THE SESSIONS OF PARNASSUS.
221
From which disloyal province of our state
No verbal incense have we snuffed of late.
Rarely a verse from their dull ranks appearing;
Barest of all, a song that's worth the hearing.
And, king of medicine, as well as song,
'Tis ours to physic the disordered throng.
Hence have we summoned such delinquents, then,
To rap the knuckles that refuse the pen.
Good Hermes deigns our right-hand man to be—
Our crier, clerk, and eke factotum he.
No verbal incense have we snuffed of late.
Rarely a verse from their dull ranks appearing;
Barest of all, a song that's worth the hearing.
And, king of medicine, as well as song,
'Tis ours to physic the disordered throng.
Hence have we summoned such delinquents, then,
To rap the knuckles that refuse the pen.
Good Hermes deigns our right-hand man to be—
Our crier, clerk, and eke factotum he.
"Present the calendar! first on the page
Call Bryant!" Promptly to the lyric sage
Wings the swift god, and soon to sight is lost.
The bard he startles, busy at his "Post,"
Craving indulgence, just to sharpen still
One "leader" more on that "Nebraska Bill."
But gods are strong, and men must needs obey,
So Hermes shows him up the heavenly way.
Sensation stirred the court as he appeared,
And Muses trembled at that "eastern beard."
"Sir!" spake Apollo, "much it grieves our heart
That thou, a chosen priest of heavenly art,
Chartered to preach our faith and mysteries,
In that benighted land where Gotham lies,
Heaping, or wasting, still on gain intent,
Unwisely gotten, more unwisely spent:
Where Learning withers 'neath the golden glare,
And men are measured by the purse they wear:
And bards, cold-shouldered, passed without compassion;
And song itself 'cui-bonoed' out of fashion:
Deeply it grieves us such as thou to find,
Sowing the golden harvest of thy mind
Not on the muses' gardens of the rose,
But that most sterile waste—(excuse me)—prose."
Replied the poet, somewhat nettled, "Sire!
My lord, and master of the matchless lyre!
True, prose for bread I bartered, I confess;
But I am toiling for the freest press
And freest party in a land most free:
In short, your grace, my theme is liberty;
Call Bryant!" Promptly to the lyric sage
Wings the swift god, and soon to sight is lost.
The bard he startles, busy at his "Post,"
Craving indulgence, just to sharpen still
One "leader" more on that "Nebraska Bill."
But gods are strong, and men must needs obey,
So Hermes shows him up the heavenly way.
Sensation stirred the court as he appeared,
And Muses trembled at that "eastern beard."
"Sir!" spake Apollo, "much it grieves our heart
That thou, a chosen priest of heavenly art,
Chartered to preach our faith and mysteries,
In that benighted land where Gotham lies,
Heaping, or wasting, still on gain intent,
Unwisely gotten, more unwisely spent:
Where Learning withers 'neath the golden glare,
And men are measured by the purse they wear:
And bards, cold-shouldered, passed without compassion;
And song itself 'cui-bonoed' out of fashion:
Deeply it grieves us such as thou to find,
Sowing the golden harvest of thy mind
Not on the muses' gardens of the rose,
But that most sterile waste—(excuse me)—prose."
Replied the poet, somewhat nettled, "Sire!
My lord, and master of the matchless lyre!
True, prose for bread I bartered, I confess;
But I am toiling for the freest press
And freest party in a land most free:
In short, your grace, my theme is liberty;
