Th Critic Once a painter wove a web: Woe a web of glowing glory. In and out thf colors flushed; Flnmcd and nicker'd; rose and fell, I.Ike a wond'roua spirit robe In an eastern fairy utory. And the public looked nnd spoke. With r wealth of solemn stricture. "He must mean It for a joke. For It cannot be a picture." Once n poet flung a glow From his pen upon his paper. Sweet scents sprang from open buds: RountlH rose high, then diopp'd and died: Flames writhed red. Uko shreds of light On a wind-blown altar taper. And tho people saw, and said. Ere they'd half perused the proem, "lie must have been off his head -When he called that thing a poem." Once a master wrote a score. Great and grand and full of wonder. In It was the joy of life; In lt.was the grief of death: Laughter and the wall of tears: Lightning gleam and crash of thunder And the many headed heard, VTIth a frown of deprecation. As Oicy murmured, "On my word, What a mad conglomeration!" Westminster Gazette.