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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,
Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit.
Yet bards like these aspired to lasting
And proudly hoped to pimp in future To chase the charms of sound, the pomp days.
Their cause was general, their supports were
For useful mirth and salutary woe;
Their slaves were willing, and their reign And truth diffuse her radiance from the
Till Shame regain'd the post that Sense
And Virtue call'd Oblivion to her aid.
Then crush'd by rules, and weaken'd as
For years the power of tragedy declined;
She saw great Faustus lay the ghost of wit,
But who the coming changes can presage,
Perhaps where Lear has raved, and Hamlet died,
On flying cars new sorcerers may ride; Perhaps (for who can guess the effects of chance?)
TREASON doth never prosper: what's the reason?
For if it prosper, none dare call it treason.
SIR JOHN HARRINGTON.
HYMN TO ADVERSITY.
When first thy sire to send on earth
Virtue, his darling child, design'd,
And bade to form her infant mind.
Here Hunt may box, or Mahomet may What sorrow was thou bad'st her know,
Every man will be thy friend
With swifter speed declines than erst it But he is dust; we may not know
spread, And (blasted) scarce now shows what it Nameless, and dead these centuries, His work outlives him-there's his
As doth the pilgrim, therefore, whom the
By darkness would imprison on his way,
Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day;
Both man and jewel lay in earth
Beneath a lava-buried city;
Years blotted out the man, but left
And twice it is not given thee to be born. Till some Visconti dug it up,
ON AN INTAGLIO HEAD OF
BENEATH the warrior's helm behold
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 !
Has come, at last, to be rewarded.
Who would not suffer slights of men,
On such a bosom rise and fall so?
DOUINO TO MARGARET.
THE world goes up and the world goes
And the sunshine follows the rain;
Was Wisdom's mouth so shaped for And yesterday's sneer, and yesterday's
The nightingale should be her bird,
And not the owl, big-eyed and solemn :
The magic hand that carved this face,
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
Perchance, in some still garden-place,
Of Phryne, or perhaps 'twas Lais.
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
His visionary brow: a glow-worm Lamp, It cheer'd mild Spenser, call'd from Faery-land
To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his
But now 'tis a ruin, that old Sedan chair!
It is battered and tattered,-it little avails That once it was lacquered, and glistened
For its leather is cracked into lozenge and
The Thing became a Trumpet, whence he See,-here came the bearing-straps; here
Soul-animating strains-alas, too few! WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
BECAUSE I oft in dark abstracted guise Seem most alone in greatest company, With dearth of words, or answers quite awry
were the holes
For the poles of the bearers-when once there were poles;
It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded with hair,
As the birds have discovered,—that old Sedan chair!
"Where's Troy?" says the poet! Look,under the seat,
To them that would make speech of speech Is a nest with four eggs,- 'tis the favored