ASPIRATION.

Oh, to be a Pulpiteer!

Purists may fie-fie, or sneer.

But, when wit and fancy fail,

To produce your twice-cooked kail

(As "a traveller") must be nice.

Nor are you confined to twice;

Hashed, rehashed, and hashed again,

Garnished—from another brain,

Seasoned—from another cruet,

You may roast, or boil, or stew it

O'er and o'er, year in year out,

As you perorate about,

Seek, when weary,—o'ertasked elves!

"Inspiration" from your shelves.

Salt it here, and sauce it there,

Saying nothing, since none care

To make question, taking pay,

Yes, and praise upon your way,

For—well, ere the thing is through,

What is what and who is who,

It might puzzle you to tell;

Still you "think it right"! Ah, well!

This philosophy peripatetic

Strikes a chord that's sympathetic

In the breast of secular scribe;

Nothing, it is true, would bribe

Him to play the pious prig,

But—he heaves a sigh that's big

Murmuring, enviously I fear,—

Oh, to be a Pulpiteer!