THE man of brains, of fair repute and birth, Who loves high place above all else of earth-- Who loves it so, he’ll go without the power, If he may hold the semblance but an hour; Willing to be some sordid creature’s tool, So he but seem a little while to rule-- On him even moral pigmies would look down; Were prizes given for shame, he’d wear the crown. _Richard Watson Gilder._
“GIVE me a theme,” the little poet cried, “And I will do my part.” “’Tis not a theme you need,” the world replied; “You need a heart.” _Richard Watson Gilder._
WEIGH me, if you’re fain; Measure me, if it is your plan; Know your little thimble-brain Hold me never can. _Richard Watson Gilder._
OH, where are the endless romances Our grandmothers used to adore? The knights with their helms and their lances, Their shields and the favours they wore? And the monks with their magical lore? They have passed to oblivion and _Nox_; They have fled to the shadowy shore-- They are all in the Fourpenny Box!
And where the poetical fancies Our fathers rejoiced in, of yore? The lyric’s melodious expanses, The epics in cantos a score. They have been, and are not. No more Shall the shepherds drive silvery flocks, Nor the ladies their languors deplore-- They are all in the Fourpenny Box!
And the music! The songs and the dances? The tunes that time may not restore? And the tomes where divinity prances? And the pamphlets where heretics roar? They have ceased to be even a bore,-- The divine, and the sceptic who mocks; They are “cropped,” they are “foxed” to the core, They are all in the Fourpenny Box!
Suns beat on them; tempests downpour, On the chest without cover or locks, Where they lie by the Bookseller’s door-- They are all in the Fourpenny Box! _Andrew Lang._
IT is positively false to call us frantic, For the soundness of our mental state is sure, Yet we look upon this side of the Atlantic As a tract of earth unpleasant to endure.
We consider dear old England as the fountain Of all institutions reputably sane; We abominate and loathe a Rocky Mountain; We regard a rolling prairie with disdain.
We assiduously imitate the polish That we notice round the English nabob hang; We unfailingly endeavour to abolish From our voices any trace of nasal twang.