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AREWELL, Renown! Too fleeting flower, That grows a year to last an hour;— Prize of the race's dust and heat, Too often trodden under feet,Why should I court your "barren dower"?
Nay; had I Dryden's angry power,-
Farewell!-Because the Muses' bower
Because, howe'er his pipe be sweet,
The Bard, that "pays," must please the street ;But most... because the grapes are sour,—
"MORE POETS YET !"
ORE Poets yet!"-I hear him say, Arming his heavy hand to slay ;— "Despite my skill and 'swashing blow,' They seem to sprout where'er I go ;I killed a host but yesterday!"
Slash on, O Hercules! You may.
Too arrogant! For who shall stay
Who? There will rise, till Time decay,
"WITH PIPE AND FLUTE."
pipe and flute the rustic Pan Of old made music sweet for man; And wonder hushed the warbling bird, And closer drew the calm-eyed herd,— The rolling river slowlier ran.
Ah! would,-ah! would, a little span,
This age of ours, too seldom stirred
But now for gold we plot and plan;
Apollo's self might pass unheard,
A RONDEAU TO ETHEL,
(Who wishes she had lived"In teacup-times of hood and hoop, Or while the patch was worn.")
teacup-times!" The style of dress Would suit your beauty, I confess ; BELINDA-like, the patch you'd wear ; I picture you with powdered hair,— You'd make a charming Shepherdess!
And I-no doubt-could well express
The parts would fit precisely-yes:
You should disdain, and I despair,
"O FONS BANDUSIÆ.”
BABBLING Spring, than glass more clear, Worthy of wreath and cup sincere, To-morrow shall a kid be thine
With swelled and sprouting brows for sign,Sure sign of loves and battles near.
Child of the race that butt and rear!
Thee Sirius knows not. Thou dost cheer
The wandering flock. This verse of mine