“Hear, my Maecenas, what still came to pass. 
     As I sat there in quiet, enjoying my glass,
     On Poland’s condition the silence I broke: 
     ‘Know ye, good people,’ aloud thus I spoke,
          ’That all monarchs I
          On this earth do defy
          My harp to prevent
          From giving song vent
     Throughout all this land—­pling plingeli plang! 
     Did only a single string to it hang,
     I’d play a polka—­pling plingeli plang!’

     “There sat in the corner a sergeant old,
     Two notaries and a dragoon bold,
     Who cried ’Down with him!  The cobbler is right! 
     Poland earns the meeds of her evil might!’
          From behind the stove came
          An old squint-eyed dame,
          And flung at the harp
          Glass broken and sharp;
     But the cobbler—­pling plingeli plang—­
     Made a terrible hole in my neck—­that long! 
     There hast thou the story—­pling plingeli plang.

     “O righteous world!  Now I ask of thee
     If I suffered not wrongly?” “Why, certainly!”
     “Was I not innocent?” “Bless you, most sure!”
     “The harp rent asunder, my nose torn and sore,
          Twas hard treatment, I trow! 
          Now no better I know
          Than to go through the land
          With my harp in my hand,
     Play for Bacchus and Venus—­kling klang—­
     With masters best that e’er played or sang;
     Attend me, Apollo!—­pling plingeli plang.”

DRINK OUT THY GLASS

Drink out thy glass!  See, on thy threshold, nightly,
Staying his sword, stands Death, awaiting thee. 
Be not alarmed; the grave-door, opened slightly,
Closes again; a full year it may be
Ere thou art dragged, poor sufferer, to the grave. 
Pick the octave! 
Tune up the strings!  Sing of life with glee!

Golden’s the hue thy dull, wan cheeks are showing;
Shrunken’s thy chest, and flat each shoulder-blade. 
Give me thy hand!  Each dark vein, larger growing,
Is, to my touch, as if in water laid. 
Damp are these hands; stiff are these veins becoming. 
Pick now, and strumming,
Empty thy bottle!  Sing! drink unafraid.

. . . . .

Skal, then, my boy!  Old Bacchus sends last greeting;
Freya’s farewell receive thou, o’er thy bowl. 
Fast in her praise thy thin blood flows, repeating
Its old-time force, as it was wont to roll. 
Sing, read, forget; nay, think and weep while thinking. 
Art thou for drinking
Another bottle?  Thou art dead?  No Skal!

JEREMY BENTHAM

(1748-1832)

Bentham, whose name rightly stands sponsor for the utilitarian theory of morals in legislation, though not its originator, was a mighty and unique figure in many ways.  His childhood reminds us of that of his disciple John Stuart Mill in its precocity; but fortunately for him, life had more juice in it for young Bentham than it had for Mill.  In his maturity and old age he was widely recognized as a commanding authority, notwithstanding some startling absurdities.