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Not wanting in the traditional suavity of his countrymen, the Marquis makes his salutation. Thereafter, with an ulterior design, entering upon a running retrospect touching Italian affairs.


Candid eyes in open faces
Clear, not keen, no narrowing line:
Hither turn your favoring graces
Now the cloth is drawn for wine.
In best of worlds if all's not bright,
Allow, the shadow's chased by light,
Though rest for neither yet may be.
And beauty's charm, where Nature reigns,
Nor crimes nor codes may quite subdue,
As witness Naples long in chains
Exposed dishevelled by the sea—
Ah, so much more her beauty drew,
Till Savoy's red-shirt Perseus flew
And cut that fair Andromeda free.
Then Fancy flies. Nor less the trite
Matter-of-fact transcends the flight:
A rail-way train took Naples' town;
But Garibaldi sped thereon:
This movement's rush sufficing there
To rout King Fanny, Bomba's heir,
Already stuffing trunks and hampers,
At news that from Sicilia passed—
The banished Bullock from the Pampas
Trampling the royal levies massed.


And, later: He has swum the Strait,
And in Calabria making head,
Cheered by the peasants garlanded,
Pushes for Naples' nearest gate.
From that red Taurus plunging on
With lowered horns and forehead dun,
Shall matadores save Bomba's son?
He fled. And her Redeemer's banners
Glad Naples greeted with strown flowers
Hurrahs and secular hosannas
That fidgety made all tyrant powers.
Ye halls of history, arched by time,
Founded in fate, enlarged by crime,
Now shines like phosphorus scratched in dark
'Gainst your grimed walls the luminous mark
Of one who in no paladin age
Was knightly—him who lends a page
Now signal in time's recent story
Where scarce in vogue are “Plutarch's Men,”
And jobbers deal in popular glory.—
But he the hero was a sword
Whereto at whiles Cavour was guard.
The point described a fiery arc,
A swerve of wrist ordained the mark.
Wise statemanship, a ruling star
Made peace itself subserve the war.


In forging into fact a dream—
For dream it was, a dream for long—
Italia disenthralled and one,
Above her but the Alps—no thong
High flourished, held by Don or Hun;
Italia, how cut up, divided
Nigh paralysed, by cowls misguided;
Locked as in Chancery's numbing hand,
Fattening the predatory band
Of shyster-princes, whose ill sway
Still kept her a calamitous land;
In ending this, spite cruel delay,
And making, in the People's name,
Of Italy's disunited frame,
A unit and a telling State
Participant in the world's debate;
Few deeds of arms, in fruitful end,
The statecraft of Cavour transcend.
What towns with alien guards that teemed
Attest Art's Holy Land redeemed.
Slipt from the Grand Duke's gouty tread,
Florence, fair flower up-lifts the head.
Ancona, plucked from Peter's Chair,
With all the Papal fiefs in band,
Her Arch Imperial now may wear
For popular triumph and command.
And Venice: there the Croatian horde
Swagger no more with clattering sword
Ruffling the doves that dot the Square.
In Rome no furtive cloaked one now
Scribbles his gibe on Pasquin's brow,


Since wag his tongue at Popes who may
The Popedom needs endure his say.
But (happier) feuds with princelings cease,
The People federate a peace.
Cremona fiddles, blithe to see
Contentious cities comrades free.
Sicilia,—Umbria,—muster in
Their towns in squads, and hail Turin.
One state, one flag, one sword, one crown,
Till time build higher or Cade pull down.
Counts this for much? Well, more is won.
Brave public works are schemed or done.
Swart Tiber, dredged, may rich repay—
The Pontine Marsh, too, drained away.
And, far along the Tuscan shore
The weird Maremma reassume
Her ancient tilth and wheaten plume.
Ay, to reclaim Ansonia's land
The Spirit o' the Age he'll take a hand.
He means to dust each bric-a-brac city,
Pluck the feathers from all banditti;
The Pope he'll hat, and, yea or nay ye,
Rejuvenate e'en poor old Pompeii!
Concede, accomplished aims unite
With many a promise hopeful and as bright.




Effecting a counterturn, the Marquis evokes—and from the Shades, as would seem—an inconclusive debate as to the exact import of a current term significant of that one of the manifold aspects of life and nature which under various forms all artists strive to transmit to canvas. A term, be it added, whereof the lexicons give definitions more lexicographical than satisfactory.

Ay. But the Picturesque, I wonder—
The Picturesque and Old Romance!
May these conform and share advance
With Italy and the world's career?
At little suppers, where I'm one,
My artist-friends this question ponder
When ale goes round; but, in brave cheer
The vineyards yield, they'll beading run
Like Arethusa burst from ground.
Ay, and in lateral freaks of gamesome wit
Moribund Old Romance irreverent twit.
“Adieu, rosettes!” sighs Steen in way
Of fun convivial, frankly gay,
“Adieu, rosettes and point-de-vise!”
All garnish strenuous time refuse;
In peacocks' tails put out the eyes!
Utility reigns—Ah, well-a-way!—
And bustles along in Bentham's shoes.
For the Picturesque—suffice, suffice
The picture that fetches a picturesque price!


Less jovial ones propound at start
Your Picturesque in what inheres?
“In nature point, in life, in art
Where the essential thing appears.
First settle that, we'll then take up
The prior question.”
“Well, so be,”
Said Frater Lippi, who but he—
Exchanging late in changeable weather
The cowl for the cap, a cap and feather;
With wicked eye then twinkling fun,
Suppressed in friendly decorous tone,
“Here's Spagnoletto. He, I trow
Can best avail here, and bestead.—
Come then, hidalgo, what sayst thou?
The Picturesque—an example yield.”
The man invoked, a man of brawn
Tho' stumpt in stature, raised his head
From sombre musings, and revealed
A brow by no blest angel sealed,
And mouth at corners droopt and drawn;
And, catching but the last words, said
“The Picturesque?—Have ye not seen
My Flaying of St. Batholomew—
My Laurence on the gridiron lean?
There's Picturesque; and done as well
As old Giotto's Dammed in Hell
At Pisa in the Campo Santa.”
They turn hereat. In merriment
Ironic jeers the juniors vent,


“That's modest now, one hates a vaunter.”
But Lippi: “Why not Guido cite
In Herod's Massacre?”—weening well
The Little Spaniard's envious spite
Guido against, as gossips tell.
The sombrous one igniting here
And piercing Lippi's mannered mien
Flared up volcanic.—Ah, too clear,
At odds are furious and serene.
Misliking Lippi's mischievous eye
As much as Spagnoletto's mood,
And thinking to put unpleasantness by,
Swanevelt spake, that Dutchman good:
“Friends, but the Don errs not so wide.
Like beauty strange with horror allied,—
As shown in great Leonardo's head
Of snaky Medusa,—so as well
Grace and the Picturesque may dwell
With Terror. Vain here to divide—
The Picturesque has many a side.
For me, I take to Nature's scene
Some scene select, set off serene
With any tranquil thing you please—
A crumbling tower, a shepherd piping.
My master, sure, with this agrees,”
His turned appeal on Claude here lighting.
But he, the mildest tempered swain
And eke discreetest, too, may be,
That ever came out from Lorraine
To lose himself in Arcady


(Sweet there to be lost, as some have been,
And find oneself in losing e'en)
To Claude no pastime, none, nor gain
Wavering in theory's wildering maze;
Better he likes, though sunny he,
To haunt the Arcadian woods in haze,
Intent shy charms to win or ensnare,
Beauty his Daphne, he the pursuer there.
So naught he said whate'er he felt,
Yet friendly nodded to Swanevelt.



With all the ease of a Prince of the Blood gallantly testifying in behalf of an indiscreet lady the Marquis incontinently fibs, laying the cornerstone of a Munchausen fable—

But you, ye pleasant faces wise
Saluted late, your candid eyes
Methinks ye rub them in surprise:
“What's this? Jan Steen and Lippi? Claude?
Long since they embarked for Far Abroad!
Have met them, you?”
“Indeed, have I!
Ma foi! The immortals never die;
They are not so weak, they are not so craven;
They keep time's sea and skip the haven.—
Well, letting minor memories go:
With other illustrious ones in row
I met them once at that brave tavern
Founded by the first Delmonico,
Forefather of a flourishing line!


'Twas all in off-hand easy way—
Pour passer le temps, as loungers say.
In upper chamber did we sit
The dolts below never dreaming it.
The cloth was drawn—we left alone,
No solemn lackeys looking on.
In wine's meridian, halcyon noon,
Beatitude excludes elation.
Thus for a while. Anon ensues
All round their horizon, ruddying it,
Such Lights Auroral, mirth and wit—
Thy flashes, O Falernian Muse!



After a little bye-scene between Van Dyke, and Franz Hals of Mechlin, an old topic is by the company, here and there, discussed anew. In which rambling talk Adrian Brouwer, tickled undesignedly by two chance-words from a certain grandee of artists, and more waggish than polite in addressing Carlo Dolce and Rembrant whimsically delivers his mind.

'Twas Hals began. He to Vandyck,
In whose well-polished gentle mien
The practiced courtier of Kings was seen:
“Van, how, pray, do these revels strike?
Once you'd have me to England—there
Riches to get at St. James's. Nay—
Patronage! 'Gainst that flattering snare,
The more if it lure from hearth away,
Old friends—old vintages carry the day!”


Whereto Vandyck, in silken dress
Not smoother than his courteousness
Smiled back, “Well, Franz, go then thy ways;
Thy pencil anywhere earns thee praise,
If not heapt gold.—But hark the chat!”
“'Tis gay,” said Hals, not deaf to that,
“And witty should be. O the cup,
Wit rises in exhalation up!”
And sympathetic viewed the scene.
Then, turning, with yet livelier mien,
“More candid than kings, less coy than the Graces,
The pleasantness, Van, of these festival faces!—
But what's the theme?”
“The theme was bent—
Be sure, in no dry argument—
On the Picturesque, what 'tis,—its essence,
Fibre and root, bud, efflorescence,
Congenial soil, and where at best;
Till, drawing attention from the rest,
Some syllables dropt from Tintoretto,
Negligent dropt; with limp lax air
One long arm lolling over chair,
Nor less evincing latent nerve
Potential lazing in reserve.
For strong he was—the dyer's son,
A leonine strength, no strained falsetto—
The Little Tinto, Tintoretto,
Yes, Titan work by him was done.
And now as one in Art's degree
Superior to his topic—he:


“This Picturesque is scarce my care.
But note it now in Nature's work—
A thatched hut settling, rotting trees
Mossed over. Some decay must lurk:
In florid things but small its share.
You'll find it in Rome's squalid Ghetto,
In Algiers at the lazaretto,
In many a grimy slimy lair.”
“Well put!” cried Brouwer with ruddled face,
His wine-stained vesture,—hardly new,—
Buttoned with silver florins true;
Grime mark and slime!—Squirm not, Sweet Charles.”
Slyly, in tone mellifluous
Addressing Carlo Dolce thus,
Fidgety in shy fellowship,
Fastidious even to finger-tip,
And dainty prim; “In Art the stye
Is quite inodorous. Here am I:
I don't paint smells, no no, no no,
No more than Huysum here, whose touch
In pinks and tulips takes us so;
But haunts that reek may harbor much;
Hey, Teniers? Give us boors at inns,
Mud floor—dark settles—jugs—old bins,
Under rafters foul with fume that blinks
From logs too soggy much to blaze
Which yet diffuse an umberish haze
That beautifies the grime, methinks.”


To Rembrandt then: “Your sooty stroke!
'Tis you, old sweep, believe in smoke.”
But he, reserved in self-control,
Jostled by that convivial droll,
Seemed not to hear, nor silence broke.



One of the greater Dutchman dirges the departed three-deckers of De Ruyter and Van Trump. To divert from which monody, a Lesser Master verbally hits off a kitchen-dresser, and in such sort as to evoke commendation from one [of] the Grand Masters, who nevertheless proposes a certain transmuting enhancement in the spirit of the latter's own florid and allegoric style.

Here Van der Velde, who dreamy heard
Familiar Brouwer's unanswered word,
Started from thoughts leagues off at sea:
“Believe in smoke? Why, ay, such smoke
As the swart old Dunderberg erst did fold—
When, like the cloud-voice from the mountain rolled,
Van Tromp through the bolts of her broadside spoke—
Bolts heard by me!” And lapsed in thought
Of yet other frays himself had seen
When, fired by adventurous love of Art,
With De Ruyter he'd cruised, yea, a tar had been.
Reminiscent he sat. Some lion-heart old,
Austerely aside, on latter days cast,
So muses on glories engulfed in the Past,
And laurelled ones stranded or overrolled
By eventful Time.—He awoke anon,
Or, rather, his dream took audible tone.—


Then filling his cup:
“On Zealand's strand
I saw morn's rays slant 'twixt the bones
Of the oaken Dunderberg broken up;
Saw her ribbed shadow on the sand.
Ay—picturesque! But naught atones
For heroic navies, Pan's own ribs and knees,
But a story now that storied made the seas!”
There the gray master-hand marine
Fell back with desolated mien
Leaving the rest in fluttered mood
Disturbed by such an interlude
Scarce genial in over earnest tone,
Nor quite harmonious with their own.
To meet and turn the tide-wave there,
“For me, friends,” Gerard Douw here said,
Twirling a glass with sprightly air,
“I too revere forefather Eld,
Just feeling's mine too for old oak,
One here am I with Van der Velde;
But take thereto in grade that's lesser:
I like old oak in kitchen-dresser,
The same set out with Delf ware olden
And well scoured copper sauce-pans—golden
In aureate rays that on the hearth
Flit like fairies or frisk in mirth.
Oak buffet too; and, flung thereon,
As just from evening-market won,


Pigeons and prawns, bunched carrots bright,
Gilled fish, clean radish red and white,
And greens and cauliflowers, and things
The good wife's good provider brings;
All these too touched with fire-side light.
On settle there, a Phillis pleasant
Plucking a delicate fat pheasant.
Agree, the picture's picturesque.”
“Ay, hollow beats all Arabesque!
But Phillis? Make her Venus, man,
Peachy and plump; and for the pheasant,
No fowl but will prove acquiescent
Promoted into Venus' swan;
Then in suffused warm rosy weather
Sublime them in sun-cloud together.
The Knight, Sir Peter Paul, 'twas he,
Hatted in rich felt, spick and span,
Right comely in equipment free
With court-air of Lord Chamberlain:
“So! 'twere a canvas meet for donor.
What say you, Paola of Verona?”—
Appealing here.
“Namesake, 'tis good!”
Laughed the frank master, gorgeous fellow,
Whose raiment matched his artist-mood:
Gold chain over russet velvet mellow—
A chain of honor; silver-gilt,
Gleamed at his side a jewelled hilt.
In feather high, in fortune free,
Like to a Golden Pheasant, he.


“By Paul, 'tis good, Sir Peter! Yet
Our Hollander here his picture set
In flushful light much like your own,
Tho' but from kitchen-ingle thrown.—
But come to Venice, Gerard,—do,”
Round turning genial on him there,
“Her sunsets,—there's hearth-light for you;
And matter for you on the Square.
To Venice, Gerard!”
“O, we Dutch,
Signor, know Venice, like her much.
Our unction thence we got, some say,
Tho' scarce our subjects, nor your touch.”—
“To Saint Mark's again, Mynheer, and stay!
We're Cyprus wine.—But, Monsieur,” turning
To Watteau nigh; “You vow in France,
This Pittoresque our friends advance,
How seems it to your ripe discerning?
If by a sketch it best were shown,
A hand I'll try, yes, venture one:—
A chamber on the Grand Canal
In season, say, of Carnival.
A revel reigns; and, look, the host
Handsome as Cæsar Borgia sits—”
“Then Borgia be it, bless your wits!”
Snapped Spagnoletto, late engrossed
In splenetic mood, now riling up;
I'll lend you hits. And let His Grace
Be launching, ay, the loving-cup


Among the princes in the hall
At Sinigaglia: You recall?
I mean those gudgeons whom his smile
Flattered to sup, ere yet awhile,
In Hades with Domitian's lords.
Let sunny frankness charm his air,
His raiment lace with silver cords,
Trick forth the ‘Christian statesman’ there.
And, mind ye, don't forget the pall;
Suggest it—how politeness ended:
Let lurk in shade of rearward wall
Three bravoes by the arras splendid.”



The superb gentleman from Verona, pleasantly parrying the not-so-pleasant little man from Spain, resumes his off-hand sketch.—Toward Jan Steen, sapient spendthrift in shabby raiment, smoking his tavern-pipe and whiffing out his unconventional philosophy, Watteau, habited like one of his own holiday-courtiers in the Park of Fontainebleau, proves himself, tho' but in a minor incident, not lacking in considerate courtesy humane.

“O, O, too picturesque by half!”
Was Veronese's turning laugh;
“Nay, nay: but see, on ample round
Of marble table silver-bound
Prince Comus, in mosaic, crowned;
Vin d'oro there in crystal flutes—
Shapely as those, good host of mine,
You summoned ere our Sillery fine


We popped to Bacchus in salutes;—
Well, cavaliers in manhood's flower
Fanning the flight o' the fleeing hour;
Dames, too, like sportful dolphins free:—
Silks irridescent, wit and glee.
Midmost, a Maltese knight of honor
Toasting and clasping his Bella Donna;
One arm round waist with pressure soft,
Returned in throbbed transporting rhyme;
A hand with minaret-glass aloft,
Pinnacle of the jovial prime!
What think? I daub, but daub it, true;
And yet some dashes there may do.”
The Frank assented. But Jan Steen,
With fellowly yet thoughtful mien,
Puffing at skull-bowl pipe serene,
“Come, a brave sketch, no mincing one!
And yet, adzooks, to this I hold,
Be it cloth of frieze or cloth of gold,
All's picturesque beneath the sun;
I mean, all's picture; death and life
Pictures and pendants, nor at strife—
No, never to hearts that muse thereon.
For me, 'tis life, plain life, I limn—
Not satin-glossed and flossy-fine
(Our Turburg's forte here, good for him).
No, but the life that's wine and brine,


The mingled brew; the thing as spanned
By Jan who kept the Leyden tavern
And every rollicker fellowly scanned—
And, under his vineyard, lo, a cavern!
But jolly is Jan, and never in picture
Sins against sinners by Pharisee stricture.
Jan o' the Inn, 'tis he, for ruth,
Dashes with fun art's canvas of truth.”
Here Veronese swerved him round
With glance well-bred of ruled surprise
To mark a prodigal so profound,
Nor too good-natured to be wise.
Watteau, first complimenting Steen,
Ignoring there his thriftless guise,
Took up the fallen thread between.
Tho' unto Veronese bowing—
Much pleasure at his sketch avowing;
Yet fain he would in brief convey
Some added words—perchance, in way
To vindicate his own renown,
Modest and true in pictures done:
“Ay, Signor; but—your leave—admit,
Besides such scenes as well you've hit,
Your Pittoresco too abounds
In life of old patrician grounds
For centuries kept for luxury mere:
Ladies and lords in mimic dress
Playing at shepherd and shepherdess
By founts that sing The sweet o'the year!


But, Signor—how! what's this? you seem
Drugged off in miserable dream.
How? What impends?”
“Barbaric doom!
Worse than the Constable's sack of Rome!”
Ceil, ceil! The matter? tell us, do.”
“This cabbage Utility, parbleu!
What shall insure the Carnival—
The gondola—the Grand Canal?
That palaced duct they'll yet deplete,
Improve it to a huckster's street.
And why? Forsooth, malarial!”
There ending with an odd grimace,
Reflected from the Frenchman's face.



Brouwer inurbanely applauds Veronese, and is convivially disrespectful in covert remark on M. Angelo across the table.—Raphael's concern for the melancholy estate of Albert Durer. And so forth.

At such a sally, half grotesque,
That indirectly seemed to favor
His own view of the Picturesque,
Suggesting Dutch canals in savor;
Pleased Brouwer gave a porpoise-snort,
A trunk-hose Triton trumping glee.
Claude was but moved to smile in thought;
The while Velasques, seldom free,
Kept council with himself sedate,
Isled in his ruffed Castilian state,


Viewing as from aloft the mien
Of Hals hilarious, Lippi, Steen,
In chorus frolicking back the mirth
Of Brouwer, careless child of earth;
Salvator Rosa posing nigh
With sombre-proud satiric eye.
But Poussin, he, with antique air,
Complexioned like a marble old,
Unconscious kept in merit there
Art's pure Acropolis in hold.
For Durer, piteous good fellow—
(His Agnes seldom let him mellow)
His Sampson locks, dense curling brown,
Sideways unbrageously fell down,
Enshrining so the Calvary face.
Hals says, Angelico sighed to Durer,
Taking to heart his desperate case,
“Would, friend, that Paradise might allure her!”
If Fra Angelico so could wish
(That fleece that fed on lilies fine)
Ah, saints! the head in Durer's dish,
And how may hen-pecked seraph pine!
For Leonardo, lost in dream,
His eye absorbed the effect of light
Rayed thro' red wine in glass—a gleam
Pink on the polished table bright;
The subtle brain, convolved in snare,
Inferring and over-refining there.


But Michael Angelo, brief his stay,
And, even while present, sat withdrawn.
Irreverent Brouwer in sly way
To Lippi whispered, “Brother good,
How to be free and hob-nob with
Yon broken-nosed old monolith
Kin to the battered colossi-brood?
Challenged by rays of sunny wine
Not Memnon's stone in olden years
Ere magic fled, had grudged a sign!
Water he drinks, he munches bread.
And on pale lymph of fame may dine.
Cheaply is this Archangel fed!”



Herein, after noteing certain topics glanced at by the company, the Marquis concludes the entertainment by rallying the Old Guard of Greybeards upon the somnolent tendency of their years. This, with polite considerateness he does under the fellowly form of the plural pronoun. Finally he recommends them to give audience, by way of pastime, to the “Afternoon in Naples” of his friend and disciple Jack Gentian. And so the genial Frenchman takes French leave, a judicious way of parting as best sparing the feelings on both sides.

So Brouwer, the droll. But others sit
Flinting at whiles scintillant wit
On themes whose tinder takes the spark,
Igniting some less light perchance—
The romanesque in men of mark;


And this, Shall coming time enhance
Through favoring influence, or abate
Character picturesquely great—
That rumored age whose scouts advance?
And costume too they touch upon:
The Cid, his net-work shirt of mail,
And Garibaldi's woolen one:
In higher art would each avail
So just expression nobly grace—
Declare the hero in the face?
On themes that under orchards old
The chapleted Greek would frank unfold,
And Socrates, a spirit divine,
Not alien held to cheerful wine,
That reassurer of the soul—
On these they chat.
But more whom they,
Even at the Inn of Inns do meet—
The Inn with greens above the door:
There the mahogany's waxed how bright,
And, under chins such napkins white.
Never comes the mart's intrusive roar,
Nor heard the shriek that starts the train,
Nor teasing telegraph clicks again,
No news is cried, and hurry is no more—
For us, whose lagging cobs delay
To win that tavern free from cumber,
Old lads, in saddle shall we slumber?


Here's Jack, whose genial sigh-and-laugh
Where youth and years yblend in sway,
Is like the alewife's half-and-half;
Jack Gentian, in whose beard of gray
Persistent threads of auburn tarry
Like streaks of amber after day
Down in the west; you'll not miscarry
Attending here his bright-and-sombre
Companion good to while the way
With Naples in the Times of Bomba.


Touching the Grand Canal's depletion
If Veronese did but feign,
Grave frolic of a gay Venetian
Masking in Jeremy his vein;
Believe, that others too may gambol
In syllables as light—yea, ramble
All over each esthetic park,
Playing, as on the violin,
One random theme our dames to win—
The picturesque in Men of Mark.
Nor here some lateral points they shun,
And pirouette on this, for one:


That rumored Age, whose scouts advance,
Musters it one chivalric lance?
Or shall it foster or abate
Qualities picturesquely great?
There's Garibaldi, off-hand hero,
A very Cid Campeadór,
Lion-Nemesis of Naples' Nero—
But, tut, why tell that story o'er!
A natural knight-errant, truly,
Nor priding him in parrying fence,
But charging at the helm-piece—hence
By statesmen deemed a lord unruly.
Well now, in days the gods decree,
Toward which the levellers scything move
(The Sibyl's page consult, and see)
Could this our Cid a hero prove?
What meet emprise? What plumed career?
No challenges from crimes flagitious
When all is uniform in cheer;
For Tarquins—none would be extant,
Or, if they were, would hardly daunt,
Ferruling brats, like Dionysius;
And Mulciber's sultans, overawed,
In dumps and mumps, how far from menace,
Tippling some claret about deal board
Like Voltaire's kings at inn in Venice.
In fine, the dragons penned or slain,
What for St. George would then remain!
A don of rich erratic tone,
By jaunty junior club-men known


As one, who buckram in demur,
Applies then the Johnsonian Sir;
'Twas he that rollicked thus of late
Filliped by turn of chance debate.
Repeat he did, or vary more
The same conceit, in devious way
Of grandees with dyed whiskers hoar
Tho' virile yet: “Assume, and say
The Red Shirt Champion's natal day
Is yet to fall in promised time,
Millennium of the busy bee;
How would he fare in such a Prime?
By Jove, sir, not so bravely, see!
Never he'd quit his trading trips,
Perchance, would fag in trade at desk,
Or, slopped in slimy slippery sludge,
Lifelong on Staten Island drudge,
Melting his tallow, Sir, dipping his dips,
Scarce savoring much of the Picturesque!”
“Pardon,” here purled a cultured wight
Lucid with transcendental light;
“Pardon, but tallow none nor trade
When, thro' this Iron Age's reign
The Golden one comes in again;
That's on the card.”
“She plays the spade!
Delving days, Sir, heave in sight—
Digging days, Sir; and, sweet youth,
They'll set on edge the sugary tooth:
A treadmill—Paradise they plight.”


Let be, and curb this rhyming race!—
Angel o' the Age! advance, God speed.
Harvest us all good grain in seed;
But sprinkle, do, some drops of grace
Nor polish us into commonplace.