from memory’s _campo santo_ Provide no flavouring for satire’s pot, For seething, bubbling cauldron such as this is, I’ll skip the skipping-rope and jump to kisses. * * * * * ’Tis such a night as only London knew In the full seasons of our heart’s content-- When, like some fairy pageant in review, Love, Pleasure, Luxury together blent, Made life not all too boring for the Few; And Unemployment, fix’t at ten per cent., Furnished--by all means of charity bazaars-- Right many a dame with perquisites and “pars.” London, in London’s June! Above, the starshine: Below, against the rails of Berkeley Square, The patient lights of brougham, or rarer car, shine-- Waiting stiff-shirted squires and ladies fair: Music, from high French windows that afar shine, Thrills, till a dancer well might curse and swear, And call himself a “dashed unlucky fella” To miss the Lewis-Seymour’s Cinderella.