" Crudelis adhuc ... muneribus potens "

O cruel until now, mighty in Venus' gifts,
When unexpected falls thy feathery pride
And all the locks that hide
Thy shoulders now, be shent,
And colour that outdoes the Punic rose,
Show but an ashen face, O Ligurine,
Thou shalt say,

To see thyself so altered in thy glass :

" Alas, the day,

" Why had I of these thoughts no trace

" In youth, or why to-day

" These thoughts that have no face ? "

ON THE MARRIAGE OF WILLIAM HAWKINS, AN IMAGINATIVE POETASTER OF HACKNEY

He had never seen the woman ;

Clamouring about the Acanthus

he put his head in the trap.

The turmoil of the immagination

obscuring exterior objects,

Even four years acquaintance

had not warned him what he was in for.

MR. STYRAX

1.

Mr Hecatomb Styrax, the owner of a large estate
and of large muscles,

A blue" and a climber of mountains, has married
at the age of 28,

He being at that age a virgin,

The term "virgo" being made male in mediaeval latinity;
His ineptitudes

Have driven his wife from one religious excess to another.

She has abandoned the vicar

For he was lacking in vehemence;

She is now the high-priestess

Of a modern and ethical cult,

And even now Mr Styrax

Does not believe in aesthetics.

2.

His brother has taken to gipsies,

But the son-in-law of Mr. H. Styrax

Objects to perfumed cigarettes.

In the parlance of Niccolo Macchiavelli,
" Thus things procede in their circle ";
And thus the empire is maintained.

CLARA

At sixteen she was a potential celebrity
With a distaste for caresses.
She now writes to me from a convent;
Her life is obscure and troubled;
Her second husband will not divorce her;
Her mind is , as ever, uncultivated,
And no issue presents itself.
She does not desire her children,
Or any more children.
Her ambition is vague and indefinite,
She will neither stay in, nor come out.

SOIREE

Upon learning that the mother wrote verses,
And that the father wrote verses,
And that the youngest son was in a publisher's office,
And that the friend of the second daughter
was undergoing a novel,
The young American pilgrim
Exclaimed :

" This is a darn'd clever bunch ! "

## Sketch 48 b. 11.

At the age of 27

Its home mail is still opened by its maternal parent,
And its office mail may be opened by

its parent of the opposite gender.

It is an officer,

and a gentleman,

and an architect.

## " Nodier racconte ...... "

At a friend of my wife's there is a photograph,
A faded, pale, brownish photograph

Of the times when the sleeves were large,
Silk, stiff and large above the lacertus,

That is, the upper arm,

And decollete ....

It is a lady

She sits at a harp,

Playing,

And by her left foot, in a basket,

Is an infant, aged about 14 months,

The infant beams at the parent,

The parent re-beams at its offspring.

The basket is lined with satin,

There is a satin-like bow on the harp.

2.

Nodier Racconte ( continued )

2.
And in the home of the novelist
There is a satin-like bow on an harp.

You enter and pass hall after hall
And conservatory follows conservatory,
Lilies lift their white symbolical cups,
Their symbolical pollen is excerpted,
Near them I noticed an harp
And the blue satin ribbon,
And the copy of " Hatha Yoga "
And the neat piles of unopened, unopening books,
And she spoke to me of the monarch,
And of the purity of her soul.

STELE

After years of continence

he hurled himself into a sea of six women,
Now quenched as the brand of Meleagar
He lies by the poluphloisbios sea-coat

(CHINA PARA THALASSIA POLUPHLOISBOIO)

Siste Viator !

I VECCHII

They will come no more,
The old men with beautiful manners.

Il etait comme un tout petit garçon
With his blouse full of apples
And sticking out all the way round;
Blageur ! " Con gli occhi onesti e tardi ",

And he said :
" Oh ! Abelard . " as if the topic
Were much too abstruse for his comprehension,
And he said talked about " the Great Mary ",
And said : " Mr Pound is shocked at my levity ",
When it turned out he meant Mrs Ward.

And the other was rather like my bust by Gaudier,
Or like a real Texas colonel,
He said : " Why flay dead horses ?
" There once was a man called Voltaire. "

And he said they used to cheer Verdi,
In Rome, after the opera,
And the guards couldn't stop them,
And that was an anagram for Vittorio

Emanuele Re D' Italia,

And the guards couldn't stop them.

Old men with beautiful manners,
Sitting in the Row of a morning,
Walking on the Chelsea Embankment.