"Who praises Oxford?--some small buzzing thing, Some starveling songster on a tiny wing,-- (_N.B._ They call the insect Bob, I know, I heard a printer's devil call it so)-- So fondly tells his admiration vast No one can call the chastened strains bombast, Though epitheted substantives immense Claim for each lofty sound the _caret_ sense," &c. &c.
Next, a bit from my Low Church onslaught on St. Mary's in the Hampden case, being part of "The Oxford Controversy":--
"Though vanquished oft, in falsehood undismayed, Like heretics in flaming vest arrayed Each angry Don lifts high his injured head, Or 'stands between the living and the dead.' Still from St. Mary's pulpit echoes wide Primó, beware of truth, whate'er betide; Deinde, from deep Charybdis while you steer Lest damned Socinus charm you with his sneer, Watch above all, so not _Saint_ Thomas spake, Lest upon Calvin, Scylla's rook, you break," &c. &c.
These forgotten trivials, wherein the allusions do not now show clear, are, I know, barely excusable even thus curtly: but I choose to save a touch or two from annihilation. Here is another little bit; this time from a somewhat vicious parody on my rival Rickard's prize poem: it is fairest to produce at length first his serious conclusion to the normal fifty-liner, and then my less reverent imitation of it. Here, then, is the end of Rickard's poem:--
"Bright was the doom which snatched her favourite son, Nor came too soon to him whose task was done. Long burned his restless spirit to explore That stream which eye had never tracked before, Whose course, 'tis said, in Western springs begun Flows on eternal to the rising sun! Though thousand perils seemed to bar his way, And all save him shrunk backward in dismay, Still hope prophetic poured the ardent prayer To reach that stream, though doomed to perish there! That prayer was heard; by Niger's mystic flood One rapturous day the speechless dreamer stood, Fixt on that stream his glistening eyes he kept,-- The sun went down,--the wayworn wanderer slept!"
So much for the prize-taker; the prize-loser vented his spleen as thus:--
"Bright was the doom that diddled Mungo Park, Yet very palpably obscure and dark. Long burned his throat, for want of coming nigh That stream he long'd and pray'd for wistfully, Whose course, 'tis said, that no one can tell where It flows eternal; guessing isn't fair. Though miles a thousand had he tramp'd along, And all, save him, were sure that path was wrong, Still hope prophetic poured the ardent prayer He'd find that stream,--if it was anywhere! That prayer was heard, of course, though no one knows Where this said Niger never flowed, or flows; All that is known is, that a dreamer stood In speechless transport by a mystic flood, And after fixing on't his glistening eyes, The sun goes down, and so the dreamer dies!"