BEAUTIES OF BOLOGNA.
Not those, along the route prescribed To see them in a hurry, Church, palace, gallery, described By worthy Mr. Murray. Nor those detailed as well by whom But Baedeker, the German; The choir, the nave, the font, the tomb, The pulpit for the sermon. No tourist traps which tire you out, A never-ending worry; Most interesting things, no doubt, Described by Mr. Murray. Nor yet, O gastronomic mind— In cookery a boss, sage In recipes—you will not find, I mean Bologna sausage. Not beauties, which, perhaps, you class With your own special curry; Not beauties, which we must not pass If led by Mr. Murray. I sing—alas, how very ill!— Those beauties of the city, The praise of whose dark eyes might fill A much more worthy ditty. O, Ladies of Bologna, who The coldest heart might flurry, I much prefer to study you Than Baedeker or Murray! Those guide-book sights no longer please; Three hours still, tre ore, I have to lounge and look at these Bellissime signore. Then slow express—South Western goes Much faster into Surrey— Will take me off to other shows Described by Mr. Murray. But still, Signore, there will be, By your sweet faces smitten, One Englishman who came to see What Baedeker has written. Let Baedeker then see the lot In frantic hurry-scurry. I've found some beauties which are not Described by Mr. Murray.
CLIO AT SALCOMBE.
(Funeral of James Anthony Froude.)
Scarce Clio's self, calm-soul'd historic Muse, Praise to her fiery votary may refuse, Though lacking somewhat the judicial poise Of clear mind unperturbed by faction's noise, And creed's fanatic clamour, valued most But her who heads the grave recording host. His vivid pictures live; his virile touch (Though oft of the too little or too much Ardently heedless in his passionate flow Of words that wake and thoughts that warmly glow), Quickens the past, and moves the patriot heart Of British manhood. His the stylist's part, The partisan's impressiveness. He missed The highest height, clear, cloudless, morning-kissed. But long will he be dear to those who love The picturings that charm, the words that move; And the grave Muse may well let fall a tear, And lay her tribute laurel on his bier.
Neat and Appropriate.—To the Prowlina Prys and their allies, the Visiting Injustices, may be addressed the ancient charge made against certain spies, "Nay, but to see the nakedness of the land have ye come."
