So calling PHAETHON up in a trice,
He gave the youth a bit of advice:—
"Parce stimulis, utere loris !'
(A "stage direction," of which the core is,
Don't use the whip-they're ticklish things-
But, whatever you do, hold on to the strings!)
Remember the rule of the Jehu-tribe is,
'Medio tutissimus ibis'
(As the Judge remarked to a rowdy Scotchman, Who was going to quod between two watchmen !) So mind your eye, and spare your goad,
Be shy of the stones, and keep in the road!"
NOW PHAETHON, perched in the coachman's place,
Drove off the steeds at a furious pace,
Fast as coursers running a race,
Or bounding along in a steeple-chase!
Of whip and shout there was no lack,
"Crack-whack-
Resounded along the horses' back !—
Frightened beneath the stinging lash,
Cutting their flanks in many a gash,
On-on they sped as swift as a flash,
Through thick and thin away they dash,
(Such rapid driving is always rash !)
When all at once, with a dreadful crash,
The whole "establishment" went to smash!
And PHAETHON, he,
Off the coach was suddenly hurled,
Into a puddle, and out of the world!
Don't rashly take to dangerous courses—
Nor set it down in your table of forces,
That any one man equals any four horses!
Don't swear by the Styx!—
It's one of OLD NICK'S
Diabolical tricks
To get people into a regular "fix,'
And hold 'em there as fast as bricks!
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
I see
PROPT on the marsh, a dwelling now,
The humble school-house of my A, B, C,
Where well-drilled urchins, each behind his tire,
Waited in ranks the wished command to fire,
Then all together, when the signal came,
Discharged their a-b abs against the dame,
Who, 'mid the volleyed learning, firm and calm,
Patted the furloughed ferule on her palm,
And, to our wonder, could detect at once
Who flashed the pan, and who was downright dunce
There young Devotion learned to climb with ease
The gnarly limbs of Scripture family-trees,
And he was most commended and admired
Who soonest to the topmost twig perspired;
Each name was called as many various ways
As pleased the reader's ear on different days,
So that the weather, or the ferule's stings,
Colds in the head, or fifty other things,
Transformed the helpless Hebrew thrice a week
To guttural Pequot or resounding Greek,
The vibrant accent skipping here and there
Just as it pleased invention or despair;
No controversial Hebraist was the Dame;
With or without the points pleased her the same;
If any tyro found a name too tough,
And looked at her, pride furnished skill enough;
She nerved her larynx for the desperate thing,
And cleared the five-barred syllables at a spring.
Ah, dear old times! there once it was my hap,
Perched on a stool, to wear the long-eared cap;
From books degraded, there I sat at ease,
A drone, the envy of compulsory bees.
WHAT is 't FINE GRAND, makes thee my friendship fly, Or take an Epigram so fearfully,
As 't were a challenge, or a borrower's letter?
The world must know your greatness is my debtor.
Imprimis, Grand, you owe me for a jest
I lent you, on mere acquaintance, at a feast.
Item, a tale or two some fortnight after,
That yet maintains you, and your house in laughter.
Item, the Babylonian song you sing;
Item, a fair Greek poesy for a ring,
With which a learned madam you bely.
Item, a charm surrounding fearfully
Your partie-per-pale picture, one half drawn
In solemn cyprus, th' other cobweb lawn.
Item, a gulling impress for you, at tilt.
Item, your mistress' anagram, in your hilt.
Item, your own, sew'd in your mistress' smock.
Item, an epitaph on my lord's cock,
In most vile verses, and cost me more pain,
Than had I made 'em good, to fit your vein.
Forty things more, dear Grand, which you know true,
For which, or pay me quickly, or I'll pay you.
Hardy, thy brain is valiant, 'tis confest,
Thou more; that with it every day dar'st jest
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