Puslapio vaizdai




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,-
The thews of Ben,-the wind of Gower,-
Not less my voice should still repeat
"Farewell, Renown!"

Farewell!-Because the Muses' bower
Is filled with rival brows that lower ;-


Because, howe'er his pipe be sweet,

The Bard, that "pays," must please the street ;But most... because the grapes are sour,—

Farewell, Renown!




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.
Your task 's, at best, a Hydra-fray;
And though you cut, not less will grow
More Poets yet!

Too arrogant! For who shall stay
The first blind motions of the May?
Who shall out-blot the morning glow ?—
Or stem the full heart's overflow?

Who? There will rise, till Time decay,
More Poets yet!




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,
Some air of Arcady could fan

This age of ours, too seldom stirred
With pipe and flute !

But now for gold we plot and plan;
And from Beersheba unto Dan,

Apollo's self might pass unheard,
Or find the night-jar's note preferred ;-
Not so it fared, when time began,
With pipe and flute !


(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
SIR PLUME'S Complete conceitedness,-
Could poise a clouded cane with care
"In teacup-times!"

The parts would fit precisely-yes:
We should achieve a huge success!

You should disdain, and I despair,
With quite the true Augustan air;
But... could I love you more, or less,--
"In teacup-times?"




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!
Not less, alas! his life-blood dear
Must tinge thy cold wave crystalline,
O babbling Spring!

Thee Sirius knows not. Thou dost cheer
With pleasant cool the plough-worn steer,—

The wandering flock. This verse of mine
Will rank thee one with founts divine;
Men shall thy rock and tree revere,
O babbling Spring!

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