All men deplore the difference
    Between themselves and him,
  And all devise expedients
    For paining Jonas Bimm.

  I too, with wild demoniac glee,
    Would put out both his eyes;
  For Mr. Bimm appears to me
    Insufferably wise!

REMINDED.

  Beneath my window twilight made
  Familiar mysteries of shade. 
  Faint voices from the darkening down
  Were calling vaguely to the town. 
  Intent upon a low, far gleam
  That burned upon the world’s extreme,
  I sat, with short reprieve from grief,
  And turned the volume, leaf by leaf,
  Wherein a hand, long dead, had wrought
  A million miracles of thought. 
  My fingers carelessly unclung
  The lettered pages, and among
  Them wandered witless, nor divined
  The wealth in which, poor fools, they mined. 
  The soul that should have led their quest
  Was dreaming in the level west,
  Where a tall tower, stark and still,
  Uplifted on a distant hill,
  Stood lone and passionless to claim
  Its guardian star’s returning flame.

  I know not how my dream was broke,
  But suddenly my spirit woke
  Filled with a foolish fear to look
  Upon the hand that clove the book,
  Significantly pointing; next
  I bent attentive to the text,
  And read—­and as I read grew old—­
  The mindless words:  “Poor Tom’s a-cold!”

  Ah me! to what a subtle touch
  The brimming cup resigns its clutch
  Upon the wine.  Dear God, is ’t writ
  That hearts their overburden bear
  Of bitterness though thou permit
  The pranks of Chance, alurk in nooks,
  And striking coward blows from books,
  And dead hands reaching everywhere?

SALVINI IN AMERICA.

  Come, gentlemen—­your gold. 
    Thanks:  welcome to the show. 
  To hear a story told
    In words you do not know.

  Now, great Salvini, rise
    And thunder through your tears,
  Aha! friends, let your eyes
    Interpret to your ears.

  Gods! ’t is a goodly game. 
    Observe his stride—­how grand! 
  When legs like his declaim
    Who can misunderstand?

  See how that arm goes round. 
    It says, as plain as day: 
  “I love,” “The lost is found,”
    “Well met, sir,” or, “Away!”

  And mark the drawing down
    Of brows.  How accurate
  The language of that frown: 
    Pain, gentlemen—­or hate.

  Those of the critic trade
    Swear it is all as clear
  As if his tongue were made
    To fit an English ear.

  Hear that Italian phrase! 
    Greek to your sense, ’t is true;
  But shrug, expression, gaze—­
    Well, they are Grecian too.

  But it is Art!  God wot
    Its tongue to all is known. 
  Faith! he to whom ’t were not
    Would better hold his own.