THE PALACE OF BRIC-À-BRAC.

(SWINBURNE)

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!