To prove his fealty to the god;
  And then by gestures signified
  The other sentiments inside;
  The god’s right eye (as Chunder Sen,
  The wisest and the best of men,
  Half-fancied) grew by just a thought
  More narrow than it truly ought. 
  Yet still that prince of devotees,
  Persistent upon bended knees
  And elbows bored into the earth,
  Declared the god’s exceeding worth,
  And begged his favor.  Then at last,
  Within that cavernous and vast
  Thoracic space was heard a sound
  Like that of water underground—­
  A gurgling note that found a vent
  At mouth of that Immortal Gent
  In such a chuckle as no ear
  Had e’er been privileged to hear!

  Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen,
  The wisest, greatest, best of men,
  Heard with a natural surprise
  That mighty midriff improvise. 
  And greater yet the marvel was
  When from between those massive jaws
  Fell words to make the views more plain
  The god was pleased to entertain: 
  “Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen,”
  So ran the rede in speech of men—­
  “Foremost of mortals in assent
  To creed of Rational Content,
  Why come you here to impetrate
  A blessing on your scurvy pate? 
  Can you not rationally be
  Content without disturbing me? 
  Can you not take a hint—­a wink—­
  Of what of all this rot I think? 
  Is laughter lost upon you quite,
  To check you in your pious rite? 
  What! know you not we gods protest
  That all religion is a jest? 
  You take me seriously?—­you
  About me make a great ado
  (When I but wish to be alone)
  With attitudes supine and prone,
  With genuflexions and with prayers,
  And putting on of solemn airs,
  To draw my mind from the survey
  Of Rational Content away! 
  Learn once for all, if learn you can,
  This truth, significant to man: 
  A pious person is by odds
  The one most hateful to the gods.” 
  Then stretching forth his great right hand,
  Which shadowed all that sunny land,
  That deity bestowed a touch
  Which Chunder Sen not overmuch
  Enjoyed—­a touch divine that made
  The sufferer hear stars!  They played
  And sang as on Creation’s morn
  When spheric harmony was born.

  Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen,
  The most astonished man of men,
  Fell straight asleep, and when he woke
  The deity nor moved nor spoke,
  But sat beneath that ancient palm
  In sweet and everlasting calm.

THE AESTHETES.

  The lily cranks, the lily cranks,
    The loppy, loony lasses! 
  They multiply in rising ranks
  To execute their solemn pranks,
    They moon along in masses. 
  Blow, sweet lily, in the shade!  O,
  Sunflower decorate the dado!

  The maiden ass, the maiden ass,
    The tall and tailless jenny! 
  In limp attire as green as grass,
  She stands, a monumental brass,
    The one of one too many. 
  Blow, sweet lily, in the shade!  O,
  Sunflower decorate the dado!