224
KNICKERBOCKER GALLERY.
"For use will quickly wear the rust away:
And by the fame thy youth so richly won,
By thy land's hopes of her rare-gifted son.
By that posterity which looms before,
We charge you, strike that injured lyre once more!
Strike home! and fear not it will sound in vain;
'Strike! for your altars and your fires' again;
'Strike! for the green graves of your sires,' with hand
Of thrilling sweep: 'strike for your native land!'"
And by the fame thy youth so richly won,
By thy land's hopes of her rare-gifted son.
By that posterity which looms before,
We charge you, strike that injured lyre once more!
Strike home! and fear not it will sound in vain;
'Strike! for your altars and your fires' again;
'Strike! for the green graves of your sires,' with hand
Of thrilling sweep: 'strike for your native land!'"
Here general plaudits thundered widely round,
That all Parnassus echoed with the sound.
When Bacchus rose amid the general roar,
"Order!" cried Phœbus: "give the god the floor!"
"Our worthy host! your judgments are most sound;
But let me hint, 't is time the cup went round;
'T is hot, near you, with other reasons why,
The law is so proverbially dry."
"Ho! Ganymede; a stoup of nectar fill:
Or something stronger, as their graces will!"
That all Parnassus echoed with the sound.
When Bacchus rose amid the general roar,
"Order!" cried Phœbus: "give the god the floor!"
"Our worthy host! your judgments are most sound;
But let me hint, 't is time the cup went round;
'T is hot, near you, with other reasons why,
The law is so proverbially dry."
"Ho! Ganymede; a stoup of nectar fill:
Or something stronger, as their graces will!"
"Call General Morris!" From behind a tree
The woodman spared, where snugly hid was he,
Waiting for orders, not without some fears,
"En grande tenue" the warrior bard appears:
Salutes his great commander, and his lord;
But trips, embarrassed by his own good sword.
Tittered the muses, strange to warrior's gear,
Save Mars' scant uniform of helm and spear.
Muttered the war-god with impatient stamp:
"Some carpet-knight this; drum him from the camp!"
"Order! sweet friends!" Apollo soothed the bard:
"Thou 'lt have fair hearing, and a just reward
For trophies won of every lyric sort
To claim the favor of this noble court.
Thy casual tripping should no jest afford;
'T is hard to climb Parnassus with a sword."
"Thanks for your grace, my chief!" the minstrel sighed;
"As for my deeds, from earliest youth I 've plied
The poet's shuttle, not without success,
As songs, translated in all tongues, confess.
The woodman spared, where snugly hid was he,
Waiting for orders, not without some fears,
"En grande tenue" the warrior bard appears:
Salutes his great commander, and his lord;
But trips, embarrassed by his own good sword.
Tittered the muses, strange to warrior's gear,
Save Mars' scant uniform of helm and spear.
Muttered the war-god with impatient stamp:
"Some carpet-knight this; drum him from the camp!"
"Order! sweet friends!" Apollo soothed the bard:
"Thou 'lt have fair hearing, and a just reward
For trophies won of every lyric sort
To claim the favor of this noble court.
Thy casual tripping should no jest afford;
'T is hard to climb Parnassus with a sword."
"Thanks for your grace, my chief!" the minstrel sighed;
"As for my deeds, from earliest youth I 've plied
The poet's shuttle, not without success,
As songs, translated in all tongues, confess.
