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, Prophcte links,
Das Weltkind in der Mitten."

GOETHE's Diné zu Coblenz.

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



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

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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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