To the grave polar bears sitting round on the ice, Like a well-meaning dunce, with the best of intentions. A terrible fellow to meet in society, Not the toast that he buttered was ever so dry at tea; There he'd sit at the table and stir in his sugar, Crouching close for a spring, all the while, like a cougar; Be sure of your facts, of your measures and weights, The girls have all got their laughs ready, when, whack! The cougar comes down on your thunderstruck back! You had left out a comma,-your Greek's put in joint, And pointed at cost of your story's whole point. In the course of the evening, you venture on certain Soft speeches to Anne, in the shade of the curtain ; You tell her your heart can be likened to one flower, "And that, oh most charming of women, 's the sunflower, Which turns"-here a clear nasal voice, to your terror, From outside the curtain, says "that's all an error." As for him, he's-no matter, he never grew tender, Sitting after a ball, with his feet on the fender, Shaping somebody's sweet features out of cigar smoke, (Though he'd willingly grant you that such doings are smoke ;) All women he damns with mutabile semper, And if ever he felt something like love's distemper, 'Twas towards a young lady who spoke ancient Mexican, And assisted her father in making a lexicon; With character-painting, I'll turn to my story. Now, Apollo, who finds it convenient sometimes To get his court clear of the makers of rhymes, Every one of whom thinks himself treated most shabbily, And nurses a-what is it?-immedicabile, Effect after dinner, and seemed to suggest a Kept our Hero at hand, who, by means of a bray, Or, failing in plans of this milder description, He would ask for their aid to get up a subscription, Considering that authorship wasn't a rich craft, To print the "American drama of Witchcraft.” "Stay, I'll read you a scene," but he hardly began, Ere Apollo shrieked "Help!" and the authors all ran: And once, when these purgatives acted with less spirit, And the desperate case asked a remedy desperate, As calmly as if 'twere a nine-barrelled pistol, 66 come, Of "A wandering Star's first impressions of Rome." Stop! stop!" with their hands o'er their ears screamed the Muses, "He may go off and murder himself, if he chooses, 'Twas a means self-defence only sanctioned his trying, "Tis mere massacre now that the enemy's flying; If he's forced to 't again, and we happen to be there, Give us each a large handkerchief soaked in strong ether." I called this a "Fable for Critics;" you think it's More like a display of my rhythmical trinkets; awry, And the reader unwilling in loco desipere, Is free to jump over as much of my frippery May have an Odyssean sway of the gales, For your toil and expense, yet my paper will burn, You me, may e'en twist me up, and just light your If too angry for that, you can tear me in pieces, Who beflead with bad verses poor Louis Quatorze, Describes, (the first verse somehow ends with victoire,) As dispersant partout et ses membres et sa gloire; A repute among noodles for classical learning, Better still, I could make out a good solid list But that would be naughty: at least, I could twist But, as Cicero says he won't say this or that, Just conceive how much harder your teeth you'd have gritted, An 'twere not for the dulness I've kindly omitted. I'd apologize here for my many digressions, Were it not that I'm certain to trip into fresh ones, ('Tis so hard to escape if you get in their mesh once ;) Just reflect, if you please, how 'tis said by Horatius, That Mæonides nods now and then, and, my gracious! It certainly does look a little bit ominous When he gets under way with ton d'apameibome nos. (Here a something occurs which I'll just clap a rhyme to, And say it myself, ere a Zoilus have time to,- Once for all, to return, and to stay, will I, nill I When Phoebus expressed his desire for a lily, With an ocean of zeal mixed his drop of capacity, He was gone a long time, and Apollo meanwhile, Went over some sonnets of his with a file, net |