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Coil her stained ensign round its haughty mast,

       Or tear the fold that wears so foul a scar,

       And drive a bolt through every blackened star!

       Once more—once only— we must stop so soon:

       What have we here? A GERMAN-SILVER SPOON;

       A cheap utensil, which we often see

       Used by the dabblers in aesthetic tea,

       Of slender fabric, somewhat light and thin,

       Made of mixed metal, chiefly lead and tin;

       The bowl is shallow, and the handle small,

       Marked in large letters with the name JEAN PAUL.

       Small as it is, its powers are passing strange,

       For all who use it show a wondrous change;

       And first, a fact to make the barbers stare,

       It beats Macassar for the growth of hair.

       See those small youngsters whose expansive ears

       Maternal kindness grazed with frequent shears;

       Each bristling crop a dangling mass becomes,

       And all the spoonies turn to Absaloms

       Nor this alone its magic power displays,

       It alters strangely all their works and ways;

       With uncouth words they tire their tender lungs,

       The same bald phrases on their hundred tongues

       "Ever" "The Ages" in their page appear,

       "Alway" the bedlamite is called a "Seer;"

       On every leaf the "earnest" sage may scan,

       Portentous bore! their "many-sided" man—

       A weak eclectic, groping vague and dim,

       Whose every angle is a half-starved whim,

       Blind as a mole and curious as a lynx,

       Who rides a beetle, which he calls a "Sphinx."

       And oh, what questions asked in clubfoot rhyme

       Of Earth the tongueless and the deaf-mute Time!

      Here babbling "Insight" shouts in Nature's ears

       His last conundrum on the orbs and spheres;

       There Self-inspection sucks its little thumb,

       With "Whence am I?" and "Wherefore did I come?"

       Deluded infants! will they ever know

       Some doubts must darken o'er the world below,

       Though all the Platos of the nursery trail

       Their "clouds of glory" at the go-cart's tail?

       Oh might these couplets their attention claim

       That gain their author the Philistine's name

       (A stubborn race, that, spurning foreign law,

       Was much belabored with an ass's jaw.)

      Melodious Laura! From the sad retreats

       That hold thee, smothered with excess of sweets,

       Shade of a shadow, spectre of a dream,

       Glance thy wan eye across the Stygian stream!

       The slipshod dreamer treads thy fragrant halls,

       The sophist's cobwebs hang thy roseate walls,

       And o'er the crotchets of thy jingling tunes

       The bard of mystery scrawls his crooked "runes."

       Yes, thou art gone, with all the tuneful hordes

       That candied thoughts in amber-colored words,

       And in the precincts of thy late abodes

       The clattering verse-wright hammers Orphic odes.

       Thou, soft as zephyr, wast content to fly

       On the gilt pinions of a balmy sigh;

       He, vast as Phoebus on his burning wheels,

       Would stride through ether at Orion's heels.

       Thy emblem, Laura, was a perfume-jar,

       And thine, young Orpheus, is a pewter star.

       The balance trembles—be its verdict told

       When the new jargon slumbers with the old!

      … . … .

      Cease, playful goddess! From thine airy bound

       Drop like a feather softly to the ground;

       This light bolero grows a ticklish dance,

       And there is mischief in thy kindling glance.

       To-morrow bids thee, with rebuking frown,

       Change thy gauze tunic for a home-made gown,

       Too blest by fortune if the passing day

       Adorn thy bosom with its frail bouquet,

       But oh, still happier if the next forgets

       Thy daring steps and dangerous pirouettes!

MEDICAL POEMS

       Table of Contents

      THE MORNING VISIT

      A sick man's chamber, though it often boast

       The grateful presence of a literal toast,

       Can hardly claim, amidst its various wealth,

       The right unchallenged to propose a health;

       Yet though its tenant is denied the feast,

       Friendship must launch his sentiment at least,

       As prisoned damsels, locked from lovers' lips,

       Toss them a kiss from off their fingers' tips.

      The morning visit—not till sickness falls

       In the charmed circles of your own safe walls;

       Till fever's throb and pain's relentless rack

       Stretch you all helpless on your aching back;

       Not till you play the patient in your turn,

       The morning visit's mystery shall you learn.

      'T is a small matter in your neighbor's case,

       To charge your fee for showing him your face;

       You skip up-stairs, inquire, inspect, and touch,

       Prescribe, take leave, and off to twenty such.

      But when at length, by fate's transferred decree,

       The visitor becomes the visitee,

       Oh, then, indeed, it pulls another string;

       Your ox is gored, and that's a different thing!

       Your friend is sick: phlegmatic as a Turk,

       You write your recipe and let it work;

       Not yours to stand the shiver and the frown,

       And sometimes worse, with which your draught goes down.

       Calm as a clock your knowing hand directs,

       Rhei, jalapae ana grana sex, Or traces on some tender missive's back, Scrupulos duos pulveris ipecac; And leaves your patient to his qualms and gripes, Cool as a sportsman banging at his snipes. But change the time, the person, and the place, And be yourself "the interesting case," You'll gain some knowledge which it's well to learn; In future practice it may serve your turn. Leeches, for instance—pleasing creatures quite; Try them—and bless you—don't you find they bite? You

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