See Social Life and Glee sit down, All joyous and unthinking, Till, quite transmugrified, they've grown Debauchery and Drinking: Oh, would they stay to calculate The eternal consequences; Or your more dreaded hell to state, Damnation of expenses!

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Tied up in godly laces, Before ye gie poor Frailty names, Suppose a change o' cases; A dear-loved lad, convenience snug, A treacherous inclination,— But, let me whisper i' your lug, Ye're aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Though they may gang a kennin' wrang, To step aside is human: One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it; And just as lamely can ye mark How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us; He knows each chord,—its various tone, Each spring,—its various bias: Then at the balance let's be mute; We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]



THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE, OR THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY" A Logical Story

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day, And then, of a sudden, it—ah, but stay, I'll tell you what happened without delay, Scaring the parson into fits, Frightening people out of their wits,— Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. Georgius Secundus was then alive,— Snuffy old drone from the German hive. That was the year when Lisbon-town Saw the earth open and gulp her down, And Braddock's army was done so brown, Left without a scalp to its crown. It was on the terrible Earthquake-day That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, There is always somewhere a weakest spot,— In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,—lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will,— Above or below, or within or without,— And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, That a chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out.

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,") He would build one shay to beat the taown 'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; It should be so built that it couldn' break daown: "Fur," said the Deacon, "'t's mighty plain Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain; 'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, Is only jest T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,— That was for spokes and floor and sills; He sent for lancewood to make the thills; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees, The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these; The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"— Last of its timber,—they couldn't sell 'em, Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Found in the pit when the tanner died. That was the way he "put her through." There! said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!"

Do! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less! Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren—where were they? But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;—it came and found The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred increased by ten; "Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came;— Running as usual; much the same. Thirty and Forty at last arrive, And then come Fifty, and Fifty-Five.

Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth. (This is a moral that runs at large; Take it.—You're welcome.—No extra charge.)

FIRST OF November,—the Earthquake-day,— There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay. A general flavor of mild decay, But nothing local, as one may say. There couldn't be,—for the Deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there wasn't a chance for one to start. For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the whipple-tree neither less nor more, And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, And spring and axle and hub encore. And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt In another hour it will be worn out!

First of November, Fifty-five! This morning the parson takes a drive. Now, small boys, get out of the way! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, Drawn by a rat-railed, ewe-necked bay. "Huddup!" said the parson.—Off went they.

The parson was working his Sunday's text,- Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the—Moses—was coming next. All at once the horse stood still, Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill,— And the parson was sitting upon a rock, At half past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,— Just the hour of the Earthquake shock! What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around? The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground! You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once,— All at once, and nothing first,— Just as bubbles do when they burst.

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. Logic is logic. That's all I say.

Oliver Wendell Holmes [1809-1894]



BALLADE OF A FRIAR After Clement Marot

Some ten or twenty times a day, To bustle to the town with speed, To dabble in what dirt he may,— Le Frere Lubin's the man you need! But any sober life to lead Upon an exemplary plan, Requires a Christian indeed,— Le Frere Lubin is not the man!

Another's wealth on his to lay, With all the craft of guile and greed, To leave you bare of pence or pay,— Le Frere Lubin's the man you need! But watch him with the closest heed, And dun him with what force you can,— He'll not refund, howe'er you plead,— Le Frere Lubin is not the man—

An honest girl to lead astray, With subtle saw and promised meed, Requires no cunning crone and gray,— Le Frere Lubin's the man you need! He preaches an ascetic creed, But,—try him with the water can— A dog will drink, whate'er his breed,— Le Frere Lubin is not the man!

ENVOY In good to fail, in ill succeed, Le Frere Lubin's the man you need! In honest works to lead the van, Le Frere Lubin is not the man!

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]



THE CHAMELEON

Oft has it been my lot to mark A proud, conceited, talking spark, With eyes, that hardly served at most To guard their master 'gainst a post, Yet round the world the blade has been To see whatever could be seen, Returning from his finished tour, Grown ten times perter than before; Whatever word you chance to drop, The traveled fool your mouth will stop; "Sir, if my judgment you'll allow, I've seen—and sure I ought to know," So begs you'd pay a due submission, And acquiesce in his decision.

Two travelers of such a cast, As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed, And on their way in friendly chat, Now talked of this, and then of that, Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other matter, Of the chameleon's form and nature. "A stranger animal," cries one, "Sure never lived beneath the sun. A lizard's body, lean and long, A fish's head, a serpent's tongue, Its foot with triple claw disjoined; And what a length of tail behind! How slow its pace; and then its hue— Who ever saw so fine a blue?"

"Hold, there," the other quick replies, "'Tis green,—I saw it with these eyes, As late with open mouth it lay, And warmed it in the sunny ray: Stretched at its ease, the beast I viewed And saw it eat the air for food." "I've seen it, sir, as well as you, And must again affirm it blue; At leisure I the beast surveyed, Extended in the cooling shade." "'Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye!" "Green!" cries the other in a fury— "Why, sir!—d'ye think I've lost my eyes?" "'Twere no great loss," the friend replies, "For, if they always serve you thus, You'll find them of but little use."

So high at last the contest rose, From words they almost came to blows: When luckily came by a third— To him the question they referred, And begged he'd tell 'em, if he knew, Whether the thing was green or blue. "Sirs," cries the umpire, "cease your pother! The creature's neither one or t'other. I caught the animal last night, And viewed it o'er by candlelight: I marked it well—'t was black as jet— You stare—but, sirs, I've got it yet, And can produce it." "Pray, sir, do; I'll lay my life the thing is blue." "And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen The reptile, you'll pronounce him green."

"Well, then, at once to ease the doubt," Replies the man, "I'll turn him out: And when before your eyes I've set him, If you don't find him black, I'll eat him." He said: then full before their sight Produced the beast, and lo!—'twas white.

Both stared, the man looked wondrous wise— "My children," the chameleon cries, (Then first the creature found a tongue), "You all are right, and all are wrong: When next you talk of what you view, Think others see as well as you: Nor wonder, if you find that none Prefers your eyesight to his own."

After De La Motte, by James Merrick [1720-1769]



THE BLIND MEN AND THE ELEPHANT A Hindoo Fable

It was six men of Indostan To learning much inclined, Who went to see the Elephant (Though all of them were blind), That each by observation Might satisfy his mind.

The First approached the Elephant, And happening to fall Against his broad and sturdy side, At once began to bawl: "God bless me! but the Elephant Is very like a wall!"

The Second, feeling of the tusk, Cried, "Ho! what have we here So very round and smooth and sharp? To me 'tis mighty clear This wonder of an Elephant Is very like a spear!"

The Third approached the animal, And happening to take The squirming trunk within his hands, Thus boldly up and spake: "I see," quoth he, "the Elephant Is very like a snake!"

The Fourth reached out an eager hand, And felt about the knee. "What most this wondrous beast is like Is mighty plain," quoth he; "'Tis clear enough the Elephant Is very like a tree!"

The Fifth who chanced to touch the ear, Said: "E'en the blindest man Can tell what this resembles most; Deny the fact who can, This marvel of an Elephant Is very like a fan!"

The Sixth no sooner had begun About the beast to grope, Than, seizing on the swinging tail That fell within his scope, "I see," quoth he, "the Elephant Is very like a rope!"

And so these men of Indostan Disputed loud and long, Each in his own opinion Exceeding stiff and strong, Though each was partly in the right, And all were in the wrong!

MORAL So oft in theologic wars, The disputants, I ween, Rail on in utter ignorance Of what each other mean, And prate about an Elephant Not one of them has seen!

John Godfrey Saxe [1816-1887]



THE PHILOSOPHER'S SCALES

A monk, when his rites sacerdotal were o'er, In the depths of his cell with its stone-covered floor, Resigning to thought his chimerical brain, Once formed the contrivance we now shall explain; But whether by magic's or alchemy's powers We know not; indeed, 'tis no business of ours.

Perhaps it was only by patience and care, At last, that he brought his invention to bear. In youth 'twas projected, but years stole away, And ere 'twas complete he was wrinkled and gray; But success is secure, unless energy fails; And at length he produced the Philosopher's Scales.

"What were they?" you ask. You shall presently see; These scales were not made to weigh sugar and tea. Oh no; for such properties wondrous had they, That qualities, feelings, and thoughts they could weigh, Together with articles small or immense, From mountains or planets to atoms of sense.

Naught was there so bulky but there it would lay, And naught so ethereal but there it would stay, And naught so reluctant but in it must go: All which some examples more clearly will show.

The first thing he weighed was the head of Voltaire, Which retained all the wit that had ever been there; As a weight, he threw in the torn scrap of a leaf Containing the prayer of the penitent thief; When the skull rose aloft with so sudden a spell That it bounced like a ball on the roof of the cell.

One time he put in Alexander the Great, With the garment that Dorcas had made, for a weight; And though clad in armor from sandals to crown, The hero rose up and the garment went down.

A long row of almshouses, amply endowed By a well-esteemed Pharisee, busy and proud, Next loaded one scale; while the other was pressed By those mites the poor widow dropped into the chest: Up flew the endowment, not weighing an ounce, And down, down the farthing-worth came with a bounce.

By further experiments (no matter how) He found that ten chariots weighed less than one plough; A sword with gilt trappings rose up in the scale, Though balanced by only a ten-penny nail; A shield and a helmet, a buckler and spear, Weighed less than a widow's uncrystallized tear.

A lord and a lady went up at full sail, When a bee chanced to light on the opposite scale; Ten doctors, ten lawyers, two courtiers, one earl, Ten counsellors' wigs, full of powder and curl, All heaped in one balance and swinging from thence, Weighed less than a few grains of candor and sense; A first-water diamond, with brilliants begirt, Than one good potato just washed from the dirt; Yet not mountains of silver and gold could suffice One pearl to outweigh,—'twas the Pearl of Great Price.

Last of all, the whole world was bowled in at the grate, With the soul of a beggar to serve for a weight, When the former sprang up with so strong a rebuff That it made a vast rent and escaped at the roof! When balanced in air, it ascended on high, And sailed up aloft, a balloon in the sky; While the scale with the soul in't so mightily fell That it jerked the philosopher out of his cell.

Jane Taylor [1783-1824]



THE MAIDEN AND THE LILY

A lily in my garden grew, Amid the thyme and clover; No fairer lily ever blew, Search all the wide world over. Its beauty passed into my heart: I know 'twas very silly, But I was then a foolish maid, And it—a perfect lily.

One day a learned man came by, With years of knowledge laden, And him I questioned with a sigh, Like any foolish maiden:— "Wise sir, please tell me wherein lies— I know the question's silly— The something that my art defies, And makes a perfect lily."

He smiled, then bending plucked the flower, Then tore it, leaf and petal, And talked to me for full an hour, And thought the point to settle:— "Therein it lies," at length he cries; And I—I know 'twas silly— Could only weep and say, "But where— O doctor, where's my lily?"

John Fraser [1750-1811]



THE OWL-CRITIC

"Who stuffed that white owl? No one spoke in the shop: The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop; The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading The Daily, the Herald, the Post, little heeding The young man who blurted out such a blunt question; Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion; And the barber kept on shaving.

"Don't you see, Mister Brown," Cried the youth with a frown, "How wrong the whole thing is, How preposterous each wing is, How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is— In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis! I make no apology; I've learned owl-eology. I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections, And cannot be blinded to any deflections Arising from unskilful fingers that fail To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail. Mister Brown! Mister Brown! Do take that bird down, Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!" And the barber kept on shaving.

"I've studied owls And other night fowls, And I tell you What I know to be true: An owl cannot roost With his limbs so unloosed; No owl in this world Ever had his claws curled, Ever had his legs slanted, Ever had his bill canted, Ever had his neck screwed Into that attitude. He can't do it, because 'Tis against all bird-laws. Anatomy teaches, Ornithology preaches An owl has a toe That can't turn out so! I've made the white owl my study for years, And to see such a job almost moves me to tears! Mister Brown, I'm amazed You should be so gone crazed As to put up a bird In that posture absurd! To look at that owl really brings on a dizziness; The man who stuffed him don't half know his business!" And the barber kept on shaving.

"Examine those eyes. I'm filled with surprise Taxidermists should pass Off on you such poor glass; So unnatural they seem They'd make Audubon scream, And John Burroughs laugh To encounter such chaff. Do take that bird down; Have him stuffed again, Brown!" And the barber kept on shaving.

"With some sawdust and bark I could stuff in the dark An owl better than that. I could make an old hat Look more like an owl Than that horrid fowl, Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather. In fact, about him there's not one natural feather."

Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch, The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch, Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic (Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic And then fairly hooted, as if he would say: "Your learning's at fault this time, any way; Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray. I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good-day!" And the barber kept on shaving.

James Thomas Fields [1816-1881]



THE BALLAD OF IMITATION C'est imiter quelqu'un que de planter des choux.—Alfred De Musset

If they hint, O Musician, the piece that you played Is naught but a copy of Chopin or Spohr; That the ballad you sing is but merely "conveyed" From the stock of the Ames and the Purcells of yore; That there's nothing, in short, in the words or the score, That is not as out-worn as the "Wandering Jew"; Make answer—Beethoven could scarcely do more— That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

If they tell you, Sir Artist, your light and your shade Are simply "adapted" from other men's lore; That—plainly to speak of a "spade" as a "spade"— You've "stolen" your grouping from three or from four; That (however the writer the truth may deplore), 'Twas Gainsborough painted your "Little Boy Blue"; Smile only serenely—though cut to the core— For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

And you too, my Poet, be never dismayed If they whisper your Epic—"Sir Eperon d'Or"— Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayed In a tissue that's taken from Morris's store; That no one, in fact, but a child could ignore That you "lift" or "accommodate" all that you do; Take heart—though your Pegasus' withers be sore— For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

POSTCRIPTUM.—And you, whom we all so adore, Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so new!— One word in your ear. There were Critics before.... And the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]



THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS

When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold, Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould; And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart, Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it Art?"

Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew— The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review; And he left his lore to the use of his sons—and that was a glorious gain When the Devil chuckled: "Is it Art?" in the ear of the branded Cain.

They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart, Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: "It's striking, but is it Art?" The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung, While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue.

They fought and they talked in the North and the South, they talked and they fought in the West, Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had rest— Had rest till that dank, blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start, And the Devil bubbled below the keel: "It's human, but is it Art?"

The tale is as old as the Eden Tree—and new as the new-cut tooth— For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth; And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart, The Devil drum on the darkened pane: "You did it, but was it Art?"

We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg, We have learned to bottle our-parents twain in the yelk of an addled egg, We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the horse is drawn by the cart; But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: "It's clever, but is it Art?"

When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the clubroom's green and gold, The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mould— They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start, For the Devil mutters behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it Art?"

Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers flow, And the Wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago, And if we could come when the sentry slept, and softly scurry through, By the favor of God we might know as much—as our father Adam knew.

Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936]



THE V-A-S-E

From the madding crowd they stand apart, The maidens four and the Work of Art;

And none might tell from sight alone In which had Culture ripest grown,—

The Gotham Million fair to see, The Philadelphia Pedigree,

The Boston Mind of azure hue, Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo,—

For all loved Art in a seemly way, With an earnest soul and a capital A.

......

Long they worshipped; but no one broke The sacred stillness, until up spoke

The Western one from the nameless place, Who blushing said: "What a lovely vace!"

Over three faces a sad smile flew, And they edged away from Kalamazoo.

But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred To crush the stranger with one small word.

Deftly hiding reproof in praise, She cries: "'Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze!"

But brief her unworthy triumph when The lofty one from the home of Penn,

With the consciousness of two grandpapas, Exclaims: "It is quite a lovely vahs!"

And glances round with an anxious thrill, Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.

But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee, And gently murmurs: "Oh pardon me!

"I did not catch your remark, because I was so entranced with that charming vaws!"

Dies erit praegelida Sinistra quum Bostonia.

James Jeffrey Roche [1847-1908]



HEM AND HAW

Hem and Haw were the sons of sin, Created to shally and shirk; Hem lay 'round and Haw looked on While God did all the work.

Hem was a fogy, and Haw was a prig, For both had the dull, dull mind; And whenever they found a thing to do, They yammered and went it blind.

Hem was the father of bigots and bores; As the sands of the sea were they. And Haw was the father of all the tribe Who criticise to-day.

But God was an artist from the first, And knew what he was about; While over his shoulder sneered these two, And advised him to rub it out.

They prophesied ruin ere man was made: "Such folly must surely fail!" And when he was done, "Do you think, my Lord, He's better without a tail?"

And still in the honest working world, With posture and hint and smirk, These sons of the devil are standing by While Man does all the work.

They balk endeavor and baffle reform, In the sacred name of law; And over the quavering voice of Hem, Is the droning voice of Haw.

Bliss Carman [1861-1929]



MINIVER CHEEVY

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn, Grew lean while he assailed the seasons; He wept that he was ever born, And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old When swords were bright and steeds were prancing; The vision of a warrior bold Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not, And dreamed, and rested from his labors; He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot, And Priam's neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown That made so many a name so fragrant; He mourned Romance, now on the town, And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici, Albeit he had never seen one; He would have sinned incessantly Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace, And eyed a khaki suit with loathing; He missed the medieval grace Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought, But sore annoyed was he without it; Miniver thought, and thought, and thought, And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late, Scratched his head and kept on thinking; Miniver coughed, and called it fate, And kept on drinking.

Edwin Arlington Robinson [1869-1935]



THEN AG'IN

Jim Bowker, he said, ef he'd had a fair show, And a big enough town for his talents to grow, And the least bit assistance in hoein' his row, Jim Bowker, he said, He'd filled the world full of the sound of his name, An' clumb the top round in the ladder of fame; It may have been so; I dunno; Jest so it might been, Then ag'in—

But he had tarnal luck—everythin' went ag'in him, The arrers er fortune they allus 'ud pin him; So he didn't get no chance to show off what was in him. Jim Bowker, he said, Ef he'd had a fair show, you couldn't tell where he'd come, An' the feats he'd a-done, an' the heights he'd a-clumb— It may have been so; I dunno; Jest so it might been, Then ag'in—

But we're all like Jim Bowker, thinks I, more or less— Charge fate for our bad luck, ourselves for success, An' give fortune the blame for all our distress, As Jim Bowker, he said. Ef it hadn' been for luck an' misfortune an' sich, We might a-been famous, an' might a-been rich. It might be jest so; I dunno; Jest so it might been, Then ag'in—

Sam Walter Foss [1858-1911]



A CONSERVATIVE

The garden beds I wandered by One bright and cheerful morn, When I found a new-fledged butterfly, A-sitting on a thorn, A black and crimson butterfly, All doleful and forlorn.

I thought that life could have no sting To infant butterflies, So I gazed on this unhappy thing With wonder and surprise, While sadly with his waving wing He wiped his weeping eyes.

Said I, "What can the matter be? Why weepest thou so sore? With garden fair and sunlight free And flowers in goodly store:"— But he only turned away from me And burst into a roar.

Cried he, "My legs are thin and few Where once I had a swarm! Soft fuzzy fur—a joy to view— Once kept my body warm, Before these flapping wing-things grew, To hamper and deform!"

At that outrageous bug I shot The fury of mine eye; Said I, in scorn all burning hot, In rage and anger high, "You ignominious idiot! Those wings are made to fly!

'I do not want to fly," said he, "I only want to squirm!" And he drooped his wings dejectedly, But still his voice was firm: "I do not want to be a fly! I want to be a worm!"

O yesterday of unknown lack! To-day of unknown bliss! I left my fool in red and black, The last I saw was this,— The creature madly climbing back Into his chrysalis.

Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman [1860-1935]



SIMILAR CASES

There was once a little animal, No bigger than a fox, And on five toes he scampered Over Tertiary rocks. They called him Eohippus, And they called him very small, And they thought him of no value— When they thought of him at all; For the lumpish old Dinoceras And Coryphodon so slow Were the heavy aristocracy In days of long ago.

Said the little Eohippus, "I am going to be a horse! And on my middle finger-nails To run my earthly course! I'm going to have a flowing tail! I'm going to have a mane! I'm going to stand fourteen hands high On the psychozoic plain!"

The Coryphodon was horrified, The Dinoceras was shocked; And they chased young Eohippus, But he skipped away and mocked. And they laughed enormous laughter, And they groaned enormous groans, And they bade young Eohippus Go view his father's bones. Said they, "You always were as small And mean as now we see, And that's conclusive evidence That you're always going to be. What! Be a great, tall, handsome beast, With hoofs to gallop on? Why! You'd have to change your nature!" Said the Loxolophodon. They considered him disposed of, And retired with gait serene; That was the way they argued In "the early Eocene."

There was once an Anthropoidal Ape, Far smarter than the rest, And everything that they could do He always did the best; So they naturally disliked him, And they gave him shoulders cool, And when they had to mention him They said he was a fool.

Cried this pretentious Ape one day, "I'm going to be a Man! And stand upright, and hunt, and fight, And conquer all I can! I'm going to cut down forest trees, To make my houses higher! I'm going to kill the Mastodon! I'm going to make a fire!"

Loud screamed the Anthropoidal Apes With laughter wild and gay; They tried to catch that boastful one, But he always got away. So they yelled at him in chorus, Which he minded not a whit; And they pelted him with cocoanuts, Which didn't seem to hit. And then they gave him reasons Which they thought of much avail, To prove how his preposterous Attempt was sure to fail. Said the sages, "In the first place, The thing cannot be done! And, second, if it could be, It would not be any fun! And, third, and most conclusive, And admitting no reply, You would have to change your nature! We should like to see you try!" They chuckled then triumphantly, These lean and hairy shapes, For these things passed as arguments With the Anthropoidal Apes.

There was once a Neolithic Man, An enterprising wight, Who made his chopping implements Unusually bright. Unusually clever he, Unusually brave, And he drew delightful Mammoths On the borders of his cave. To his Neolithic neighbors, Who were startled and surprised, Said he, "My friends, in course of time, We shall be civilized! We are going to live in cities! We are going to fight in wars! We are going to eat three times a day Without the natural cause! We are going to turn life upside down About a thing called gold! We are going to want the earth, and take As much as we can hold! We are going to wear great piles of stuff Outside our proper skins! We are going to have diseases! And Accomplishments!! And Sins!!!"

Then they all rose up in fury Against their boastful friend, For prehistoric patience Cometh quickly to an end. Said one, "This is chimerical! Utopian! Absurd!" Said another, "What a stupid life! Too dull, upon my word!" Cried all, "Before such things can come, You idiotic child, You must alter Human Nature!" And they all sat back and smiled. Thought they, "An answer to that last It will be hard to find!" It was a clinching argument To the Neolithic Mind!

Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman [1860-1935]



MAN AND THE ASCIDIAN A Morality

"The Ancestor remote of Man," Says Darwin, "is the Ascidian," A scanty sort of water-beast That, ninety million years at least Before Gorillas came to be, Went swimming up and down the sea.

Their ancestors the pious praise, And like to imitate their ways; How, then, does our first parent live, What lesson has his life to give?

The Ascidian tadpole, young and gay, Doth Life with one bright eye survey, His consciousness has easy play. He's sensitive to grief and pain, Has tail, a spine, and bears a brain, And everything that fits the state Of creatures we call vertebrate. But age comes on; with sudden shock He sticks his head against a rock! His tail drops off, his eye drops in, His brain's absorbed into his skin; He does not move, nor feel, nor know The tidal water's ebb and flow, But still abides, unstirred, alone, A sucker sticking to a stone.

And we, his children, truly we In youth are, like the Tadpole, free. And where we would we blithely go, Have brains and hearts, and feel and know. Then Age comes on! To Habit we Affix ourselves and are not free; The Ascidian's rooted to a rock, And we are bond-slaves of the clock; Our rocks are Medicine—Letters—Law, From these our heads we cannot draw: Our loves drop off, our hearts drop in, And daily thicker grows our skin.

Ah, scarce we live, we scarcely know The wide world's moving ebb and flow, The clanging currents ring and shock, But we are rooted to the rock. And thus at ending of his span, Blind, deaf, and indolent, does Man Revert to the Ascidian.

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]



THE CALF-PATH

One day, through the primeval wood, A calf walked home, as good calves should; But made a trail all bent askew, A crooked trail as all calves do.

Since then two hundred years have fled, And, I infer, the calf is dead. But still he left behind his trail, And thereby hangs my moral tale.

The trail was taken up next day By a lone dog that passed that way; And then a wise bell-wether sheep Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep, And drew the flock behind him, too, As good bell-wethers always do.

And from that day, o'er hill and glade, Through those old woods a path was made; And many men wound in and out, And dodged, and turned, and bent about And uttered words of righteous wrath Because 'twas such a crooked path.

But still they followed—do not laugh— The first migrations of that calf, And through this winding wood-way stalked, Because he wobbled when he walked.

This forest path became a lane, That bent, and turned, and turned again; This crooked lane became a road, Where many a poor horse with his load Toiled on beneath the burning sun, And traveled some three miles in one. And thus a century and a half They trod the footsteps of that calf.

The years passed on in swiftness fleet, The road became a village street; And this, before men were aware, A city's crowded thoroughfare; And soon the central street was this Of a renowned metropolis; And men two centuries and a half Trod in the footsteps of that calf.

Each day a hundred thousand rout Followed the zigzag calf about; And o'er his crooked journey went The traffic of a continent. A hundred thousand men were led By one calf near three centuries dead. They followed still his crooked way, And lost one hundred years a day; For thus such reverence is lent To well-established precedent.

A moral lesson this might teach, Were I ordained and called to preach; For men are prone to go it blind Along the calf-paths of the mind, And work away from sun to sun To do what other men have done. They follow in the beaten track, And out and in, and forth and back, And still their devious course pursue, To keep the path that others do.

But how the wise old wood-gods laugh, Who saw the first primeval calf! Ah! many things this tale might teach,— But I am not ordained to preach.

Sam Walter Foss [1858-1911]



WEDDED BLISS

"O come and be my mate!" said the Eagle to the Hen; "I love to soar, but then I want my mate to rest Forever in the nest!" Said the Hen, I cannot fly, I have no wish to try, But I joy to see my mate careering through the sky!" They wed, and cried, "Ah, this is Love, my own!" And the Hen sat, and the Eagle soared, alone.

"O come and be my mate!" said the Lion to the Sheep; "My love for you is deep! I slay,—a Lion should,— But you are mild and good!" Said the Sheep, "I do no ill— Could not, had I the will— But I joy to see my mate pursue, devour and kill." They wed, and cried, "Ah, this is Love, my own!" And the Sheep browsed, the Lion prowled, alone.

"O come and be my mate!" said the Salmon to the Clam; "You are not wise, but I am. I know the sea and stream as well; You know nothing but your shell." Said the Clam, "I'm slow of motion, But my love is all devotion, And I joy to have my mate traverse lake and stream and ocean!" They wed, and cried, "Ah, this is Love, my own!" And the Clam sucked, the Salmon swam, alone.

Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman [1860-1935}



PARADISE: A HINDOO LEGEND

A Hindoo died; a happy thing to do, When fifty years united to a shrew. Released, he hopefully for entrance cries Before the gates of Brahma's paradise. "Hast been through purgatory?" Brahma said. "I have been married!" and he hung his head. "Come in! come in! and welcome, too, my son! Marriage and purgatory are as one." In bliss extreme he entered heaven's door, And knew the peace he ne'er had known before.

He scarce had entered in the gardens fair, Another Hindoo asked admission there. The self-same question Brahma asked again: "Hast been through purgatory?" "No; what then?" "Thou canst not enter!" did the god reply. "He who went in was there no more than I." "All that is true, but he has married been, And so on earth has suffered for all his sin." "Married? Tis well, for I've been married twice." "Begone! We'll have no fools, in paradise!"

George Birdseye [1844-1919]



AD CHLOEN, M. A. (Fresh From Her Cambridge Examination)

Lady, very fair are you, And your eyes are very blue, And your hose; And your brow is like the snow, And the various things you know Goodness knows.

And the rose-flush on your cheek, And your algebra and Greek Perfect are; And that loving lustrous eye Recognizes in the sky Every star.

You have pouting piquant lips, You can doubtless an eclipse Calculate; But for your cerulean hue, I had certainly from you Met my fate.

If by an arrangement dual I were Adams mixed with Whewell, Then some day I, as wooer, perhaps might come To so sweet an Artium Magistra.

Mortimer Collins [1827-1876]



"AS LIKE THE WOMAN AS YOU CAN"

"As like the Woman as you can"— (Thus the New Adam was beguiled)— "So shall you touch the Perfect Man"— (God in the Garden heard and smiled). "Your father perished with his day: A clot of passions fierce and blind, He fought, he hacked, he crushed his way: Your muscles, Child, must be of mind.

"The Brute that lurks and irks within, How, till you have him gagged and bound, Escape the foulest form of Sin?" (God in the Garden laughed and frowned). "So vile, so rank, the bestial mood In which the race is bid to be, It wrecks the Rarer Womanhood: Live, therefore, you, for Purity!

"Take for your mate no gallant croup, No girl all grace and natural will: To work her mission were to stoop, Maybe to lapse, from Well to Ill. Choose one of whom your grosser make"— (God in the Garden laughed outright)— "The true refining touch may take, Till both attain to Life's last height.

"There, equal, purged of soul and sense, Beneficent, high-thinking, just, Beyond the appeal of Violence, Incapable of common Lust, In mental Marriage still prevail"— (God in the Garden hid His face)— "Till you achieve that Female-Male In which shall culminate the race."

William Ernest Henley [1849-1903]



"NO FAULT IN WOMEN"

No fault in women to refuse The offer which they most would choose: No fault in women to confess How tedious they are in their dress: No fault in women to lay on The tincture of vermilion, And there to give the cheek a dye Of white, where Nature doth deny: No fault in women to make show Of largeness, when they're nothing so; When, true it is, the outside swells With inward buckram, little else: No fault in women, though they be But seldom from suspicion free: No fault in womankind at all, If they but slip, and never fall.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]



"ARE WOMEN FAIR?"

"Are women fair?" Ay! wondrous fair to see too. "Are women sweet?" Yea, passing sweet they be too; Most fair and sweet to them that only love them; Chaste and discreet to all save those that prove them.

"Are women wise?" Not wise, but they be witty. "Are women witty?" Yea, the more the pity; They are so witty, and in wit so wily, That be you ne'er so wise, they will beguile ye.

"Are women fools?" Not fools, but fondlings many. "Can women found be faithful unto any?" When snow-white swans do turn to color sable, Then women fond will be both firm and stable.

"Are women saints?" No saints, nor yet no devils. "Are women good?" Not good, but needful evils; So Angel-like, that devils I do not doubt them; So needful evils, that few can live without them.

"Are women proud?" Ay! passing proud, and praise them. "Are women kind?" Ay! wondrous kind and please them, Or so imperious, no man can endure them, Or so kind-hearted, any may procure them.

Francis Davison (?) [fl. 1602]



A STRONG HAND

Tender-handed stroke a nettle, And it stings you for your pains; Grasp it like a lad of mettle, And it soft as silk remains:

So it is with these fair creatures, Use them kindly, they rebel; But be rough as nutmeg graters, And the rogues obey you well.

Aaron Hill [1685-1750]



WOMEN'S LONGING From "Women Pleased"

Tell me what is that only thing For which all women long; Yet, having what they most desire, To have it does them wrong?

'Tis not to be chaste, nor fair, (Such gifts malice may impair), Richly trimmed, to walk or ride, Or to wanton unespied, To preserve an honest name And so to give it up to fame— These are toys. In good or ill They desire to have their will: Yet, when they have it, they abuse it, For they know not how to use it.

John Fletcher [1579-1625]



TRIOLET

All women born are so perverse No man need boast their love possessing. If naught seem better, nothing's worse: All women born are so perverse. From Adam's wife, that proved a curse, Though God had made her for a blessing, All women born are so perverse No man need boast their love possessing.

Robert Bridges [1844-1930]



THE FAIR CIRCASSIAN

Forty Viziers saw I go Up to the Seraglio, Burning, each and every man, For the fair Circassian.

Ere the morn had disappeared, Every Vizier wore a beard; Ere the afternoon was born, Every Vizier came back shorn.

"Let the man that woos to win Woo with an unhairy chin;" Thus she said, and as she bid Each devoted Vizier did.

From the beards a cord she made, Looped it to the balustrade, Glided down and went away To her own Circassia.

When the Sultan heard, waxed he Somewhat wroth, and presently In the noose themselves did lend Every Vizier did suspend.

Sages all, this rhyme who read, Guard your beards with prudent heed, And beware the wily plans Of the fair Circassians.

Richard Garnett [1835-1906]



THE FEMALE PHAETON

Thus Kitty, beautiful and young, And wild as colt untamed, Bespoke the fair from whence she sprung, With little rage inflamed:

Inflamed with rage at sad restraint, Which wise mamma ordained; And sorely vexed to play the saint, Whilst wit and beauty reigned:

"Shall I thumb holy books, confined With Abigails, forsaken? Kitty's for other things designed, Or I am much mistaken.

"Must Lady Jenny frisk about, And visit with her cousins? At balls must she make all the rout, And bring home hearts by dozens?

"What has she better, pray, than I, What hidden charms to boast, That all mankind for her should die, Whilst I am scarce a toast?

"Dearest mamma! for once let me, Unchained, my fortune try; I'll have my earl as well as she, Or know the reason why.

"I'll soon with Jenny's pride quit score, Make all her lovers fall: They'll grieve I was not loosed before; She, I was loosed at all."

Fondness prevailed, mamma gave way; Kitty, at heart's desire, Obtained the chariot for a day, And set the world on fire.

Matthew Prior [1664-1721]



THE LURE

"What bait do you use," said a Saint to the Devil, "When you fish where the souls of men abound?" "Well, for special tastes," said the King of Evil, "Gold and Fame are the best I've found."

"But for general use?" asked the Saint. "Ah, then," Said the Demon, "I angle for Man, not men, And a thing I hate Is to change my bait, So I fish with a woman the whole year round."

John Boyle O'Reilly [1844-1890]



THE FEMALE OF THE SPECIES

When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride, He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside; But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail, For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When Nag, the wayside cobra, hears the careless foot of man, He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can; But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail, For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws, They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws. 'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale, For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say, For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away; But when hunter meets with husband, each confirms the other's tale— The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man, a bear in most relations—worm and savage otherwise,— Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise. Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low, To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe. Mirth obscene diverts his anger—Doubt and Pity oft perplex Him in dealing with an issue—to the scandal of The Sex!

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same; And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail, The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest. These be purely male diversions—not in these her honor dwells. She, the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.

She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate; And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

She is wedded to convictions—in default of grosser ties; Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!— He will meet no cool discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild, Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

Unprovoked and awful charges—even so the she-bear fights; Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons—even so the cobra bites; Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw And the victim writhes in anguish—like the Jesuit with the squaw!

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands To some God of Abstract Justice—which no woman understands.

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him Must command but may not govern—shall enthral but not enslave him. And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail, That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.

Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936]



THE WOMAN WITH THE SERPENT'S TONGUE

She is not old, she is not young, The woman with the Serpent's Tongue, The haggard cheek, the hungering eye, The poisoned words that wildly fly, The famished face, the fevered hand,— Who slights the worthiest in the land, Sneers at the just, contemns the brave, And blackens goodness in its grave.

In truthful numbers be she sung, The Woman with the Serpent's Tongue; Concerning whom, Fame hints at things Told but in shrugs and whisperings: Ambitious from her natal hour, And scheming all her life for power; With little left of seemly pride; With venomed fangs she cannot hide; Who half makes love to you to-day,

To-morrow gives her guest away. Burnt up within by that strange soul She cannot slake, or yet control: Malignant-lipped, unkind, unsweet; Past all example indiscreet; Hectic, and always overstrung,— The Woman with the Serpent's Tongue.

To think that such as she can mar Names that among the noblest are! That hands like hers can touch the springs That move who knows what men and things? That on her will their fates have hung!— The Woman with the Serpent's Tongue.

William Watson [1858-1935]



SUPPOSE

How sad if, by some strange new law, All kisses scarred! For she who is most beautiful Would be most marred.

And we might be surprised to see Some lovely wife Smooth-visaged, while a seeming prude Was marked for life.

Anne Reeve Aldrich [1866-1892]



TOO CANDID BY HALF

As Tom and his wife were discoursing one day Of their several faults in a bantering way, Said she, "Though my wit you disparage, I'm sure, my dear husband, our friends will attest This much, at the least, that my judgment is best." Quoth Tom, "So they said at our marriage."

John Godfrey Saxe [1816-1887]



FABLE

The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter "Little Prig;" Bun replied, "You are doubtless very big; But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together, To make up a year And a sphere. And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I'm not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry.

I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track; Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on thy back, Neither can you crack a nut.

Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882]



WOMAN'S WILL

That man's a fool who tries by art and skill To stem the torrent of a woman's will: For if she will, she will; you may depend on't— And if she won't, she won't—and there's an end on't.

Unknown



WOMAN'S WILL

Men, dying, make their wills, but wives Escape a task so sad; Why should they make what all their lives The gentle dames have had?

John Godfrey Saxe [1816-1887]



PLAYS

Alas, how soon the hours are over Counted us out to play the lover! And how much narrower is the stage Allotted us to play the sage!

But when we play the fool, how wide The theatre expands! beside, How long the audience sits before us! How many prompters! what a chorus!

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]



THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE

I sent for Ratcliffe; was so ill, That other doctors gave me over: He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill, And I was likely to recover.

But, when the wit began to wheeze, And wine had warmed the politician, Cured yesterday of my disease, I died last night of my physician.

Matthew Prior [1664-1721]



THE NET OF LAW

The net of law is spread so wide, No sinner from its sweep may hide.

Its meshes are so fine and strong, They take in every child of wrong.

O wondrous web of mystery! Big fish alone escape from thee!

James Jeffrey Roche [1847-1908]



COLOGNE

In Koln, a town of monks and bones, And pavements fanged with murderous stones, And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches; I counted two and seventy stenches, All well defined, and several stinks! Ye Nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks, The river Rhine, it is well known, Doth wash your city of Cologne; But tell me, Nymphs! what power divine Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?

Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]



EPITAPH ON CHARLES II

Here lies our Sovereign Lord the King, Whose word no man relies on, Who never said a foolish thing, Nor ever did a wise one.

John Wilmot [1647-1680]



CERTAIN MAXIMS OF HAFIZ

I If It be pleasant to look on, stalled in the packed serai, Does not the Young Man try Its temper and pace ere he buy? If She be pleasant to look on, what does the Young Man say? "Lo! She is pleasant to look on, give Her to me today!"

II Yea, though a Kaffir die, to him is remitted Jehannum If he borrowed in life from a native at sixty per cent per annum.

III Blister we not for bursati? So when the heart is vexed, The pain of one maiden's refusal is drowned in the pain of the next.

IV The temper of chums, the love of your wife, and a new piano's tune— Which of the three will you trust at the end of an Indian June?

V Who are the rulers of Ind—to whom shall we bow the knee? Make your peace with the women, and men will make you L. G.

VI Does the woodpecker flit round the young ferash? Does the grass clothe a new-built wall? Is she under thirty, the woman who holds a boy in her thrall?

VI If She grow suddenly gracious—reflect. Is it all for thee? The black-buck is stalked through the bullock, and Man through jealousy.

VIII Seek not for favor of women. So shall you find it indeed. Does not the boar break cover just when you're lighting a weed?

IX If He play, being young and unskilful, for shekels of silver and gold, Take His money, my son, praising Allah. The kid was ordained to be sold.

X With a "weed" among men or horses verily this is the best, That you work him in office or dog-cart lightly—but give him no rest.

XI Pleasant the snaffle of Courtship, improving the manners and carriage; But the colt who is wise will abstain from the terrible thornbit of Marriage.

XII As the thriftless gold of the babul, so is the gold that we spend On a Derby Sweep, or our neighbor's wife, or the horse that we buy from a friend.

XIII The ways of a man with a maid be strange, yet simple and tame To the ways of a man with a horse, when selling or racing that same.

XIV In public Her face turneth to thee, and pleasant Her smile when ye meet. It is ill. The cold rocks of El-Gidar smile thus on the waves at their feet. In public Her face is averted, with anger She nameth thy name. It is well. Was there ever a loser content with the loss of the game?

XV If She have spoken a word, remember thy lips are sealed, And the Brand of the Dog is upon him by whom is the secret revealed. If She have written a letter, delay not an instant, but burn it. Tear it in pieces, O Fool, and the wind to her mate shall return it! If there be trouble to Herward, and a lie of the blackest can clear, Lie, while thy lips can move or a man is alive to hear.

XVI My Son, if a maiden deny thee and scufflingly bid thee give o'er, Yet lip meets with lip at the lastward—get out! She has been there before. They are pecked on the ear and the chin and the nose who are lacking in lore.

XVII If we fall in the race, though we win, the hoof-slide is scarred on the course. Though Allah and Earth pardon Sin, remaineth forever Remorse.

XVIII "By all I am misunderstood!" if the Matron shall say, or the Maid:— "Alas! I do not understand," my son, be thou nowise afraid. In vain in the sight of the Bird is the net of the Fowler displayed.

XIX My Son, if I, Hafiz, thy father, take hold of thy knees in my pain, Demanding thy name on stamped paper, one day or one hour—refrain. Are the links of thy fetters so light that thou cravest another man's chain?

Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936]



A BAKER'S DUZZEN UV WIZE SAWZ

Them ez wants, must choose. Them ez hez, must lose. Them ez knows, won't blab. Them ez guesses, will gab. Them ez borrows, sorrows. Them ez lends, spends. Them ez gives, lives. Them ez keeps dark, is deep. Them ez kin earn; kin keep. Them ez aims, hits. Them ez hez, gits. Them ez waits, win. Them ez will, kin.

Edward Rowland Sill [1841-1887]



EPIGRAMS

What is an epigram? a dwarfish whole, Its body brevity, and wit its soul.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]

———————-

As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, So wit is by politeness sharpest set; Their want of edge from their offence is seen, Both pain the heart when exquisitely keen.

Unknown

———————-

"I hardly ever ope my lips," one cries; "Simonides, what think you of my rule?" "If you're a fool, I think you're very wise; If you are wise, I think you are a fool."

Richard Garnett [1835-1906]

———————-

Philosopher, whom dost thou most affect, Stoics austere, or Epicurus' sect? Friend, 'tis my grave infrangible design With those to study, and with these to dine.

Richard Garnett [1835-1906]

———————-

Joy is the blossom, sorrow is the fruit, Of human life; and worms are at the root.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

———————-

No truer word, save God's, was ever spoken, Than that the largest heart is soonest broken.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

———————-

This house, where once a lawyer dwelt, Is now a smith's. Alas! How rapidly the iron age Succeeds the age of brass!

William Erskine [1769-1822]

———————-

"I would," says Fox, "a tax devise That shall not fall on me." "Then tax receipts," Lord North replies, "For those you never see."

Richard Brinsley Sheridan [1751-1816]

———————-

You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come. Knock as you please,—there's nobody at home.

Alexander Pope [1688-1744]

———————-

If a man who turnips cries Cry not when his father dies, 'Tis a proof that he would rather Have a turnip than a father.

Samuel Johnson [1709-1784]

———————-

Life is a jest, and all things show it; I said so once, and now I know it.

John Gay [1685-1732]

———————-

I am his Highness' dog at Kew. Pray, sir, tell me,—whose dog are you?

Alexander Pope [1688-1744]

———————-

Sir, I admit your general rule, That every poet is a fool, But you yourself may serve to show it, That every fool is not a poet.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]

———————-

Damis, an author cold and weak, Thinks as a critic he's divine; Likely enough; we often make Good vinegar of sorry wine.

Unknown

———————-

Swans sing before they die—'twere no bad thing Did certain persons die before they sing.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]

———————-

He who in his pocket hath no money Should, in his mouth, be never without honey.

Unknown

———————-

Nobles and heralds, by your leave, Here lies what once was Matthew Prior, The son of Adam and of Eve; Can Bourbon or Nassau claim higher?

Matthew Prior [1664-1721]

———————-

Here lie I, Martin Elginbrodde; Hae mercy o' my soul, Lord God, As I wad do were I Lord God, And ye were Martin Elginbrodde.

George Macdonald [1824-1905]

———————-

Who killed Kildare? Who dared Kildare to kill? Death killed Kildare—who dare kill whom he will.

Jonathan Swift [1667-1745]

———————-

With death doomed to grapple, Beneath the cold slab he Who lied in the chapel Now lies in the abbey.

Byron's epitaph for Pitt

———————-

When doctrines meet with general approbation, It is not heresy, but reformation.

David Garrick [1717-1779]

———————-

Treason doth never prosper; what's the reason? Why, if it prosper, none dare call it treason.

John Harington [1561-1612]

———————-

God bless the King—I mean the faith's defender! God bless (no harm in blessing!) the Pretender! But who pretender is, or who is King— God bless us all!—that's quite another thing.

John Byrom [1692-1763]

———————-

'Tis highly rational, we can't dispute, The Love, being naked, should promote a suit: But doth not oddity to him attach Whose fire's so oft extinguished by a match?

Richard Garnett [1835-1906]

———————-

"Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life, There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake.— It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife."— Why, so it is, father,—whose wife shall I take?"

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

———————-

When Eve upon the first of men The apple pressed with specious cant, O, what a thousand pities then That Adam was not Adam-ant!

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

———————-

Whilst Adam slept, Eve from his side arose: Strange! his first sleep should be his last repose!

Unknown

———————-

"What? rise again with all one's bones," Quoth Giles, "I hope you fib: I trusted, when I went to Heaven, To go without my rib.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]

———————-

Here lies my wife: here let her lie! Now she's at rest, and so am I.

John Dryden [1631-1700]

———————-

After such years of dissension and strife, Some wonder that Peter should weep for his wife; But his tears on her grave are nothing surprising,— He's laying her dust, for fear of its rising.

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]



WRITTEN ON A LOOKING-GLASS

I change, and so do women too; But I reflect, which women never do.

Unknown



AN EPITAPH

A lovely young lady I mourn in my rhymes: She was pleasant, good-natured, and civil sometimes. Her figure was good: she had very fine eyes, And her talk was a mixture of foolish and wise. Her adorers were many, and one of them said, "She waltzed rather well! It's a pity she's dead!"

George John Cayley [? ]



ON THE ARISTOCRACY OF HARVARD

And this is good old Boston, The home of the bean and the cod, Where the Lowells talk to the Cabots And the Cabots talk only to God.

John Collins Bossidy [1860-1928]



ON THE DEMOCRACY OF YALE

Here's to the town of New Haven, The home of the Truth and the Light, Where God talks to Jones in the very same tones That He uses with Hadley and Dwight!

Frederick Scheetz Jones [1862-



A GENERAL SUMMARY

We are very slightly changed From the semi-apes who ranged India's prehistoric clay; Whoso drew the longest bow, Ran his brother down, you know, As we run men down to-day. "Dowb," the first of all his race, Met the Mammoth face to face On the lake or in the cave, Stole the steadiest canoe, Ate the quarry others slew, Died—and took the finest grave.

When they scratched the reindeer-bone, Someone made the sketch his own, Filched it from the artist—then, Even in those early days, Won a simple Viceroy's praise Through the toil of other men. Ere they hewed the Sphinx's visage, Favoritism governed kissage, Even as it does in this age.

Who shall doubt "the secret hid Under Cheops' pyramid" Was that the contractor did Cheops out of several millions? Or that Joseph's sudden rise To Comptroller of Supplies Was a fraud of monstrous size On King Pharaoh's swart Civilians?

Thus, the artless songs I sing Do not deal with anything New or never said before. As it was in the beginning, Is to-day official sinning, And shall be for evermore!

Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936]



THE MIMICS



AN OMAR FOR LADIES

I One for her Club and her own Latch-key fights, Another wastes in Study her good Nights. Ah, take the Clothes and let the Culture go, Nor heed the grumble of the Women's Rights!

Look at the Shop-girl all about us—"Lo, The Wages of a month," she says, "I blow Into a Hat, and when my hair is waved, Doubtless my Friend will take me to the Show."

And she who saved her coin for Flannels red, And she who caught Pneumonia instead, Will both be Underground in Fifty Years, And Prudence pays no Premium to the dead.

Th' exclusive Style you set your heart upon Gets to the Bargain counters—and anon, Like monograms on a Saleslady's tie, Cheers but a moment—soon for you 'tis gone.

Think, in the sad Four Hundred's gilded halls, Whose endless Leisure ev'n themselves appalls, How Ping-pong raged so high—then faded out To those far Suburbs that still chase its Balls.

They say Sixth Avenue and the Bowery keep The dernier cri that once was far from cheap; Green veils, one season chic—Department stores Mark down in vain—no profit shall they reap.

II I sometimes think that never lasts so long The Style as when it starts a bit too strong; That all the Pompadours the parterre boasts Some Chorus-girl began, with Dance and Song.

And this Revival of the Chignon low That fills the most of us with helpless Woe, Ah, criticise it Softly! for who knows What long-necked Peeress had to wear it so!

Ah, my beloved, try each Style you meet; To-day brooks no loose ends, you must be neat. Tomorrow! why tomorrow you may be Wearing it down your back like Marguerite!

For some we once admired, the Very Best That ever a French hand-boned Corset prest, Wore what they used to call Prunella Boots, And put on Nightcaps ere they went to rest.

And we that now make fun of Waterfalls They wore, and whom their Crinoline appalls, Ourselves shall from old dusty Fashion plates Assist our Children in their Costume balls.

Ah, make the most of what we yet may wear, Before we grow so old that we don't care! Before we have our Hats made all alike, Sans Plumes, sans Wings, sans Chiffon, and—sans Hair!

III Alike to her who Dines both Loud and Long, Or her who Banting shuns the Dinner-gong, Some Doctor from his Office chair will shout, "It makes no Difference—both of you are Wrong!"

Why, all the Health-Reformers who discussed High Heels and Corsets learnedly are thrust Square-toed and Waistless forth; their Duds are scorned, And Venus might as well have been a Bust.

Myself when slim did eagerly frequent Delsarte and Ling, and heard great Argument Of muscles trained to Hold me up, but still Spent on my Modiste what I'd always spent!

With walking Clubs I did the best I could; With my own Feet I tramped my Ten Miles, good; And this was All that I got out of it— I ate much more for Dinner than I should.

......

And fear not lest your Rheumatism seize The Joy of Life from other people's Sprees; The Art will not have Perished—au contraire, Posterity will practise it with Ease!

When you and I have ceased Champagne to Sup, Be sure there will be More to Keep it Up; And while we pat Old Tabby by the fire, Full many a Girl will lead her Brindled Pup.

Josephine Daskam Bacon [1876-



"WHEN LOVELY WOMAN" After Goldsmith

When lovely woman wants a favor, And finds, too late, that man won't bend, What earthly circumstance can save her From disappointment in the end?

The only way to bring him over, The last experiment to try, Whether a husband or a lover, If he have feeling is—to cry.

Phoebe Cary [1824-1871]



FRAGMENT IN IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH

There is a river clear and fair, 'Tis neither broad nor narrow; It winds a little here and there— It winds about like any hare; And then it holds as straight a course As, on the turnpike road, a horse, Or, through the air, an arrow.

The trees that grow upon the shore Have grown a hundred years or more; So long there is no knowing: Old Daniel Dobson does not know When first those trees began to grow; But still they grew, and grew, and grew, As if they'd nothing else to do, But ever must be growing.

The impulses of air and sky Have reared their stately heads so high, And clothed their boughs with green; Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,— And when the wind blows loud and keen, I've seen the jolly timbers laugh, And shake their sides with merry glee— Wagging their heads in mockery.

Fixed are their feet in solid earth Where winds can never blow; But visitings of deeper birth Have reached their roots below. For they have gained the river's brink And of the living waters drink.

There's little Will, a five years' child— He is my youngest boy; To look on eyes so fair and wild, It is a very joy. He hath conversed with sun and shower, And dwelt with every idle flower, As fresh and gay as them. He loiters with the briar-rose,— The blue-bells are his playfellows, That dance upon their slender stem.

And I have said, my little Will, Why should he not continue still A thing of Nature's rearing? A thing beyond the world's control— A living vegetable soul,— No human sorrow fearing.

It were a blessed sight to see That child become a willow-tree, His brother trees among. He'd be four times as tall as me, And live three times as long.

Catherine M. Fanshawe [1765-1834]



ONLY SEVEN After Wordsworth

I marvelled why a simple child, That lightly draws its breath, Should utter groans so very wild, And look as pale as death.

Adopting a parental tone, I asked her why she cried; The damsel answered with a groan, "I've got a pain inside!

"I thought it would have sent me mad Last night about eleven." Said I, "What is it makes you bad? How many apples have you had?" She answered, "Only seven!"

"And are you sure you took no more, My little maid?" quoth I; "Oh, please, sir, mother gave me four, But they were in a pie!"

"If that's the case," I stammered out, "Of course you've had eleven." The maiden answered with a pout, "I ain't had more nor seven!"

I wondered hugely what she meant, And said, "I'm bad at riddles; But I know where little girls are sent For telling taradiddles.

"Now, if you don't reform," said I, "You'll never go to heaven." But all in vain; each time I try, That little idiot makes reply, "I ain't had more nor seven!"

POSTSCRIPT: To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong, Or slightly misapplied; And so I'd better call my song "Lines after Ache-inside."

Henry Sambrooke Leigh [1837-1883]



LUCY LAKE After Wordsworth

Poor Lucy Lake was overgrown, But somewhat underbrained. She did not know enough, I own, To go in when it rained.

Yet Lucy was constrained to go; Green bedding,—you infer. Few people knew she died, but oh, The difference to her!

Newton Mackintosh [1858-



JANE SMITH After Wordsworth

I journeyed, on a winter's day, Across the lonely wold; No bird did sing upon the spray, And it was very cold.

I had a coach with horses four, Three white (though one was black), And on they went the common o'er, Nor swiftness did they lack.

A little girl ran by my side, And she was pinched and thin. "Oh, please, sir, do give me a ride! I'm fetching mother's gin."

"Enter my coach, sweet child," said I, "For you shall ride with me; And I will get you your supply Of mother's eau-de-vie."

The publican was stern and cold, And said: "Her mother's score Is writ, as you shall soon behold, Behind the bar-room door!"

I blotted out the score with tears, And paid the money down; And took the maid of thirteen years Back to her mother's town.

And though the past with surges wild Fond memories may sever, The vision of that happy child Will leave my spirits never!

Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936]



FATHER WILLIAM From "Alice in Wonderland" After Southey

"You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head— Do you think, at your age, it is right?"

"In my youth," Father William replied to his son, "I feared it might injure the brain; But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again."

"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door— Pray, what is the reason of that?"

"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks, "I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment—one shilling the box— Allow me to sell you a couple?"

"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak— Pray, how did you manage to do it?"

"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life."

"You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose— What made you so awfully clever?"

"I have answered three questions and that is enough," Said his father; "don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!"

Lewis Carroll [1832-1898]



THE NEW ARRIVAL After Campbell

There came to port last Sunday night The queerest little craft, Without an inch of rigging on; I looked and looked—and laughed! It seemed so curious that she Should cross the Unknown water, And moor herself within my room— My daughter! O, my daughter!

Yet by these presents witness all She's welcome fifty times, And comes consigned in hope and love— And common-metre rhymes. She has no manifest but this; No flag floats o'er the water; She's too new for the British Lloyds— My daughter! O, my daughter!

Ring out, wild bells—and tame ones too; Ring out the lover's moon. Ring in the little worsted socks, Ring in the bib and spoon. Ring out the muse, ring in the nurse, Ring in the milk and water. Away with paper, pen, and ink— My daughter! O, my daughter!

George Washington Cable [1844-1925]



DISASTER After Moore

'Twas ever thus from childhood's hour My fondest hopes would not decay: I never loved a tree or flower Which was the first to fade away! The garden, where I used to delve Short-frocked, still yields me pinks in plenty; The pear-tree that I climbed at twelve, I see still blossoming, at twenty.

I never nursed a dear gazelle. But I was given a paroquet— How I did nurse him if unwell! He's imbecile, but lingers yet. He's green, with an enchanting tuft; He melts me with his small black eye: He'd look inimitable stuffed, And knows it—but he will not die!

I had a kitten—I was rich In pets—but all too soon my kitten Became a full-sized cat, by which I've more than once been scratched and bitten; And when for sleep her limbs she curled One day beside her untouched plateful, And glided calmly from the world, I freely own that I was grateful.

And then I bought a dog—a queen! Ah, Tiny, dear departing pug! She lives, but she is past sixteen, And scarce can crawl across the rug. I loved her beautiful and kind; Delighted in her pert Bow-wow: But now she snaps if you don't mind; 'Twere lunacy to love her now.

I used to think, should e'er mishap Betide my crumple-visaged Ti, In shape of prowling thief, or trap, Or coarse bull-terrier—I should die. But ah! disasters have their use; And life might e'en be too sunshiny: Nor would I make myself a goose, If some big dog should swallow Tiny.

Charles Stuart Calverley [1831-1884]



'TWAS EVER THUS After Moore

I never reared a young gazelle, (Because, you see, I never tried); But had it known and loved me well, No doubt the creature would have died. My rich and aged Uncle John Has known me long and loves me well But still persists in living on— I would he were a young gazelle.

I never loved a tree or flower; But, if I had, I beg to say The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower Would soon have withered it away. I've dearly loved my Uncle John, From childhood to the present hour, And yet he will go living on— I would he were a tree or flower!

Henry Sambrooke Leigh [1837-1883]



A GRIEVANCE After Byron

Dear Mr. Editor: I wish to say— If you will not be angry at my, writing it— But I've been used, since childhood's happy day, When I have thought of something, to inditing it; I seldom think of things; and, by the way, Although this meter may not be exciting, it Enables one to be extremely terse, Which is not what one always is in verse.

I used to know a man,—such things befall The observant wayfarer through Fate's domain— He was a man, take him for all in all, We shall not look upon his like again; I know that statement's not original; What statement is, since Shakespeare? or, since Cain, What murder? I believe 'twas Shakespeare said it, or Perhaps it may have been your Fighting Editor.

Though why an Editor should fight, or why A Fighter should abase himself to edit, Are problems far too difficult and high For me to solve with any sort of credit. Some greatly more accomplished man than I Must tackle them: let's say then Shakespeare said it; And, if he did not, Lewis Morris may (Or even if he did). Some other day,

When I have nothing pressing to impart, I should not mind dilating on this matter. I feel its import both in head and heart, And always did,—especially the latter. I could discuss it in the busy mart Or on the lonely housetop; hold! this chatter Diverts me from my purpose. To the point: The time, as Hamlet said, is out of joint,

And perhaps I was born to set it right,— A fact I greet with perfect equanimity. I do not put it down to "cursed spite," I don't see any cause for cursing in it. I Have always taken very great delight In such pursuits since first I read divinity. Whoever will may write a nation's songs As long as I'm allowed to right its wrongs.

What's Eton but a nursery of wrong-righters, A mighty mother of effective men; A training ground for amateur reciters, A sharpener of the sword as of the pen; A factory of orators and fighters, A forcing-house of genius? Now and then The world at large shrinks back, abashed and beaten, Unable to endure the glare of Eton.

I think I said I knew a man: what then? I don't suppose such knowledge is forbid. We nearly all do, more or less, know men,— Or think we do; nor will a man get rid Of that delusion while he wields a pen. But who this man was, what, if aught, he did, Nor why I mentioned him, I do not know, Nor what I "wished to say" a while ago.

James Kenneth Stephen [1859-1892]



"NOT A SOU HAD HE GOT" After Charles Wolfe

Not a sou had he got—not a guinea or note— And he looked confoundedly flurried, As he bolted away without paying his shot, And the landlady after him hurried.

We saw him again at dead of night, When home from the club returning; We twigged the doctor beneath the light Of the gas-lamp brilliantly burning.

All bare and exposed to the midnight dews, Reclined in a gutter we found him; And he looked like a gentleman taking a snooze With his Marshall cloak around him.

"The doctor's as drunk as the devil," we said, And we managed a shutter to borrow; We raised him; and sighed at the thought that his head Would consumedly ache on the morrow.

We bore him home, and we put him to bed, And we told his wife and his daughter To give him next morning a couple of red- Herrings, with soda-water.

Loudly they talked of his money that's gone, And his lady began to upbraid him; But little he recked, so they let him snore on 'Neath the counterpane, just as we laid him.

We tucked him in, and had hardly done, When, beneath the window calling, We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun Of a watchman "One o'clock!" bawling.

Slowly and sadly we all walked down From his room on the uppermost story; A rushlight we placed on the cold hearth-stone, And we left him alone in his glory.

Richard Harris Barham [1788-1845]



THE WHITING AND THE SNAIL From "Alice in Wonderland" After Mary Howitt

"Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail, "There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail, See bow eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle—will you come and join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?

"You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!" But the snail replied, "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance— Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.

"What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied. "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France— Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"

Lewis Carroll [1832-1898]



THE RECOGNITION After Tennyson

Home they brought her sailor son, Grown a man across the sea, Tall and broad and black of beard, And hoarse of voice as man may be.

Hand to shake and mouth to kiss, Both he offered ere he spoke; But she said, "What man is this Comes to play a sorry joke?"

Then they praised him—called him "smart," "Tightest lad that ever stept;" But her son she did not know, And she neither smiled nor wept.

Rose, a nurse of ninety years, Set a pigeon-pie in sight; She saw him eat:—"'Tis he! 'tis he!" She knew him—by his appetite!

Frederick William Sawyer [1810-1875]



THE HIGHER PANTHEISM IN A NUTSHELL After Tennyson

One, who is not, we see: but one, whom we see not, is; Surely this is not that: but that is assuredly this.

What, and wherefore, and whence? for under is over and under; If thunder could be without lightning, lightning could be without thunder.

Doubt is faith in the main: but faith, on the whole, is doubt; We cannot believe by proof: but could we believe without?

Why, and whither, and how? for barley and rye are not clover; Neither are straight lines curves: yet over is under and over.

Two and two may be four: but four and four are not eight; Fate and God may be twain: but God is the same thing as fate.

Ask a man what he thinks, and get from a man what he feels; God, once caught in the fact, shows you a fair pair of heels.

Body and spirit are twins: God only knows which is which; The soul squats down in the flesh, like a tinker drunk in a ditch.

One and two are not one: but one and nothing is two; Truth can hardly be false, if falsehood cannot be true.

Once the mastodon was: pterodactyls were common as cocks; Then the mammoth was God; now is He a prize ox.

Parallels all things are: yet many of these are askew. You are certainly I: but certainly I am not you.

Springs the rock from the plain, shoots the stream from the rock; Cocks exist for the hen: but hens exist for the cock.

God, whom we see not, is: and God, who is not, we see; Fiddle, we know, is diddle; and diddle, we take it, is dee.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]



THE WILLOW-TREE After Hood

Long by the willow-trees Vainly they sought her, Wild rang the mother's screams O'er the gray water: "Where is my lovely one? Where is my daughter?

"Rouse thee, Sir Constable— Rouse thee and look; Fisherman, bring your net, Boatman, your hook. Beat in the lily-beds, Dive in the brook!"

Vainly the constable Shouted and called her; Vainly the fisherman Beat the green alder; Vainly he flung the net, Never it hauled her!

Mother beside the fire Sat, her nightcap in; Father, in easy chair, Gloomily napping, When at the window-sill Came a light tapping!

And a pale countenance Looked through the casement. Loud beat the mother's heart, Sick with amazement, And at the vision which Came to surprise her, Shrieked in an agony— "Lor'! it's Elizar!"

Yes, 'twas Elizabeth— Yes, 'twas their girl; Pale was her cheek, and her Hair out of curl. "Mother," the loving one, Blushing exclaimed, "Let not your innocent Lizzy be blamed.

"Yesterday, going to Aunt Jones's to tea, Mother, dear mother, I Forgot the door-key! And as the night was cold And the way steep, Mrs. Jones kept me to Breakfast and sleep."

Whether her Pa and Ma Fully believed her, That we shall never know, Stern they received her; And for the work of that Cruel, though short, night Sent her to bed without Tea for a fortnight.

MORAL Hey diddle diddlety, Cat and the fiddlety, Maidens of England, take caution by she! Let love and suicide Never tempt you aside, And always remember to take the door-key.

William Makepeace Thackeray [1811-1863]



POETS AND LINNETS After Robert Browning

Where'er there's a thistle to feed a linnet And linnets are plenty, thistles rife— Or an acorn-cup to catch dew-drops in it There's ample promise of further life. Now, mark how we begin it.

For linnets will follow, if linnets are minded, As blows the white-feather parachute; And ships will reel by the tempest blinded— Aye, ships and shiploads of men to boot! How deep whole fleets you'll find hid.