Puslapio vaizdai

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?

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TO Q. H. F.





As you observed, the seasons roll;
And 'cross the Styx full many a soul
Has Charon ferried,

There's not a doubt about the date,-
You're dead and buried:

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.

Ours is so far-advanced an age!
Sensation tales, a classic stage,
Commodious villas!
We boast high art, an Albert Hall,
Australian meats, and men who call
Their sires gorillas!

We have a thousand things, you see,
Not dreamt in your philosophy.

And yet, how strange! Our "world," to-day,
Tried in the scale, would scarce outweigh
Your Roman cronies;
Walk in the Park-you'll seldom fail
To find a Sybaris on the rail

By Lydia's ponies,

Or hap on Barrus, wigged and stayed,
Ogling some unsuspecting maid.

The great Gargilius, then, behold!
His "long-bow" hunting tales of old
Are now but duller;

Fair Neobule too! Is not

One Hebrus here-from Aldershot?
Aha, you colour!

Be wise. There old Canidia sits;
No doubt she's tearing you to bits.

And look, dyspeptic, brave, and kind,
Comes dear Mæcenas, half behind
Terentia's skirting;

Here's Pyrrha, "golden-haired" at will ;
Prig Damasippus, preaching still;

Asterie flirting,—

Radiant, of course. We'll make her black,Ask her when Gyges' ship comes back.

So with the rest. Who will may trace
Behind the new each elder face
Defined as clearly;

Science proceeds, and man stands still;
Our "world" to-day 's as good or ill,—
As cultured (nearly),
As yours was, Horace! You alone,
Unmatched, unmet, we have not known.


"Il me faut des émotions."



ask me, Lydia, "whether I, If you refuse my suit, shall die." (Now pray don't let this hurt you) Although the time be out of joint, I should not think a bodkin's point

The sole resource of virtue ; Nor shall I, though your mood endure, Attempt a final Water-cure

Except against my wishes;
For I respectfully decline
To dignify the Serpentine,

And make hors-d'œuvres for fishes;
But, if you ask me whether I

Composedly can go,

Without a look, without a sigh,
Why, then I answer-No.

"You are assured," you sadly say (If in this most considerate way

To treat my suit your will is), That I shall "quickly find as fair

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