TRUTH AND RUMOUR. As Truth once passed on her pilgrim way, Though hers were the tidings that all should hear. But Rumour close by as she plucked a reed So wondrous and wild the lore she taught, The sun went down : when he rose again, And sleep had becalmed each listener's mind, The voice of Rumour had rung in vain, No echo had left a charm behind. A A But Truth's pure note, ever whispering clear, Wandering in air, fresh sweeetness caught; Then all unnotic'd it touched the ear, And filled with music the cells of thought. SCIENCE AND GOOD-HUMOUR. A FEAST of old was spread; The guests sat down, sings rumour, With Science at their head, And at the foot Good-humour. But soon, though rich the fare, While all the others there Were diligently dining. 'Twas Science, so 'twas sung, Who checked his hearers' wishes By learned descants, rung On countless cooling dishes. No chicken Science carved, To prove, where one man starved, His Vice with laughter shook, As there the board grew thinner ; He thought not of the cook, But only of the dinner. On wines would Science chat, On alcohol and acid, On vintage this and that, In accents slow and placid. But while these maxims dropt, They set each listener thinking; And there the wine had stopped, Had Humour not been drinking. While Science, glass in hand, Show'd how 'twas manufactured ; Good-humour's jovial band A score of bottles fractured. As Science proved, past doubt, That mirth we should not care for ; Good-humour laugh'd, without Inquiring why or wherefore. Then rose a cry for song. As Science led the table, The call was loud and long But Science had-of course— A cold, destroying music; And fear'd that tones so hoarse Would make both me and you sick. At length, much breath and time But then-'tis scientific. His flourishings are vain, Though each he twice rehearses; To sing the song again, He stops at fifteen verses. Apollo has a hunch, A gap is in the ballad; No brandy's in the punch, Good-humour now essays, A careless, easy measure; He sings, not he, for praise, He only sings for pleasure. His tones are not so clear, And clouds the sparkles smother; Yet though you stop one ear, You open wide the other. His slips in time and tune, Had nigh set Science swearing; But nightingales in June Such censures might be sharing. |