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AREWELL, Renown! Too fleeting flower,
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
Is filled with rival brows that lower ;—
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.
And though you cut, not less will grow
Too arrogant! For who shall stay
The first blind motions of the May?
Who shall out-blot the morning glow?—
Who? There will rise, till Time decay,
"WITH PIPE AND FLUTE."
WITH 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;
Or find the night-jar's note preferred ;Not so it fared, when time began,
With pipe and flute !
A RONDEAU TO ETHEL,
(Who wishes she had lived
"In teacup-times of hood and hoop,
"IN 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:
But.. could I love you more, or less,— "In teacup-times?"
"O FONS BANDUSIÆ.”
BABBLING Spring, than glass more clear,
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
Thee Sirius knows not. Thou dost cheer