By the bye, there are two or three matters
    We want you to bring us from town;
  The Inca’s white plumes from the hatter’s,
    A nose and a hump for the Clown: 
  We want a few harps for our banquet,
    We want a few masks for our ball;
  And steal from your wise friend Bosanquet
    His white wig, for Fustian Hall.

  Huncamunca must have a huge saber,
    Friar Tuck has forgotten his cowl;
  And we’re quite at a stand-still with Weber,
    For want of a lizard and owl: 
  And then, for our funeral procession,
    Pray get us a love of a pall;
  Or how shall we make an impression
    On feelings, at Fustian Hall?

  And, Clarence, you’ll really delight us,
    If you’ll do your endeavor to bring
  From the Club a young person to write us
   Our prologue, and that sort of thing;
  Poor Crotchet, who did them supremely,
    Is gone, for a Judge, to Bengal;
  I fear we shall miss him extremely,
    This season, at Fustian Hall.

  Come, Clarence;—­your idol Albina
    Will make a sensation, I feel;
  We all think there never was seen a
    Performer, so like the O’Neill. 
  At rehearsals, her exquisite fancy
    Has deeply affected us all;
  For one tear that trickles at Drury,
    There’ll be twenty at Fustian Hall.

  Dread objects are scattered before her,
    On purpose to harrow her soul;
  She stares, till a deep spell comes o’er her,
    At a knife, or a cross, or a bowl. 
  The sword never seems to alarm her,
    That hangs on a peg to the wall,
  And she doats on thy rusty old armor
    Lord Fustian, of Fustian Hall.

  She stabbed a bright mirror this morning,—­
    Poor Kitty was quite out of breath,—­
  And trampled, in anger and scorning,
    A bonnet and feathers to death. 
  But hark,—­I’ve a part in the Stranger,—­
    There’s the Prompter’s detestable call: 
  Come, Clarence,—­our Romeo and Ranger,
    We want you at Fustian Hall.

* * * * *

ALEXANDER AND DIOGENES

Diogenes Alexandro roganti ut diccret, Si quid opus caset, “nunc quidem paullulum,” inquit, “a sole.”—­Cicero Tusc.  Disp.

  Slowly the monarch turned aside;
  But when his glance of youthful pride
  Rested upon the warriors gray
  Who bore his lance and shield that day,
  And the long line of spears that came
  Through the far grove like waves of flame,
  His forehead burned, his pulse beat high,
  More darkly flashed his shifting eye,
  And visions of the battle-plain
  Came bursting on his soul again.

  The old man drew his gaze away
  Right gladly from that long array,
  As if their presence were a blight
  Of pain and sickness to his sight;
  And slowly folding o’er his breast
  The fragments of his tattered vest,
  As was his wont, unasked, unsought
  Gave to the winds his muttered thought,
  Naming no name of friend or foe,
  And reckless if they heard or no.