THE SESSIONS OF PARNASSUS.
231
Quickening the traveller's step to measure time
Unwearied, with th' imperial march of rhyme;
Cheering brown Toil, and when the day grows dim
Hallowing his musings with their evening hymn.
The infant's lullaby, the mother's prayer,
The soldier's charge, the lover's fond despair
Sweetening the moonlight with his murmuring;
All loftiest soarings from his numbers spring.
The patriot glows that feels the poet's dart
Flaming and piercing, while the pious heart
Mounts in adoring rapture, and high praise
To heavenly portals on his white-winged lays!"
Unwearied, with th' imperial march of rhyme;
Cheering brown Toil, and when the day grows dim
Hallowing his musings with their evening hymn.
The infant's lullaby, the mother's prayer,
The soldier's charge, the lover's fond despair
Sweetening the moonlight with his murmuring;
All loftiest soarings from his numbers spring.
The patriot glows that feels the poet's dart
Flaming and piercing, while the pious heart
Mounts in adoring rapture, and high praise
To heavenly portals on his white-winged lays!"
The Judge, exhausted, rested from his text
Till cheered with nectar: "Summon Flaccus next.
Not great Horaius of immortal fame:
The modern wit that has usurped his name.
Swift Hermes flew by forest, stream, and heath,
At length returning, gasped, quite out of breath,
"I've bawled till hoarse, and vainly, Sire! 't is clear
He 's so far down the hill he can not hear;
Or thinks, discreetly hiding from all eyes,
"When hail-stones fall to keep within is wise."
"Who 's next? Mark Benjamin!" "My lord! 't is Park!"
"Park! Park! art sure? Well, call him! Stay! hark! hark!"
Here thunders muttered rudely overhead.
Great Phœbus paused; while Bacchus rose and said:
"Your Grace must not forget we dine above
On high Olympus, at the 'quest of Jove;
And if aright these murmurings I read,
The Thunderer grows impatient———" "True, indeed."
Quoth Phœbus; "Mercury! we 're pressed for time;
Call you the list. We 'll score these sons of rhyme.
Nor need they wriggle, should we prick their nerves;
For spice, more sure than blandest sweet, preserves:
Safe in the pickle of our pungent line,
That longest keeps, when strongest is the brine!"
"Here's Moore!" "Respectable." "Here's Smith!" "Pass on!"
"Ralph Hoyt!" His spiriting is gently done."
Till cheered with nectar: "Summon Flaccus next.
Not great Horaius of immortal fame:
The modern wit that has usurped his name.
Swift Hermes flew by forest, stream, and heath,
At length returning, gasped, quite out of breath,
"I've bawled till hoarse, and vainly, Sire! 't is clear
He 's so far down the hill he can not hear;
Or thinks, discreetly hiding from all eyes,
"When hail-stones fall to keep within is wise."
"Who 's next? Mark Benjamin!" "My lord! 't is Park!"
"Park! Park! art sure? Well, call him! Stay! hark! hark!"
Here thunders muttered rudely overhead.
Great Phœbus paused; while Bacchus rose and said:
"Your Grace must not forget we dine above
On high Olympus, at the 'quest of Jove;
And if aright these murmurings I read,
The Thunderer grows impatient———" "True, indeed."
Quoth Phœbus; "Mercury! we 're pressed for time;
Call you the list. We 'll score these sons of rhyme.
Nor need they wriggle, should we prick their nerves;
For spice, more sure than blandest sweet, preserves:
Safe in the pickle of our pungent line,
That longest keeps, when strongest is the brine!"
"Here's Moore!" "Respectable." "Here's Smith!" "Pass on!"
"Ralph Hoyt!" His spiriting is gently done."
