"Behold! ye cliques; one moment spare the text! HALL CAINE'S last work, and worst--until his next! Whether he drafts his 'sagas' into plays, Or damns his brother authors with faint praise, His elephantine style is still the same, Forever turgid, and forever tame. Boom for the 'Scapegoat'! it has been re-writ To suit the measure of the critics' wit; 'Bondsman' and 'Deemster' tweak each other's toes, And as a spurious 'genius' Caine doth pose, Taking himself and all his books on trust, And getting photographed with Shakespeare's bust! "Another book of verses? Who again Inflicts rhymed doggerel on the sons of men? 'Tis Orient KIPLING, the reviewers' boast, The darling of the Anglo-Indian coast, Who, on cheap praise and cheaper conquest bent, Imports slang 'notions' from the soldier's tent, And crams his lines with 'Tommy Atkins' here And 'Tommy Atkins' diction everywhere-- 'Barrack-Room Ballads!' come, who'll buy! who'll buy! The precious bargain's low! 'i faith, not I! For RUDYARD'S verse, despite his 'boom,' is flat, Though critics bloat him with 'log-rollers'' fat-- O RUDYARD KIPLING! Phoebus! What a name To fill the speaking-trump of future fame! O RUDYARD KIPLING, for a moment think What 'chancey' profits spring from pen and ink! Thy name already tires the public ear, One shilling for thy 'Tales' seems monstrous dear; For though they make a decent show of print The book as book of worth has 'nothing in 't'. O RUDYARD KIPLING! cease to scribble rhymes, And stick to ARTHUR WALTER of the _Times_; As 'Special Correspondent' or 'Our Own,' But for God's sake leave Poesy alone; Scratch not the surface of the mystic East With flippant pen dipped in reporter's yeast, For India's riddle is a riddle still In spite of any 'Plain Tale from a Hill,' The silent griefs of conquered tribes and nations Are not explained in military flirtations, Or 'ditties departmental,' trite of style, (Any 'jongleur' could scrawl them by the mile;) As 'Light that Failed,' thy race is nearly run, Thy goose is cooked; thy stuffing's over-done! "Lo, great 'Thucydides' of Samoa's isle Relieves his inspiration and his bile, And o'er the rolling ocean wide and deep Sends the _chef-d'œuvres_ that make his readers sleep. The 'Wrecker' comes and ponderously heaves O'er weary brains its soothing weight of leaves, And those who never knew that joy before Yield to the peaceful pleasure of the snore, And drowse in chairs at clubs in open day, Just as they drowsed o'er 'classic' 'Ballantrae.' Hail to 'Thucydides'! and hail the pen That writes him up above all other men; For sleep's a blessing, and whate'er may hap His works ensure a harmless, perfect nap.