THE farmer's dairy and the poet's study
Are like each other manufactories both
Of good wares, as the case may be, or bad:
Good, if the milk is rich, and fat the cream,
Crumbly the cheese, and sweet the yellow butter
And not too salt, and if the poem 's full
Of melody and sense and entertainment,
Such as Iopas sang at Dido's feast,
Or laurel-crowned Apollo at great Jove's
When all heaven listened and the Muses chimed
Chorus, and Hebe's young eyes sparkled joy.
But if the milk is blueish, and the cream
Little or none, the butter soft and streaky,
Ánd the tough cheese defies the tooth like leather,
That farmer is an únthrift and should sell
His dairy, to the butcher send his stock,
And, himself, emigrate to California
Ánd at the diggings try his hand a while,
For people will not good gold for bad butter
Willingly give him, or his bád milk drink,
Or with his bád cream muddy their clear tea,
Or honor and respect show to the maker
Of bád cheese; so at home there 's nó chance fór him,
And California is his Promised Land.
But not unthrift the poet though his poem
Has neither sense in it nor melody,
Nor entertainment; nay, the thriftier rather,
And to grow rich and be admired the likelier,
See, while he lives, edition on edition
Following, like lightning flashes in a storm,
Or minute guns from ship distressed at sea,
And, when he dies, have statues to his honor
Raised by a grateful, weeping fatherland.
So let him stay at home, and every day,
Like Byron and Sir Walter Scott, write worse,
Till he becomes a hero and, expiring,
Sees with his swimming eyes the laurel crown
Ready to drop upon his funeral bust,
And sad and slow goes down to unpoetic
Hades and silence and the thin-eared ghosts.
Walking from EDENVILLE to DALKEY, Oct. 24, 1858.
BY Youth and Age alike, the present 's borne: By Youth, because the future 's full of joy Ah, wicked Hope, that so deceivest Youth! By Age, because the future 's full of sorrow Ah, wicked Fear, that not deceivest Age! EDENVILLE, Oct. 2, 1858.
OLD father Time brings truth to light,
They say, and I believe them right
When I the proverb bring to mind,
That those who hide know where to find.
ROSAMOND, RATHGAR ROAD, DUBLIN, Sept. 23, 1859.
"Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam illius meminisse!"
IT 's true to the letter:
A thousand times better
The mere recollection
Of that piece of perfection,
One sweet, melting thought
From that sepulchre brought,
Than society's joys
With their hubbub and noise
Yet I 'm not quite so sure
I wouldn't rather endure,
If I had my selection,
Even the hubbub and noise
Of society's joys,
Than be laid side by side,
Were the coffin so wide,
With that piece of perfection.
ROSAMOND, RATHGAR ROAD, DUBLIN, March 18, 1859.
HAT a fine critic, had he learned to write, Snap would have made! he can both bark and bite,
And, as to understanding the belles lettres,
Show me the "We" that understands them better.
SLEEP is a froward child who when you will,
Will not, and when you will not, will, perverse.
Make much of him and coax him, and you only
Make him more wilful; force him, he rebels,
Or runs away and in some dárk hole hides;
But leave him to himself, he comes, at last,
And jumps upon your lap, and flings his arms
About your neck, and smothers you with kisses,
And covers your two eyes with both his hands,
And asks you what you see, and, when you say
"Houses and ships and trees and men and horses,"
Chuckles, and says: "They 're mine, and if you 're good.
And let my hands stay always on your eyes,
I'll give them to you to be yours for ever;
But if you 're bold and push my hands away,
I'll take them all and put them in my pocket
And keep them for a fellow I like better,”
And, with the word, down from your lap the imp
Jumps nimble, and runs off, and from the room's
Furthermost corner cries:
ROSAMOND, March 20, 1859.
"Bo-peep! come, cátch me."
DESPISE me not because I am an egg,
A plain, unostentatious, simple oval:
Ómnia ex mé; and birds, beasts, reptiles, fishes,
Whatever in its nostrils has life's breath,
Even thou thyself I care not who thou art
And every tree that grows, and flower that blows, All, all are brothers of the Dioscuri.
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