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EPIGRAMS.
 
 
 
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67

EPIGRAMS.


69

THE POETASTER.

What is he like, a prosy versifier?
Like a clipt goose he is, immersed in mire.
He could not fly, unclogged by any balk;
Behampered thus, he cannot even walk.

70

“GREAT STATESMEN.”

Like plummet in mid ocean sounding,
Like him who crystals would be rounding,
Are they who rule, and fashion laws,—
Things that are chiefly made of flaws.
And yet, men dub them great; the while
Angels or weep, or pitying smile.
But why, blind as they are, why rail about them?
The world 's so bad, it cannot do without them.

71

ISMS.

Say, thoughtless skeptics, ye who doubt
The Devil's true existence,
What are these isms all about,—
What, but to God resistance?
God's will is, that we aye should live
In union fraternal;
But these bring hate, and mankind rive
With enmities infernal.
From one vile common parent spring
All isms with their schism;
Born he of Satan's venomed sting,—
The monster, Egotism.

72

Through business' wastes and passion's fogs,
Men run their petty round;
They make one think of little dogs,
Their noses to the ground.
Philosophers say, in their deep-pondered books,
It were well if each man found his level.
Sage sirs, this is not quite so good as it looks,
For 't would send a whole host to the Devil.
Religion 's ever soiled and soiled
And by man's foulness hurt;
The cleanest thing will be defiled
By contact with the dirt.

73

No carpenter so quick with rule,
To measure height and length,
As is a pert, self-ignorant fool,
To gauge a wise man's strength.