Our theory of the Middle Verb;
Or Turk-like brandishing a scimitar
O'er anapasts in comic-trimeter;
Or curing the halt and maimed 'Iketides,'
[Footnote: "The Suppliants," a fragment of a play by Aeschylus.]
While we lounged on at our indebted ease:
Instead of which, a tricksy demon
Sets her at Titus or Philemon!
When ignorance wags his ears of leather
And hates God's word, 'tis altogether;
Nor leaves he his congenial thistles
To go and browse on Paul's Epistles.
--And you, the audience, who might ravage
The world wide, enviably savage,
Nor heed the cry of the retriever,
More than Herr Heine (before his fever),--
I do not tell a lie so arrant
As say my passion's wings are furled up,
And, without plainest heavenly warrant,
I were ready and glad to give the world up--
But still, when you rub brow meticulous,
And ponder the profit of turning holy
If not for God's, for your own sake solely,
--God forbid I should find you ridiculous!
Deduce from this lecture all that eases you,
Nay, call yourselves, if the calling pleases you,
"Christians,"--abhor the deist's pravity,--
Go on, you shall no more move my gravity
Than, when I see boys ride a-cockhorse,
I find it in my heart to embarrass them