O moralist, frown not so dark,

    Purse not thy lip severe;

    'T will warm the heart if ye but hark

    The mirth of "yester year."

    To-day we wear too grave a face;

    We slave,—we buy and sell;

    Forget a while mad Mammon's race

    In "

     Vive la bagatelle!

    "

    O Le Lupe, Gelett Burgess, this is very sad to find:

    In

     The Bookman

    for September, in a manner most unkind,

    There appears a half-page picture, makes me think I've lost my mind.

    They have reproduced a window,—Doxey's window,—(I dare say

    In your rambles you have seen it, passed it twenty times a day,)

    As "A Novel Exhibition of Examples of Decay."

    There is Nordau we all sneer at, and Verlaine we all adore,

    And a little book of verses with its betters by the score,

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