CONCERNING A MISUSED TERM;
viz., "Art" as recently applied to a certain form of Literature.
Is this, then, "Art"—ineffable conceit,
Plus worship of the Sadi-tainted phrase,
Of pseud-Hellenic decadence, effete,
Unvirile, of debased Petronian ways?
Is this your "Culture," to asphyxiate
With upas-perfume sons of English race,
With manhood-blighting cant-of-art to prate,
The jargon of an epicene disgrace?
Shall worse than pornographic stain degrade
The name of "Beauty," Heav'n-imparted dower?
Are they fit devotees, who late displayed
The symbol of a vitriol-tinted flower?
And shall the sweet and kindly Muse be shamed
By unsexed "Poetry" that defiles your page?
Has Art a mission that may not be named,
With "scarlet sins" to enervate the age?
All honour to the rare and cleanly prints,
Which have not filled our homes from day to day
With garbage-epigrams and pois'nous hints
How æsthete-hierophants fair Art betray!
If such be "Artists," then may Philistines
Arise, plain sturdy Britons as of yore,
And sweep them off and purge away the signs
That England e'er such noxious offspring bore!
The Cry of the Free Library Frequenter.—A Cheap Loaf.