POETRY.
PARADE.
TEE vapour rises, and sun shines along A promenade beneath tall trees. In vain Seek thirsting flowers to thread their crystal song Upon the liquid harpatrings of the rain.
Sweet air is honey'd with the lulling sound Of bees, gold-dusted. In the avenue Each leaf is now a lens the sun has found To focus light, and cast green shadow through Where walks Zenobia. ; her marmoset Perch'd on the shoulder, grabs at ribbon'd flowers Or ringlets of tho elders—Etiquette Is outraged, and a dowager glowers.
The marmoset plays with Zenobia's curls, Clutches the papillon's onamell'd sail ; Gesticulates with idiot hand ; unfurls, To count the piebald rings upon his tail.
Here flutter fan and feather to and fro, As eager birds caressing golden sheaves ; And like the spray of fountains, when winds blow, The froth of laughter foams among tho leaves, Till music, thin as silver wire, uncoils
—Metallic trap to trip unwary players—
A tune, ring'd like the monkey's tail ; but foils Any attempt to straighten it. ' In layers The idlers pause to watch the stage, where leap Those masked buffoons to which the old Gods sank. Over her fan Zenobia may peep At the lewd gestures of a mountebank.
The silent lime-trees drip their golden scent. Staccato shrills the puppet, waves a wand, Postures, exaggerates a sentiment.
The little ape, alone, may understand How men make Gods, and place them up above ; Then clamber up themselves to throw Gods down. Dearly pay deities for former love ; We hold them captive, make them play the clown.
Who knows but that one day men may be bound Thus to make war or love for apeish laughter, Until the world of gibbering monkeys round Quiver with laughter at our apeish slaughter ?
* • • *
Ends song and antic ; players quit the stage To the gloved silence of genteel applause. Splutters El Capitan in Spanish rage, Curses his money. Swathed in quiet, like gauze, The still world waits, until a breeze sets free Green leaves, with plucking sound of mandoline. Convulsed, the monkey capers . . . seems to see The wind, that winged God and Harlequin
Who in his bird-bright robe of leaves and flowers,
Chases a thistledown with beating wings, Then hovers high up in green shadow'd bowers —Comes down to sound the water's silver strings.
OSBEBT SITWELL.
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