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."

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GOETHE'S Diné zu Coblenz.

here 's B.,

left, he


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.

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