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There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit, Who is said to be heterodox,
That will ended be with a "Ma foi, oui !"
There is also a word that no one heard
But a grander way for the Sous-Préfet,
For ever through life the Curé goes
With a smile on his kind old face
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, And his green umbrella-case.
TO AN UNKNOWN BUST IN THE
"Sermons in stones."
HO were you once? Could we but guess We might perchance more boldly Define the patient weariness
That sets your lips so coldly;
You "lived," we know, for blame and fame;
You bore some more distinctive name
Your pedestal should help us much.
Endows. a TIGELLINUS!
We seek it not; we should not find.
To tell you wore, like most mankind,
And held that things were false and true,
Felt angry or forgiving,
As step by step you stumbled through
You tried the cul-de-sac of Thought;
You felt MERCURIUS loitering by
'Twas then (why not?) the whim would come That howso Time should garble
Those deeds of yours when you were dumb, At least you'd live—in Marble;
You smiled to think that arter days,
At least, in Bust or Statue, (We all have sick-bed dreams!) would gaze, Not quite incurious, at you.
We gaze; we pity you, be sure !
In truth, Death's worst inaction Must be less tedious to endure
Than nameless petrifaction;
To sleep for once—and soundly—
"Now the Graces are four and the Venuses two,
For a Muse and a Grace and a Venus are you,—
O he wrote, the old bard of an
As a study it not without use is,
If we wonder a moment who she may have
This same "little Molly Trefusis !"
She was Cornish. We know that at once by the "Tre";
Then of guessing it scarce an abuse is
If we say that where Bude bellows back to the
Was the birthplace of Molly Trefusis.