"Et grato remeat securior ictu." IN Róme's old days of glóry, when a citizen thought fit A well desérving sláve, of free gráce, to mánumít, He called the várlet tó him, and, bidding him steády stánd, A smárt slap on the cheek dealt hím with open hánd, And said: "Thy freedom take and with it mý last blów; Much good may they both do thee; there thou art free to gó." That sight I never sáw; but I 've seen as cúrious sight And I'm sorry I wasn't bý, when, defying áll beliéf, MUSINANDO. POET. O thou who all things here belów understandest, From whóm Heaven hides nóthing, who seest into Chảos, Far Limbo, dim Púrgat'ry, Tártarus deép, Who delightest thy friends to instruct and enlighten, Who never forgéttest and mák'st no mistakes, Have I leave, in the Státe's name, O Múse, to put to thee Some few questions statístic concérning thyself? Th' old sérpent crept back in the guise of a lámb; POET. First of all, with a view to idéntificátion, The Státe asks thy náme. MUSE. Asks my náme! let me think Eutérpe, Melpomene, Érato, Clio, Choose which thou lik'st best one 's as good as another Perhaps nóne quite corréct, but I answer to áll. POET. That's the first point disposed of. Now, what's thy relígion? MUSE. Like the Státe's, it depends upon tíme, place and fáshion; Long Págan, then Christian; Mahómmedan néver, Never Mormon or Jewish, though with time 'tmay be either. POET. That's the second point settled. Now, where wert thou bórn? MUSE. In Beótia my foés say, my friends say in Heaven; Then thou 'rt óld? POET. MUSE. Why perhaps I don't knów I'm not súre Can't one have a good mémory without being old? Must the State know a lady's age júst to an hoúr? No; I'll not be cross-questioned I 've never been used to it And thou too, Mr. Poet, to make thyself párty! - Et tú, Brute, tú! Fare thee well; happy live; serve the Státe; keep progréssing Like the blind grinding horse that thinks góing round 's She's gone MUSE. Farewell! we are two. POET. I'll go after but whére shall I find her? Whither túrn to look fór her? her dómicile whére? Fool! that might'st to that question have hád her own answer Hadst thou deált but a little more gingerly with her And not touched her áge till thou 'dst leárned her abóde As it stands in the schédule: ABÓDE-CALLING ÁGE Wise schedule! well, help there was never for spilled milk; So patience, as Máro says, "Ét vosmet rébus Serváte secúndis;" i. e. in plain prose: The dear girl when she comes next perhaps may be sófter I'll depend on thee, Máro, for whó ever bétter One syllable útter of áll that has happened, Or ask thee from henceforth one pérsonal question; CARLSRUHE, Nov. 26, 1855. THE ASTRONOMERS. Ir chanced as I pássed by my bárn one fine évening As I stood looking at them, and they at the súnset "The sun sets in the West; then beneath the round earth Goes across to the East and there rises again; His rising makes day and his setting makes night, "No, Mamma," said the chicken, "just hear me explaín it: "You 're both foóls," said the cóck, "not one inch the sun búdges, But the earth on itself keeps round túrning incéssant, As he spoke the sun sét and they broke up the council, Walking from HERRENBERG to CALW (WÜRTTEMBERG), Nov. 3, 1855. WELL to get through this world there's one receipt: Kindly the Bitter táke, cautious the Sweet. GOTHA, Oct. 11, 1855. |