A Very Woful Ballade of the Art Critic

(TO E. A. ABBEY.)

A SPIRIT came to my sad bed,
And weary sad that night was I,
Who’d tottered, since the dawn was red,
Through miles of Grosvenor Gallery,
Yea, leagues of long Academy
Awaited me when morn grew white,
’Twas then the Spirit whispered nigh,
“Take up the pen, my friend, and write!

“Of many a portrait grey as lead,
Of many a mustard-coloured sky,
Say much, where little should be said,
Lay on thy censure dexterously,
With microscopic glances pry
At textures, Tadema’s delight,
Praise foreign swells they always sky,
Take up the pen, my friend, and write!”

I answered, “’Tis for daily bread,
A sorry crust, I ween, and dry,
That still, with aching feet and head,
I push this lawful industry,
’Mid pictures hung or low, or high,
But, touching that which I indite,
Do artists hold me lovingly?
Take up the pen, my friend, and write.”

The Spirit writeth in form of