BRYANT’S TRAVESTY.
Squint-eyed bacchanals at play,
Keep a Lybian holiday,
Leading trains of solemn apes,
Tipsy with the blood of grapes.
Forty furies—thirty more
Than old Milton had before—
Scattering sparkles from their hair,
Swing their censers in the air.
Toss the flaming goblet off,
Heed not ocean’s windy scoff;
Let him dash against the shore,
Gape and grin, and sweat and roar.
Since which time nothing has been heard of the Atlantic poet! Only those who were “behind the scenes,” in the office of the Evening Post, in the year 1863, knew the authorship of the burlesque—and the burlesque itself will never appear in the poet’s “collected works.”