(Signed)

A. BRIEFLESS, JUNIOR.

Pump-Handle Court, January 24, 1891.

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“PRO-DIGIOUS!”—­In last Sunday’s Observer we read that at St. Petersburg Madame MELBA, as Juliette, “was recalled thirty-one times before the proscenium.” The italics are ours, rather!  If this sort of thing is to be repeated during the Opera season here, and each gifted singer is recalled in proportion to his or her merits, the audience will not get away till the following morning. Juliette must have said, on the above-mentioned occasion, “Parting is such sweet sorrow, That I could say ‘good-night’ until to-morrow.”  And the usual chorus of operatic habitues will be, “We won’t go home till morning.  Till daylight doth appear!” with refrain, “For—­she (or he)’s a jolly good singer,” &c., ad infinitum, or “ad infi-next-nightum.”

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THE FRIEZE OF THE PARTHENON.

ENGLAND TO ATHENS:—­

  O Queen of Cities, with a crown of woe,
    Scarred by the ruin of two thousand years,
  By fraud and by barbarian force laid low,
    Buried in dust, and watered with the tears
  Of unregarded bondmen, toiling on,
  Crushed in the shadow of their Parthenon;

  [Illustration]

  Mother of heroes, Athens, nought availed
    The Macedonian’s triumph, or the chain
  Of Rome; the conquering Osmanli failed,
    His myriad hosts have trampled thee in vain. 
  They for thy deathless body raised the pyre,
  And held the torch, but Heaven forbade the fire.

  Then didst thou rise, and, shattering thy bands,
    Burst in war’s thunder on the Muslim horde,
  Who shrank appalled before thee, while thy hands
    Wielded again the imperishable sword,
  The sword that smote the Persian when he came,
  Countless as sand, thy virgin might to tame.

  Mother of freemen, Athens, thou art free,
    Free as the spirits of thy mighty dead;
  And Freedom’s northern daughter calls to thee,
    “How shall I help thee, sister?  Raise thy head,
  O Athens, say what can I give thee now,
  I who am free, to deck thy marble brow?”

ATHENS REPLIES:—­

  Shot-dinted, but defiant of decay,
    Stand my gaunt columns in a tragic line,
  The shattered relics of a glorious day,
   Mute guardians of the lost Athena’s shrine. 
  The flame of hope, that faded to despair
  Ere Hellas burst her chains, is imaged there.

  Yet one there was who came to her for gain,
    Ere yet the years of her despair were run;
  And with harsh zeal defaced the ruined fane
    Full in the blazing light of Hellas’ sun. 
  Spoiling my home with sacrilegious hand,
  He bore his captives to a foreign land.