20 JANUARY 1900, Page 17

THE CONFESSION OF A CRITIC.

(LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.)

DEAR Madam, in my critic-den I dip a mercenary pen, And scribble ceaselessly for pelf : But once I wrote—to please myself.

Ah me ! the novels that I planned, The plays I wrote (they're still on hand) ; Ah me ! the hopes and fears that slipped Into each futile manuscript !

Since then, I'm grown a man of letters And sit in judgment on my betters, Who hold to what was my intent, Whose art is tragically meant, Who pin their faith to far-off years, Who stir to laughter and to tears,

Who sing the songs I'd fain have sung In the good days—when I was young.

Ah me, my verses ! Yet one gains

Perhaps a virtue youth disdains, And grows contented to acclaim

Those others rising into fame.

And, once or twice in a blue moon,

Some echo of the half-heard tune Rings in my head; then for a day I write—and do not write for pay.

And so, dear Madam, since you willed That write I should—my page is filled.

X.