And chase the new-blown bubbles of the day.

Ah! let not censure term our fate our choice:

A mortal born, he met the general doom,
But left, like Egypt's kings, a lasting tomb.
The wits of Charles found easier ways to
fame,
Nor wish'd for Jonson's art, or Shakspeare's The stage but echoes back the public voice;
flame.
The drama's laws the drama's patrons give;
Themselves they studied; as they felt, they For we that live to please, must please-to

writ:

Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit.
Vice always found a sympathetic friend;
They pleased their age, and did not aim to
mend.

Yet bards like these aspired to lasting
praise,

live.

And proudly hoped to pimp in future To chase the charms of sound, the pomp days.

Their cause was general, their supports were

strong;

of show,

For useful mirth and salutary woe;
Bid scenic virtue form the rising age,

Their slaves were willing, and their reign And truth diffuse her radiance from the

was long:

Till Shame regain'd the post that Sense

betray'd,

And Virtue call'd Oblivion to her aid.

Then crush'd by rules, and weaken'd as
refined,

For years the power of tragedy declined;
From bard to bard the frigid caution crept,
Till declamation roar'd whilst passion slept.
Yet still did Virtue deign the stage to tread,
Philosophy remain'd, though Nature fled;
But forced, at length, her ancient reign to
quit,

She saw great Faustus lay the ghost of wit,
Exulting Folly hail'd the joyous day,
And pantomime and song confirm'd her
sway.

But who the coming changes can presage,
And mark the future periods of the stage?
Perhaps, if skill could distant times explore,
New Behns, new Durfeys, yet remain in

store;

Perhaps where Lear has raved, and Hamlet died,

On flying cars new sorcerers may ride; Perhaps (for who can guess the effects of chance?)

stage.

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

EPIGRAM: TREASON.

TREASON doth never prosper: what's the reason?

For if it prosper, none dare call it treason.

SIR JOHN HARRINGTON.

HYMN TO ADVERSITY.
DAUGHTER of Jove, relentless power,
Thou tamer of the human breast,
Whose iron scourge and torturing hour
The bad affright, afflict the best!
Bound in thy adamantine chain
The proud are taught to taste of pain,
And purple tyrants vainly groan
With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and
alone.

When first thy sire to send on earth

Virtue, his darling child, design'd,
To thee he gave the heavenly birth,

And bade to form her infant mind.
Stern, rugged nurse! thy rigid lore
With patience many a year she bore:

Here Hunt may box, or Mahomet may What sorrow was thou bad'st her know,

With swifter speed declines than erst it But he is dust; we may not know
His happy or unhappy story:

spread, And (blasted) scarce now shows what it Nameless, and dead these centuries, His work outlives him-there's his

hath been.

As doth the pilgrim, therefore, whom the

night

By darkness would imprison on his way,
Think on thy home (my soul) and think
aright,

Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day;
The sun posts westward, passèd is thy

morn,

glory!

Both man and jewel lay in earth

Beneath a lava-buried city;
The countless summers came and went
With neither haste, nor hate, nor pity.

Years blotted out the man, but left
The jewel fresh as any blossom,

And twice it is not given thee to be born. Till some Visconti dug it up,

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

ON AN INTAGLIO HEAD OF
MINERVA.

BENEATH the warrior's helm behold
The flowing tresses of a woman!
Minerva-Pallas-what you will,-
A winsome creature, Greek or Roman.
Minerva? No! 'tis some sly minx
In cousin's helmet masquerading;
If not, then Wisdom was a dame
For sonnets and for serenading.

I thought the goddess cold, austere,

Not made for love's despairs and blisses:

Did Pallas wear her hair like that?

To rise and fall on Mabel's bosom !
O nameless brother! see how Time
Your gracious handiwork has guarded;
See how your loving, patient art

Has come, at last, to be rewarded.

Who would not suffer slights of men,
And pangs of hopeless passion also,
To have his carven agate-stone

On such a bosom rise and fall so?
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

DOUINO TO MARGARET.

THE world goes up and the world goes

down,

And the sunshine follows the rain;

Was Wisdom's mouth so shaped for And yesterday's sneer, and yesterday's

kisses?

The nightingale should be her bird,

And not the owl, big-eyed and solemn :
How very fresh she looks,-and yet
She's older far than Trajan's Column!

The magic hand that carved this face,
And set this vine-work round it running,
Perhaps ere mighty Phidias wrought

Had lost its subtle skill and cunning.

Who was he? Was he glad or sad,

Who knew to carve in such a fashion?

Perchance he 'graved the dainty head
For some brown girl that scorn'd his
passion.

Perchance, in some still garden-place,
Where neither fount nor tree to-day is,
He flung the jewel at the feet

Of Phryne, or perhaps 'twas Lais.

frown

A thousand times this Pipe did Tasso Propped up by a broom-stick and covered

Camoens soothed with it an Exile's grief; It once was the pride of the gay and the
The Sonnet glitter'd a gay myrtle Leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante
crown'd

The Thing became a Trumpet, whence he See,-here came the bearing-straps; here

To them that would make speech of speech Is a nest with four eggs,- 'tis the favored