Puslapio vaizdai
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That Age of Folly and of Cards,
Of Hackney Chairs and Hackney Bards
-No H-LTS, no K-G-N P-LS were then
Dispensing Competence to Men;
The gentle Trade was left to Churls,
Your frowsy TONSONS and your CURLLS;
Mere Wolves in Ambush to attack
The AUTHOR in a Sheep-skin Back;
Then SAVAGE and his Brother-Sinners
In Porridge Island div'd for Dinners;
Or doz'd on Covent Garden Bulks,
And liken'd Letters to the Hulks ;-
You know that by-gone Time, I say,
That aimless easy-moral'd Day,
When rosy Morn found MADAM still
Wrangling at Ombre or Quadrille,
When good SIR JOHN reel'd Home to
Bed,

From Pontack's or the Shakespear's Head;
When TRIP convey'd his Master's Cloaths,
And took his Titles and his Oaths;
While BETTY, in a cast Brocade,
Ogled MY LORD at Masquerade;
When GARRICK play'd the guilty Richard,
Or mouth'd Macbeth with Mrs. PRITCHARD;
When FOOTE grimaced his snarling Wit;
When CHURCHILL bullied in the Pit ;
When the CUZZONI Sang-

But there!
The further Catalogue I spare,
Having no Purpose to eclipse
That tedious Tale of HOMER'S Ships ;-
This is the MAN that drew it all
From Pannier Alley to the Mall,
Then turn'd and drew it once again
From Bird Cage- Walk to Lewknor's

Lane;

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Frank T. Marzials

DEATH AS THE TEACHER OF

LOVE-LORE

'T WAS in mid autumn, and the woods were still.

A brooding mist from out the marshlands lay

Like age's clammy hand upon the day, Soddening it;—and the night rose dank and chill.

I watched the sere leaves falling, falling, till

Old thoughts, old hopes, seemed fluttering too away,

And then I sighed to think how life's decay,

And change, and time's mischances, Love might kill.

Sudden a shadowy horseman, at full speed Spurring a pale horse, passed me swiftly by,

And mocking shrieked, "Thy love is dead indeed,

Haste to the burial!"- With a bitter cry I swooned, and wake to wonder at my creed,

Learning from Death that Love can never

die.

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Was blurred with blood and tears, or black | (Dip, dip, ye oars, and dash the dark seas by), In swine-sloth here while death is stealing

with age.

So that at last a hunger seized him, a rage Of richer lore than our poor life can dole, And loud he called on Death to dower his

soul

With the great past's unrifled heritage.
And lo, a creaking step upon the stair,
A croak of song, a jingle, and Death
came in

Mumming in motley with a merry din
And jangle of bells, and droning this re-
frain,

"God help the fools who count on death for gain."

So had the sage death-bell and passing

prayer.

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George Cotterell

AN AUTUMN FLITTING

My roof is hardly picturesque

It lacks the pleasant reddish brown
Of the tiled house-tops out of town,
And cannot even hope to match
The modest beauty of the thatch :
Nor is it Gothic or grotesque
No gable breaks, with quaint design,
Its hard monotony of line,
And not a gargoyle on the spout
Brings any latent beauty out:
Its only charm— I hold it high –
Is just its nearness to the sky.

But yet it looks o'er field and tree,
And in the air

One breathes up there

A faint, fresh whiff suggests the sea.
And that is why, this afternoon,
The topmost slates above the leads
Were thick with little bobbing heads,
And frisking tails, and wings that soon
Shall spread, ah me!

For lands where summer lingers fair,
Far otherwhere.

I heard a muttering,
Saw a fluttering,

Pointed wings went skimming past,
White breasts shimmered by as fast,
Wheel and bound and spurt and spring -
All the air seemed all on wing.

Then, like dropping clouds of leaves,
Down they settled on the eaves
All the swallows of the region,
In a number almost legion
Frisked about, but did not stop
Till they reached the ridge atop.

Then what chirping, what commotion !
What they said I have no notion,
But one cannot err in stating
There was very much debating.
First a small loquacious swallow
Seemed to move a resolution;
And another seemed to follow,
Seconding the subject-matter
With a trick of elocution.
After that the chirp and chatter
Boded some more serious end, meant

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But the turmoil passed away :
How it happened I can't say,
All I know is, there was peace.
Whether some more thoughtful bird
Said the quarrelling was absurd,
And implored that it should cease;
Whether what appeared contention
Was a difference not worth mention,
Just some mere exchange of words
Not uncommon among birds,
I have only my own notion,
You may make a nearer guess;
All at once the noise was over,
Not a bird was now a rover,

Some one seemed to put the motion,
And the little heads bobbed "Yes."

Oh, that sudden resolution,

So unanimously carried!

Would they'd longer talked and tarried,
With their fiery elocution!
What it bodes I cannot doubt;
They were planning when to go,
And they have settled it, I know;
Some chill morning, when the sun
Does not venture to shine out,
I shall miss them - overnight
They will all have taken flight,
And the summer will be gone.

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