'Twas almost dusk; the galleries
Lay silent and deserted
Where happy knots of twos and threes
Had wondered, talked, and flirted;
Where, armed with buns and catalogues,
The country-bred relations
Had criticised, appraised, despised
The art of many nations.
No more the rigid censor viewed
With hearty disapproval
Athenian statues in the nude,
Demanding their removal;
No more the cultured connoisseur,
Whom nothing new amazes,
The very old designs extolled
In very modern phrases.
Yet two remained; a youth and maid
Still lingered in the section
Where Egypt's treasures lie displayed
For popular inspection;
They talked in whispers, and although
The subject dear to some is,
They did not seem to take as theme
The obelisks and mummies.
An Art more ancient far, one thinks,
Was that they talked of lightly,
Compared with which the hoary Sphinx
Seems juvenile and sprightly;
Young as the very latest tale,
Old as the oldest stories,
It kept them there, this happy pair,
That Art--the _ars amoris_!
The mummies round them seemed to smile,
Ah, long ago, one fancies,
Those withered faces by the Nile
Had known their own romances.
The old-world gods have passed away,
Osiris lies forsaken,
But Love alone retains his throne
Unquestioned and unshaken!
* * * * *
LEX TALIONIS.--Mr. LANG, turned speculative law-giver, suggests that we
should tax literature. Well, that's only _quid_ (or so much in the
"quid") _pro quo_; seeing how literature (lots of it) taxes us. A high
rate on literary rubbish would yield "pretty pickings," especially if
the producers thereof were allowed to "rate" each other! In this age of
sloppiness, sniff and snippets there is a lot of "literature" which
should be tariffed off the face of the earth.
* * * * *