Methinks I see you at it.  I can see
      A shamiana[1] loftily upreared
  Beneath a banyan (or banana) tree,
          Whichever it may be,
    Where, with bright turban and vermilion beard
    (A not unfrequent sight, and very weird),
  You sit at peace; a small boy, doubly bowed,
  Acts as your footstool and, though stiff, is proud.

  Fragrant with Champak scents the warm wind sighs
      Heavily, faintly, languorously fanned
  By drowsy peacock-plumes—­to keep the flies
          From your full nose and eyes—­
    Waved from behind you, where on either hand
    Two silent slaves of Nubian polish stand,
  Whose patent-leather visages reflect
  The convex day, with mirror-like effect.

  Robed in a garment of the choicest spoil
      Of Persian looms, you sit apart to deal
  Grace to the suppliant and reward for toil,
          T’abase the proud, and boil
    The malefactor, till upon you steal
    Mild qualms suggestive of the mid-day meal;
  And, then, what plump, what luscious fruits are those? 
  What goblets of what vintage?  Goodness knows.

  Gladly would I pursue this glowing dream,
      To sing of deeds of chivalry and sport,
  Of cushioned dalliance in the soft hareem
          (A really splendid theme),
    The pundits and tame poets at your court,
    And all such pride, but I must keep it short. 
  Once let me off upon a thing so bright,
  And I should hardly stop without a fight.

  But now you stand plain Mister; and, no doubt,
      Would have for choice this visioned pomp untold. 
  Yet, Sire, I beg you, cast such musings out;
          Put not yourself about
    For a vain dream.  If I may make so bold,
    Your present lot should keep you well consoled. 
  You still are great, and have, when all is done,
  A fine old Eastern smack, majestic One.

  The vassals of your fathers were but few
      Compared with yours, who move the whole world wide;
  You still can splash an oriental hue,
          Red, yellow, green or blue,
    Upon a fresh and various outside;
    While you support—­perhaps your greatest pride
  High pundits for your intellectual feast,
  And some tame bards, of whom I am the least.

  DUM-DUM.

[Footnote 1:  Tent]

* * * * *

GIVEN AWAY.

A correspondent of The Times writes:—­“The Niva, the Russian Family Herald, promises to annual subscribers, in addition to a copy of the paper every week—­

  The complete works of Korolenko in twenty-five volumes. 
  The complete works of Edmond Rostand. 
  The complete works of Maikof. 
  A literary supplement every month. 
  A fashion book. 
  A book of patterns of fancy-work designs. 
  A tear-off calendar for 1914,”