How scathingly does he denounce our Literature degenerate,
With not a real Romancer left—or only two at any rate!
By "desperate expedients," each the old tradition carries on—
"But it's no good"—as they're informed by Mr. Frederic Harrison.
For Mr. Stevenson can write no stories worth hurraying at,
While he upon Pacific Isle persists in Crusoe playing at!
And Mr. Kipling's ceased to count—no heart in what he does is there—
He longs for death in far Soudan, a-fighting Fuzzy-Wuzzies there!
So we've only Mr. Meredith—(oh, what a sad disgrace it is!)
Though Mr. Blackmore writes romance—how poor and commonplace it is!