_ON HIS EIGHTY-SECOND BIRTHDAY, AUGUST 6, 1891._
Ay! "After many a summer dies the Swan."[1]
But singing dies, if we may trust the Muse.
And sweet thou singest as when fully ran
Youth's flood-tide. Not to thee did Dawn refuse
The dual gift. Our new Tithonus thou,
On whom the indignant Hours work not their will,
Seeing that, though old age may trench thy brow,
It cannot chill thy soul, or mar thy skill.
Aurora's rosy shadows bathe thee yet,
Nor coldy. "Give me immortality!"
Tithonus cried, and lingered to regret
The careless given boon. Not so with thee.
Such immortality is thine as clings
To "happy men that have the power to die."
The Singer lives on whilst the Song he sings
Charms the world's heart. Such immortality
Is better than unending lapse of years.
For that the great god-gift, Eternal Youth,
Accompanies it; the failures, the chill fears
Tithonus knew thou may'st be spared in truth,
Seeing that thine Aurora's quickening breath
Lives in thee whilst thou livest, so that thou
Needst neither dread nor pray for kindly Death,
Like "that grey shadow once a man." And now,
Great Singer, still we wish thee length of days,
Song-power unslackened, and unfading bays!
[Footnote 1: "_Tithonus_."]
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[Illustration: VICISSITUDES OF A RISING PERIODICAL.
_The Proprietor_. "I'LL TELL YOU WHAT IT IS, SHARDSON, I'M GETTING
SICK OF THE 'OLE BLOOMIN' SHOW! _THE KNACKER_ AIN'T SELLING A
SCRAP--NO NOTICE TOOK OF US ANYWHERE--NOT A BLOOMIN' ADVERTISEMENT!
AND YET THERE AIN'T 'ARDLY A LIVIN' ENGLISHMAN OF MARK, FROM TENNYSON
DOWNWARDS, AS WE 'AVEN'T SHOWN UP AND PITCHED INTO, AND DRAGGED 'IS
NAME IN THE MUD!"
_The Editor_. "DON'T LET'S THROW UP THE SPONGE YET, OLD MAN! LET'S
GIVE THE DEAD 'UNS A TURN--LET'S HAVE A SHY AT THACKERAY, BROWNING,
GEORGE ELIOT, OR, BETTER STILL, LET'S BESPATTER GENERAL GORDON AND
CARDINAL NEWMAN A BIT,--_THAT_ OUGHT TO FETCH 'EM A FEW, AND BRING US
INTO NOTICE!"]
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WHAT HOE! RAIKES!--When King RICHARD--no, beg his pardon, Mr. RICHARD
KING--says, as quoted in the _Times_, "That he can only assume that
Mr. RAIKES purposely availed himself of a technicality to cover a
statement which was a palpable _suggestio falsi_," he throws something
unpleasant into the teeth of RAIKES. It is as well to remember that
rakes have teeth.
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"LATINÉ DOCTUS."--A Cantab, neither a first-rate sailor nor a
first-class classic, arrived at Calais after a rough passage, looking,
as his friend, who met him on the _quai_, observed, "so changed he
would hardly have known him." "That's it," replied the staggering
graduate, "_quantum mutatus ab billow!_" Oh! he must have been bad!
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