Puslapio vaizdai

Impossible ! One might as well

Attempt comparison of creeds; Or fill that huge Malayan shell

With these half-dozen Indian beads.

Moreover, add that every one

So well exalts his pet distress, 'Tis–Give to all, or give to none,

If you'd avoid invidiousness. Your case, I feel, is sad as A.'s,

The same applies to B.'s and C.'s; By my selection I should raise

An alphabet of rivalries;

And life is short,--I see you look

At yonder dish, a priceless bit ; You 'll find it etched in Jacquemart's book,

They say that Raphael painted it ;-
And life is short, you understand ;

So, if I only hold you out
An open though an empty hand,

Why, you 'll forgive me, I've no doubt.

Nay, do not rise. You seem amused ;

One can but be consistent, Sir! 'Twas on these grounds I just refused

Some gushing lady-almoner,


Believe me, on these very grounds.

Good-bye, then. Ah, a rarity! That cost me quite three hundred pounds,-

That Dürer figure,—"Charity.”


"Prophete rechts, Prophete links,
Das Weltkind in der Mitten."

GOETHE's Diné zu Coblenz.

To left, here's B., half-Communist


Who talks a chastened treason, And C., a something-else in “ist,"

Harangues, to right, on Reason.

B., from his “tribune,” fulminates

At Throne and Constitution, Nay, with the walnuts, advocates

Reform by revolution ;

While C.'s peculiar coterie

Have now in full rehearsal Some patent new Philosophy

To make doubt universal.

And yet-Why not? If zealots burn,

Their zeal has not affected
My taste for salmon and Sauterne,

Or I might have objected :

Friend B., the argument you choose

Has been by France refuted ;
And C., mon cher, your novel views

Are just Tom Paine, diluted ;

There 's but one creed,—that's Laissez faire;

Behold its mild apostle ! My dear, declamatory pair,

Although you shout and jostle,

Not your ephemeral hands, nor mine,

Time's Gordian knots shall sunder, Will. laid three casks of this old wine :

Who 'll drink the last, I wonder?

TO Q. H. F.





There's not a doubt about the date,

You're dead and buried :
As you observed, the seasons roll;
And 'cross the Styx full many a soul

Has Charon ferried,
Since, mourned of men and Muses nine,
They laid you on the Esquiline.

And that was centuries ago !
You'd think we'd learned enough, I know,

To help refine us,
Since last you trod the Sacred Street,
And tacked from mortal fear to meet

The bore Crispinus ;
Or, by your cold Digentia, set
The web of winter birding.net.

« AnkstesnisTęsti »