Botany relies on Latin ever since LINNÆUS’ days; Biologic nomenclature draws on Greek in countless ways; While in medicine it is obvious you can never take your oath What an ailment means exactly if you haven’t studied both.
Heads of business corporations, magnates in the world of trade, ’Neath the banner of the Classics formidably stand arrayed, Holding with a firm conviction that their faithful study brings Knowledge of the art of handling men and regulating things.
Courage, ye depressed upholders of the old curriculum, Quit your mood apologetic, bang the loud scholastic drum, For the verdict of the Yankees queers the scientific pitch When the Humanists were struggling in their last defensive ditch.
Honour, then, the brave Three Hundred who, like those renowned of yore, Strive to guard from rude barbarians Hellas and her precious lore; And let all of us determine firmly never to forget Βλώσκω, ἔμολον, μέμβλωκα, _piget_, _pudet_, _pœnitet_.
[In the new _History of American Literature_ it is stated that ROBERT TREAT PAINE, the Boston poet (1773-1811), enjoyed such a reputation “that he could command five dollars a line for his verse, a price never before approached in America, and perhaps never since equalled.”]
Say, is it true, O priceless ELLA WHEELER, That you, the blameless Sappho of the West, Stricken humanity’s most potent healer, Consoler of the doubting and distressed, Passion’s intense, impeccable revealer, Of all best-sellers quite the very best, Than TUPPER’S self far sweeter and sublimer, Were equalled by an early Boston rhymer?
It cannot be that such ecstatic yearning, Such pure domestic raptures uncontrolled, Such lavish use of old proverbial learning Of ancient saws cast in a modern mould, When measured by the crucial test of earning, By market value, reckoned up in gold, Never secured you, prophetess benign, More than a bare five dollars to the line.
Tried by this test, I own, scant was the gleaning Of MILTON—just five “jingling tingling quid” Paid for his _Paradise_; but then his meaning Was wilfully from artless readers hid. Besides, he wrote blank verse and from a leaning To heresy was never wholly rid; _Your_ creed is crystal clear and orthodox, _Your_ rhymes salute us like a postman’s knocks.