Poor Crotchet, who did them supremely,
Is gone, for a judge, to Bengal;
I fear we shall miss him extremely,
This season, at Fustian Hall.
Come, Clarence ;-your idol Albina
Will make a sensation, I feel;
We all think there never was seen a
Performer, so like the O'Neill.
At rehearsals, her exquisite fancy
Has deeply affected us all;
For one tear that trickles at Drury,
There'll be twenty at Fustian Hall.
Dread objects are scattered before her,
On purpose to harrow her soul;
She stares, till a deep spell comes o'er her,
At a knife, or a cross, or a bowl.
The sword never seems to alarm her,
That hangs on a peg to the wall,
And she doats on thy rusty old armor,
Lord Fustian, of Fustian Hall.
She stabbed a bright mirror this morning,-
Poor Kitty was quite out of breath,—
And trampled, in anger and scorning,
A bonnet and feathers to death.
But hark, I've a part in the Stranger,—
There's the Prompter's detestable call:
Come, Clarence,—our Romeo and Ranger,
We want you at Fustian Hall.
Diogenes Alexandro roganti ut diceret, Si quid opus esset, quidem paullulum," inquit, "a sole."-Cicero Tusc. Disp.
SLOWLY the monarch turned aside :
But when his glance of youthful pride
Rested upon the warriors gray
Who bore his lance and shield that day,
And the long line of spears, that came
Through the far grove like waves of flame,
His forehead burned, his pulse beat high,
More darkly flashed his shifting eye,
And visions of the battle-plain
Came bursting on his soul again.
The old man drew his gaze away
Right gladly from that long array,
As if their presence were a blight
Of pain and sickness to his sight;
And slowly folding o'er his breast
The fragments of his tattered vest,
As was his wont, unasked, unsought,
Gave to the winds his muttered thought,
Naming no name of friend or foe,
And reckless if they heard or no.
"Ay, go thy way, thou painted thing,
Puppet, which mortals call a king,
Adorning thee with idle gems,
With drapery and diadems,
And scarcely guessing, that beneath
The purple robe and laurel wreath,
There's nothing but the common slime
Of human clay and human crime !—
My rags are not so rich,—but they
Will serve as well to cloak decay.
"And ever round thy jeweled brow
False slaves and falser friends will bow;
And Flattery,-as varnish flings
A baseness on the brightest things,-
Will make the monarch's deeds appear
All worthless to the monarch's ear,
Till thou wilt turn and think that Fame,
So vilely drest is worse than shame !—
The gods be thanked for all their mercies,
Diogenes hears naught but curses!
"And thou wilt banquet!—air and sea
Will render up their hoards for thee;
And golden cups for thee will hold
Rich nectar, richer than the gold.
The cunning caterer still must share
The dainties which his toils prepare:
The page's lip must taste the wine
Before he fills the cup for thine !—
Wilt feast with me on Hecate's cheer?
I dread no royal hemlock here!
"And night will come; and thou wilt lie
Beneath a purple canopy,
With lutes to lull thee, flowers to shed
Their feverish fragrance round thy bed,
A princess to unclasp thy crest.-
A Spartan spear to guard thy rest.-
Dream, happy one!-thy dreams will be
Of danger and of perfidy ;-
The Persian lance,-the Carian club!-
I shall sleep sounder in my tub!
"And thou wilt pass away, and have
A marble mountain o'er thy grave,
With pillars tall, and chambers vast,
Fit palace for the worm's repast!—
I too shall perish!-let them call
The vulture to my funeral;
The Cynic's staff, the Cynic's den,
Are all he leaves his fellow men,-
Heedless how this corruption fares,-
Yea, heedless though it mix with theirs!"
"I can dream, sir,
If I eat well and sleep well."
IF I could scare the sun away,
No light should ever shine;
If I could bid the clouds obey,
Thick darkness should be mine;
Where'er my weary footsteps roam,
I hate whate'er I see;
And fancy builds a fairer home
In Slumber's hour for me.
I had a vision yesternight
Of a fairer land than this,
Where Heaven was clothed in warmth and light, Where Earth was full of bliss;
And every tree was rich with fruits,
And every field with flowers,
And every zephyr wakened lutes
In passion-haunted bowers.
|