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“ Mehercle! I'd make such proceedings felon

ious, Have they all of them slept in the cave of Tro

phonius? Look well to your seat, 'tis like taking an airing On a corduroy road, and that out of repairing ; It leads one, 'tis true, through the primitive forest, Grand natural features—but, then, one has no

rest; You just catch a glimpse of some ravishing dis

tance, When a jolt puts the whole of it out of existence,Why not use their ears, if they happen to have

any ?"

-Here the laurel-leaves murmured the name of

poor Daphne.

“O, weep with me, Daphne,” he sighed, “ for

you know it's A terrible thing to be pestered with poets ! But, alas; she is dumb, and the proverb holds good, She never will cry till she's out of the wood ! What wouldn't I give if I never had known of

her ? "Twere a kind of relief had I something to groan

over; If I had but some letters of hers, now, to toss over, I might turn for the nonce a Byronic philosopher, And bewitch all the flats by bemoaning the loss of

her. One needs something tangible, though to begin A loom, as it were, for the fancy to spin on; What boots all your grist ? it can never be ground Till a breeze makes the arms of the windmill go

round, (Or, if 'tis a water-mill, alter the metaphor,




And say it won't stir, save the wheel be well wet

afore, Or lug in some stuff about water “so dreamily,”It is not a metaphor, though, 'tis a simile ;) A lily, perhaps, would set my mill agoing, For just at this season, I think, they are blowing, Here, somebody, fetch one, not very far hence They're in bloom by the score, 'tis but climbing a

fence; There's a poet hard by, who does nothing but fill

his Whole garden, from one end to t’other, with lilies; A very good plan, were it not for satiety, One longs for a weed here and there, for variety ; Though a weed is no more than a flower in dis

guise, Which is seen through at once, if love give a man


Now there happened to be among Phæbus's

followers, A gentleman, one of the omnivorous swallowers, Who bolt every book that comes out of the press, Without the least question of larger or less, Whose stomachs are strong at the expense of their

head, For reading new books is like eating new bread, One can bear it at first, but by gradual steps he Is brought to death's door of a mental dyspepsy. On a previous stage of existence, our Hero Had ridden outside, with the glass below zero; He had been, 'tis a fact you may safely rely on, Of a very old stock a most eminent scion,A stock all fresh quacks their fierce boluses Who stretch the new boots Earth's unwilling to

try on,


ply on,

fie on,

Whom humbugs of all shapes and sorts keep their

eye on, Whose hair 's in the mortar of every new Zion, Who, when whistles are dear, go directly and buy

one, Who think slavery a crime that we must not say Who hunt, if they e'er hunt at all, with the lion, (Though they hunt lions also, whenever they spy

one,) Who contrive to make every good fortune a wry

one, And at last choose the hard bed of honor to die on, Whose pedigree traced to earth's earliest years, Is longer than any thing else but their ears ;In short, he was sent into life with the wrong key, He unlocked the door, and stept forth a poor

donkey. Though kicked and abused by his bipedal betters, Yet he filled no mean place in the kingdom of

letters; Far happier than many a literary hack, He bore only paper-mill rags on his back ; (For it makes a vast difference which side the mill One expends on the paper his labor and skill ;) So, when his soul waited a new transmigration, And Destiny balanced ’twixt this and that station, Not having much time to expend upon bothers, Remembering he'd had some connexion with

authors, And considering his four legs had grown paraly

tic,She set him on two, and he came forth a critic.

Through his babyhood no kind of pleasure he

took In any amusement but tearing a book ;

For him there was no intermediate stage,
From babyhood up to straight-laced middle age;
There were years when he didn't wear coat-tails

behind, But a boy he could never be rightly defined ; Like the Irish Good Folk, though in length scarce

a span, From the womb he came gravely, a little old man ; While other boys' trowsers demanded the toil Of the motherly fingers on all kinds of soil, Red, yellow, brown, black, clayey, gravelly, loamy, He sat in the corner and read Viri Romæ. He never was known to unbend or to revel once In base, marbles, hockey, or kick up the devil

once; He was just one of those who excite the benevo

lence Of your old prigs who sound the soul's depths with

a ledger, And are on the look out for some young men to

edger-cate,” as they call it, who won't be too costly, . And who'll afterward take to the ministry mostly ; Who always wear spectacles, always look bilious, Always keep on good terms with each mater

familias Throughout the whole parish, and manage to rear Ten boys like themselves, on four hundred a year; Who, fulfilling in turn the same fearful conditions, Either preach through their noses, or go upon



In this way our hero got safely to college, Where he bolted alike both his commons and

knowledge; A reading-machine, always wound up and going, He mastered whatever was not worth the knowing,

To compute their own judge, and assign him his

place, Our reviewer would crawl all about it and round

it, And, reporting each circumstance just as he found

it, Without the least malice,—his record would be Profoundly æsthetic as that of a flea, Which, supping on Wordsworth, should print, for

our sakes, Recollections of nights with the Bard of the Lakes, Or, borne by an Arab guide, ventured to render a General view of the ruins at Denderah.

As I said, he was never precisely unkind, The defect in his brain was just absence of mind; If he boasted, 'twas simply that he was self-made, A position which I, for one, never gainsaid, My respect for my Maker supposing a skill In his works which our hero would answer but ill ; And I trust that the mould which he used may be

cracked, or he Made bold by success, may enlarge his phy

lactery, And set up a kind of a man-manufactory, An event which I shudder to think about, seeing That Man is a moral, accountable being.

He meant well enough, but was still in the way,
As a dunce always is, let him be where he may ;
Indeed, they appear to come into existence
To impede other folks with their awkward assist-

ance ;
If you set up a dunce on the very North pole,
All alone with himself, I believe, on my soul,
He'd manage to get betwixt somebody's shins,
And pitch him down bodily, all in his sins.


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