In old days of Art the painter much applause would surely win,
  When he showed us Saint Cecilia playing on the violin.

  I’ve no skill of brush and palette like those unforgotten men;
  My Cecilia must content herself with an unworthy pen.

  Fairy fingers flash before me as the bow sweeps o’er each string;
  Like the organ’s vox humana, Hark! the instrument can sing.

  That sonata of TARTINI’s in my ears will linger long;
  It might be some prima donna scaling all the heights of song.

  Every string a different language speaks beneath her skilful sway. 
  Does the shade of Paganini hover over her to-day?

  All can feel the passion throbbing through the music fraught with pain: 
  Then, with feminine mutation, comes a soft and tender strain.

  Gracious curve of neck, and fiddle tucked ’neath that entrancing chin—­
  Fain with you would I change places, O thrice happy violin!

* * * * *

[Illustration:  The tourney.

["Golf is superseding Lawn-Tennis.”—­Daily Paper.]]

  The Champions are mounted, a wonderful pair,
    And the boldest who sees them must e’en hold his breath. 
  Their breastplates and greaves glitter bright in the air;
    They have sworn ere they met they would fight to the death. 
  And the heart of the Queen of the Tournament sinks
  At the might of Sir Golf, the Red Knight of the Links.

  But her Champion, Sir Tennis, the Knight of the Lawn,
    At the throne of the lady who loves him bows low: 
  He fears not the fight, for his racket is drawn,
    And he spurs his great steed as he charges the foe. 
  And the sound of his war-cry is heard in the din,
  “Fifteen, thirty, forty, deuce, vantage, I win!”

  But the Red Knight, Sir Golf, smiles a smile that is grim,
    And a flash as of triumph has mantled his cheek;
  And he shouts, “I would scorn to be vanquished by him,
    With my driver, my iron, my niblick and cleek. 
  Now, Tennis, I have thee; I charge from the Tee,
  To the deuce with thy racket, thy scoring, and thee!”

  And the ladies all cry, “Oh, Sir Tennis, our own,
    Drive him back whence he came to his bunkers and gorse.” 
  And the men shake their heads, for Sir Tennis seems blown,
    There are cracks in his armour, and wounds on his horse. 
  But the Umpire, Sir Punch, as he watches says, “Pooh! 
  Let them fight and be friends; there is room for the two.”

* * * * *

A Lamb-like gambol.