POEMS. THE EPIC. Ar Francis Allen's on the Christmas-eve, The game of forfeits done the girls all kiss'd Beneath the sacred bush and past away — The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall, Then half-way ebb'd: and there we held a talk, games In some old nooks like this; till I, tired out With cutting eights that day upon the pond, Where, three times slipping from the outer edge, I bump'd the ice into three several stars, The parson taking wide and wider sweeps, Now hawking at Geology and schism, Right thro' the world, " at home was little left, I mean of verse (for so we held it then,) What came of that?" "You know," said Frank, "he flung His epic of King Arthur in the fire!” And then to me demanding why?"Oh, sir, He thought that nothing new was said, or else God knows he has a mint of reasons: ask. It pleased me well enough." "Nay, nay," said Hall, 66 Why take the style of those heroic times? For nature brings not back the Mastodon, Nor we those times; and why should any man Remodel models rather than the life? And these twelve books of mine (to speak the truth) Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing worth, Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt." "But I," Said Francis, "pick'd the eleventh from this hearth, I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes." I bump'd the ice into three several stars, The parson taking wide and wider sweeps, Right thro' the world, "at home was little left, "And I," quoth Everard, " by the wassail-bowl.” 66 Why yes," I said, "we knew your gift that way At college but another which you had, I mean of verse (for so we held it then,) What came of that?" "You know," said Frank, "he flung His epic of King Arthur in the fire!" . Oh, sir, And then to me demanding why?" He thought that nothing new was said, or else God knows- he has a mint of reasons: ask. It pleased me well enough." "Nay, nay," said Hall, Why take the style of those heroic times? For nature brings not back the Mastodon, Nor we those times; and why should any man Remodel models rather than the life? And these twelve books of mine (to speak the truth) Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing worth, Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt." "But I," Said Francis, "pick'd the eleventh from this hearth, And have it: keep a thing, its use will come. I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes." He laugh'd, and I, though sleepy, like a horse |