POETRY,
THE BUSY "B's."
[" tin journal do Loudres, le World, anuonce quo Mdlle. Sarah Bernhardt a recu In, commando d'un baste de Lord Benconsfield."— Figaro.]
[Air; "The harp that once thro' Tara's Hails.") •
THE art that once from Sara's hands A glorious radiance shed, Now flies with her to other lands, And leaves us cold and dead.
Yet, maiden, ere the glowing West Thy fitting palace be, Bestow on those thou once hast blest, A memory of thee.
To thee the chisel, buskin, brush, Alike their secrets yield ; Oh, bid ungrateful Europe blush, By moulding Beaconsfield !
Dear goddess of the sister-arts, Where all their cunning blends, Whose gentle hand, by fits and starts, To each, enchantment lends; That hand alone, thou peerless girl, Can shape that mystic brow ; Thine only model is the Earl, His only sculptor, thou!
But, ere thine art new lustre throw Around his curly pride,— Which wants but little here below, Already deified,—
Since his variety is such, That thou, too, must adore, Make both, by one delightful touch, Immortal evermore.
Save one, all glories are beneath Our modern Machiavel; So mould him with the Nessus-wreath Of Tracy Turnerel. H. C. M.
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