Within that temple all the names are scrolled
  Of village bards upon a slab of gold;
  To that bad eminence, my friend, aspire,
  And copy thou the Roll of Fame, entire. 
  Yet not to total shame those names devote,
  But add in mercy this explaining note: 
  “These cheat because the law makes theft a crime,
  And they obey all laws but laws of rhyme.”

A BEQUEST TO MUSIC.

  “Let music flourish!” So he said and died. 
    Hark! ere he’s gone the minstrelsy begins: 
  The symphonies ascend, a swelling tide,
  Melodious thunders fill the welkin wide—­
    The grand old lawyers, chinning on their chins!

AUTHORITY.

  “Authority, authority!” they shout
  Whose minds, not large enough to hold a doubt,
  Some chance opinion ever entertain,
  By dogma billeted upon their brain. 
  “Ha!” they exclaim with choreatic glee,
  “Here’s Dabster if you won’t give in to me—­
  Dabster, sir, Dabster, to whom all men look
  With reverence!” The fellow wrote a book. 
  It matters not that many another wight
  Has thought more deeply, could more wisely write
  On t’ other side—­that you yourself possess
  Knowledge where Dabster did but faintly guess. 
  God help you if ambitious to persuade
  The fools who take opinion ready-made
  And “recognize authorities.”  Be sure
  No tittle of their folly they’ll abjure
  For all that you can say.  But write it down,
  Publish and die and get a great renown—­
  Faith! how they’ll snap it up, misread, misquote,
  Swear that they had a hand in all you wrote,
  And ride your fame like monkeys on a goat!

THE PSORIAD.

The King of Scotland, years and years ago,
Convened his courtiers in a gallant row
And thus addressed them: 

            “Gentle sirs, from you
  Abundant counsel I have had, and true: 
  What laws to make to serve the public weal;
  What laws of Nature’s making to repeal;
  What old religion is the only true one,
  And what the greater merit of some new one;
  What friends of yours my favor have forgot;
  Which of your enemies against me plot. 
  In harvests ample to augment my treasures,
  Behold the fruits of your sagacious measures! 
  The punctual planets, to their periods just,
  Attest your wisdom and approve my trust. 
  Lo! the reward your shining virtues bring: 
  The grateful placemen bless their useful king! 
  But while you quaff the nectar of my favor
  I mean somewhat to modify its flavor
  By just infusing a peculiar dash
  Of tonic bitter in the calabash. 
  And should you, too abstemious, disdain it,
  Egad!  I’ll hold your noses till you drain it!