TO R. K.

As long I dwell on some stupendous

And tremendous (Heaven defend us!)

Monstr’inform’-ingens-horrendous

Demoniaco-seraphic

Penman’s latest piece of graphic.—Browning.

WILL there never come a season

Which shall rid us from the curse

Of a prose which knows no reason,

And an unmelodious verse?—

When the world shall cease to wonder

At the genius of an Ass,

And a boy’s eccentric blunder

Shall not bring success to pass?—

When mankind shall be delivered

From the clash of magazines,

And the inkstand shall be shivered

Into countless smithereens?—

When there stands a muzzled stripling,

Mute, beside a muzzled bore?—

When the Rudyards cease from Kipling,

And the Haggards Ride no more?

J. K. Stephen.