_Zekle_ and _Huldy_ in our hearts
Have found a place. But a true Poet,
Like SHAKSPEARE's Man, plays many parts.
You chid us sharply, well we know it,
For you'd the gift of Satire strong,
And knew just how to lay the lash on.
You smote what you thought British wrong,
Well, _that_ won't put us in a passion.
"I _ken_ write long-tailed if I please,"
You said. And truly, polished writer,
More like "a gentleman at ease,"
Never touched quill than this shrewd smiter.
Your "moral breath of temperament"
Found scope in scholarly urbanity;
And wheresoever LOWELL went
Sounded the voice of Sense and Sanity.
We loved you, and we loved your wit.
Thinking of you, uncramped, uncranky;
Our hearts, ere we're aware of it,
"Run helter-skelter into Yankee."
"For puttin' in a downright lick
'Twixt Humbug's eyes, there's few to metch it."
Faith, how _you_ used it; ever quick
Where'er Truth dwelt, to dive and fetch it.
Vernacular or cultured verse,
The scholar's speech, the ploughman's patter
You'd use, but still in each were terse,
As clear in point as full in matter.
Pages:
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44