Of all that to thee owe their breath;
Be thy life like the stars up above thee—
Now, come to me, death.
D. Evans.
The Weekly Dispatch. June 25, 1882.
Les Poetes s’amusent.
Swinburne chez Hugo.
The Banquet of the two distinct demigods is over. The dinner, a two-franc Palais Royal feast fit for Parnassus, came off last night; and I was there ready to watch and to wink at the matchless mouthfuls of the two mighty Masters. As these disappeared amidst rich rhythm and rhapsody, I stood in a corner, note-book in hand, mutely worshipful.
There was a hungry hush, the Elder Master had a message to deliver, and catching the reporter’s eye, did not halt or hesitate.